Sereth stood in the center of the dusty dojo, arms limp at his sides, sweat already starting to bead down his forehead. Masaru circled him with the slow patience of a man teaching a cat to swim.
"Focus your breathing," Masaru said for what had to be the fifth time. "In through the nose. Out through the mouth."
"I'm focusing," Sereth muttered. "I'm so focused my bones hurt."
"That's not what focus feels like."
"You sure? Because this feels extremely mystical."
Masaru said nothing, just repositioned Sereth's stance again by nudging his knee with a sheathed bokken. Sereth stumbled slightly.
"This is a violation of my personal space," he complained.
"Your personal space is full of terrible posture."
Sereth exhaled hard through his nose, which accidentally nailed the exercise perfectly. Masaru raