Hikari's father was dead. Had been for years.
If he'd carried Hikari's power, maybe he would've survived. But he hadn't. And the world had kept turning—indifferent, undisturbed. One individual death hadn't touched it at all.
Hikari wasn't upset. Anger would've been a luxury. Hikari had little time for blame, and even less space to reflect.
The Foundation made sure of that.
He looked toward the wall—thick stone, cold and black. Torchlight played across it in shallow flickers, flames coughing in rusted iron sconces. There was no decoration. No banners. No color. No light other than fire and smoke.
The air sat heavy, like the silence before a verdict.
The kynenns stood in rows. Rank after rank in white uniforms, each stitched with red: Sector 3. Stamped like packaging. Marked like inventory. And for the moment, they stood still.
They were waiting—all they could do was wait. And every day prepared them the same:
Wake. Train. Study. Train. Sleep.
The instructors drifted to the center of the room, slow and deliberate—gravitational, like a storm collecting its mass. No words passed between them. They didn't need to speak. Their presence alone was enough to ignite motion.
The kynenns began.
Across from him, Kaen shifted his stance. His eyes floated, distant and unfocused, strangely detached from what stood in front of him. Then he rushed—too fast, too wide. His shoulder wound before every punch, telegraphing his movements like signals in fog.
Hikari pivoted easily, Kaen's fist slicing through the air where his jaw had been half a second earlier. He could've punished him. Dropped him flat. Could've let him choke on the dirt until the lesson set in.
But it wouldn't.
Kaen rushed again, fists up but loose, his body weight tilted far forward. Hikari stepped to the side, let the first punch swing wide, and slammed a palm into Kaen's back as he passed.
Not hard—just enough to throw him off balance.
Kaen grunted, spun, and threw another punch on instinct. Hikari caught it on his forearm. The jolt snapped through his teeth.
The next person Kaen fought wouldn't stop. Wouldn't wait.
Hikari sighed, more irritated than tired. He glanced at the instructor. Still motionless. The dull red helmet didn't even twitch.
He struck back—a quick jab to the chest, low kick following. Kaen winced, shuffled back, but didn't fall. He circled. Reset. Breathed through his nose. Then came again.
Not any cleaner.
A straight to the face—Hikari ducked. Uppercut. Fast. Almost landed. Hikari leaned just far enough. Felt the heat of the fist graze his jaw.
His knee came up into Kaen's ribs—stopped short again. Controlled. Careful not to lunge.
Kaen staggered, but swung anyway. A left hook cracked into Hikari's guard. The buzz traveled down his arm.
If he stopped to teach, he lost time.
Kaen stepped in, pressing close, faces inches apart—masking himself with Hikari's own body.
"Kaen," Hikari said, quick and low. Hikari muttered, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him. A shallow performance. "You're not in a street fight. Center your weight. Stop lunging like you're expecting me just let you hit me. And stop warning every punch with your shoulder."
Kaen blinked, raising an eyebrow with an exaggerated nod. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling like the statement barely merited attention.
Then he shoved forward, displacing Hikari's space like nothing had been said.
The heat in his face said enough—he understood he was trying to help, but not why.
They broke apart, boots dragging in the dirt, both breathing harder. Kaen charged again. Wild. As if nothing had landed in his head at all.
Hikari moved to parry—
Then Hikri felt a real punch to the side of his head. It caused a sharp pop. His neck turned with it.
He straightened slowly. Kaen came again. Controlled now. Focused. The punch landed against Hikari's guard.
It stung. He grinned.
Much better.
This wasn't about winning. Hikari never fought to prove something. Not here. It wasn't his bruises that mattered.
It was whether Kaen would still be breathing when it no longer felt like practice—when the floor cracked, and the real war began.
The Eclipse was coming. Faster than it seemed.
From the sideline, the instructor turned away, his helmet angling elsewhere with tired indifference.
That was all the permission Hikari needed.
He lowered his stance. "Keep that up," he muttered. "You'll live."
Kaen didn't answer. He only nodded—barely—his chin dipped, sweat glinting at its edge before falling to the floor.
He wouldn't say thank you. Not here. The words would've spoiled the air. Hikari didn't expect it. He turned, jaw set. Something colder in his chest now than before.
He didn't know how to save them. The kynenns. All of them.
But moments like this—fleeting, weightless as breath—weren't without meaning.
The ache in his shoulders returned quietly, as if remembering it had a place to be. A dull heat pooled at his back. He could feel the weight of training—not from today, but from everything.
Around him, the session dissolved. Bodies peeling toward exits, their faces unreadable beneath flickering torchlight. Two boys lay sprawled on the mat. Neither moved. They might not rise again.
No one checked. Not even the instructors.
There were no winners here. No applause. No tally.
Even the instructors paid more attention to the kynenns than the kynenns gave to each other. But even that—he'd realized—wasn't cruelty. It was caution. A kind of inward bracing. They watched their own footing. Not who they crushed beneath it.
No one woke intending to drown another. They just needed something to float on.
Even still, Hikari hadn't noticed the pair of boys. His thoughts had already wandered—forward, past the training room, past the bodies, past the heat still clinging to his spine.
There was a meal waiting. Soup again. Colorless. Flavorless. Barely food—engineered more than prepared.
But even that held appeal today. Hunger made things easier to stomach.
Without thinking, he quickened his pace. The fatigue caught up slowly, wicking through his limbs—not exhaustion, exactly, but heaviness. Something in his muscles that didn't want to be spoken to.
He moved further from the training floor, letting the noise fall behind him.
"You think you can afford days like this?" A call broke his immersion.
Hikari didn't break stride. He knew the voice. Knew the irritation braided through it.
Takairo.
"You following me," Hikari said, "or just desperate for conversation?"
His tone was flat. Careless. But only just.
Takairo scoffed, lengthening his stride to match Hikari's. His frame was lean, all twitch and tension. No bruises marked his skin. No sweat clung to his collar. His uniform sat too clean, too loose—untouched.
"Not as desperate as your little charity case back there." He cut a sidelong glance. Annoyed. Tight. "Seriously. What'd you even get out of that?"
"A decent fight," Hikari said, rolling his shoulders. Shrugging it off.
Takairo stopped. Abrupt. Hikari slowed down to match.
Takairo's stare sharpened. Each word came measured, crisp, a blade tapping the whetstone.
"You didn't fight today. You babysat."
Hikari met his eyes. Steady. Unblinking. There was something beneath Takairo's voice—not fury, not even disappointment. Something smaller. More bitter.
Envy.
"Call it whatever helps you sleep," Hikari murmured.
Takairo's expression didn't shift. But something behind it started to.
"You think you're that far ahead of the rest of us?" he said. "Like you can afford to slow down? Like it doesn't matter if you fall behind?"
So that's what this is.
Hikari tilted his head—barely—and let a faint smirk flick at his mouth.
"You worried I'll get rusty?"
Takairo held his gaze for a beat too long. Then something passed through his face—a memory, maybe. Or a choice.
The tension thinned. He scoffed. Turned.
"Not particularly." He walked on again, posture straight, pace even. His voice followed, a little quieter this time. "I probably should thank you."
Hikari arched a brow. "For what?"
Takairo didn't turn. He shook his head once, "For making my life easier." His stride didn't break, if anything he sped. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Then—softer still. Almost playful. "There's no way you forgot."
He didn't stop. "Only one of us can survive."
The torches guttered behind him. Their shadows crawled across the wall.
Hikari didn't argue.
That's exactly how they want you to think. But I guess there's really no other way to see it from your eyes.
Let him think that way.
They were aiming for different ends anyway. Takairo wanted to survive the system. Hikari wanted to destroy the logic that made that fear real.
He watched Takairo disappear into the curve of the corridor. Then turned, and followed his own path—toward the barracks, where the metal door loomed like a sealed vault. He watched Takairo vanish into the bend of the corridor. Didn't follow. Didn't rush.
He took the opposite curve. The way he always went. The oversized door to the barracks stood at the end—metal-framed and warped at the hinge, too heavy for what little it guarded.
Hikari pushed it open. It groaned. That same, tired groan that had echoed for years, unchanging. It scraped against the silence like a warning, though no one ever listened.
No one inside stirred.
He followed the curving hall slowly, steps softened by memory, shoulders loose but alert. His gaze skimmed over each recessed cot without lingering.
Torchlight bled into the stone, shallow and warm, but it didn't touch much. Just enough to mark the rot between bunks. Same as last week. Same as always.
To his left, a laugh—small, hushed, worn soft by fatigue—drifted out from the shadows. Two voices followed it. Low. Familiar. The sound of fabric rubbed thin.
Others didn't speak at all. They just lay still. Eyes open. Faces blank. Staring upward like they'd forgotten how to close their lids.
Hikari reached his own cot and sat, slow, careful. He lifted the bowl from his bed, the serving of nutrients he'd been granted for his extended stay. The frame creaked beneath him. Wood too old for weight.
The barracks exhaled around him—half-whispered conversations, dry laughter, the faint rhythm of people trying to remember they existed. Some had stopped pretending.
Few people here were still trying to win.
After finishing his food, he didn't lie down. Didn't even reach for the blanket.
Sleep had stopped being a refuge a long time ago.
There'd been a time when it was dangerous. Back when the Foundation took more kynenns than it needed. When ambition bred threat. Back then, it wasn't uncommon to wake to the sound of choking. Not your own. Someone else's. Someone who'd fought too well the day before.
But not now. Not anymore.
Now, the barracks were still. No knives in the dark. No footsteps inching closer.
Not because it was safer. Just quieter. Like the decision had already been made.
Most of them were already dead. Just waiting to catch up.
Hikari flexed his fingers against his knee, and then rose. His body obeyed. Not easily—but it obeyed.
He leaned against the far wall, felt the cold of it sink into his spine. Somewhere down the row, a cot collapsed beneath someone's weight. The sound cracked like brittle wood finally surrendering.
From the near alcove, another voice rose. Dry. Fading. Still carrying the ghost of laughter.
"Bet the Inner Circle doesn't sleep like this."
Someone chuckled in response. Quiet. Hollow.
Hikari didn't laugh. His mouth curled upward instead—almost a snarl. Not at them. At what they named.
The Inner Circle.
He hated the way they said it. Like it was a myth. Like it didn't stink of polished floors and sterilized silence.
He remembered the smell. Clean air. Too clean. White rooms. White doors. A place for people who didn't have to fight.
And her—
He remembered her. His mother. Standing by the door the night they came. Back straight. Hands flat at her sides. She hadn't asked why. Hadn't tried to stop them. She hadn't even looked at him. Just kept her eyes on the floor, as if the cost of meeting his would've been too great.
He waited for her voice. For something. Anything.
But she chose silence.
The clerk's hand on his shoulder had been gentle. His voice, too.
"Come with us."
Then he was gone. Back to Sector 3. Back to the cage. A transfer. One less inconvenience for her new life.
He pressed his thumb into his palm. Felt the dull ache ripple up his forearm, grounding.
Not pain. Not comfort either. Just something to anchor the quiet that curled behind his ribs.
He wasn't angry anymore. Anger required expectation. Surprise. Disappointment.
He'd burned through all that.
But remembering—
That didn't take effort. It just happened.
Memory wasn't something he reached for. It followed. And as always, he pulled away from it the same way: by moving.
Along the curved wall, his steps turned instinctive. Shoulders calm. Eyes dull with routine. He knew where to go. He always did. At the far end—just near the base—his fingers found it: the crack in the stone. Small. Invisible to anyone not looking. But he knew the place. Knew the angle. Knew the pressure.
He slipped it loose. Silent. Practiced.
Cool air met his skin, clean and sharp—like something that didn't belong in this world. It whispered over him, a ghost of another life. Ahead, torchlight flickered faintly, waiting. Always there. Always the same. He stepped through. Replaced the stone behind him.
And stopped.
"You really think you're something special, don't you?"
The voice was unfamiliar. Male. Cold. Authority laced in contempt.
Hikari didn't move at first. Didn't even breathe.
Then, slowly, he turned.
The instructor stood just ahead, draped in shadow. Arms folded. Helmet tilted slightly. The red visor burned—dim, steady. One glowing eye fixed on him.
"What do you think this is?" the voice asked. "Some kind of friendship? You think that boy you helped today would hesitate to gut you, if the order came?"
The words came too smoothly. Too rehearsed. A bitterness rehearsed like a monologue.
"Do you think he'd feel sympathy?" the man continued, stepping forward just enough for the visor to catch the torchlight. "Spare you? Because you trained him?"
Hikari said nothing. His jaw flexed, but only once.
He didn't understand why this instructor cared. Why now? Why this?
None of them ever spoke like this unless there was something else building on top.
"Is it not my right to dream?"
The words came before he could stop them.
The instructor laughed. A short, unpleasant sound.
"No," he said. "What you're doing isn't dreaming." He took another step forward. "It's weakness. A performance. You think you're above this place—above what it takes to survive. But I see right through it."
His voice sharpened, dripping now.
"You're a coward. Trying to cheat the inevitable with fake alliances."
Something stirred behind Hikari's sternum. Not heat—yet. Just a shift. A tension, quiet and deep. I get your mad, at whatever it is. But seriously, I'm not in the mood.
He stepped forward once. Then again.
Closed the space between them like a door quietly shutting.
"You watch me every day," he said. His voice was low now, almost a whisper. "You know what I'm capable of."
He didn't blink. Didn't raise his voice.
"And yet you invent stories. A version of me that's easier to hate. One that fits the lesson you want to give? Did I do something to offend you?"
The instructor stiffened. "All of you, your cattle. For whatever reason you think you're above everyone here."
Hikari leaned in—barely. Just enough for his voice to thread the air like a needle.
"I could kill you," he whispered. "Before your heart even realized it should stop beating. And you know it."
The visor didn't move. But something beneath it did.
Hikari stepped back, smooth, controlled. The tension fell from his shoulders like breath. His gaze turned cold. He was done. He'd hoped that could at least scare him enough to get him off his back.
It had the opposite effect.
"But you won't," the instructor spat. A little too fast. "You know the price of words like that."
His hand shifted, drifting toward the device strapped to his chest.
The tension flared again—hot, abrupt, and fast this time.
Hikari didn't flinch. But the heat built in Hikari's chest—fast, rising. Not rage. Or loss.
The instructor's voice dropped. Measured. Threatening.
"I could end you for that. Or one of your little friends. That wouldn't be hard."
He knew the instructor had been venting his own frustrations. Still, the blood near his shoulder almost evaporated from the heat.
But I can't let you feel comfortable making threats like that. A power trip like this would mess my whole situation up.
And it wasn't just him being targeted now.
Flames kissed the tips of his fingers.
The instructor's body locked. His voice thinned with disbelief.
"You dare activate without permission?" He stepped back slightly. "And threaten me?"
It had been years since a kynenn challenged a superior. Longer since one burned. And this one hadn't seen it coming.
The flame danced dangerously near Hikari's sleeve. Had it been ordinary cloth, it would've already caught.
The instructor's hand snapped toward his communicator.
Then—
"He's sorry!"
A voice cut through the smoke—sharp, sudden, human.
Elara.
She stepped from the shadows, voice firm but edged with panic.
"I don't know what happened, but he's sorry. It won't happen again."
Her presence broke the line.
The instructor backed off—still seething, still shaken. Hikari knew it was over. They were both in an unauthorized area. Meaning no real consequences could follow.
"He better be," the man snapped, already retreating, breath still unsteady.
And then he was gone.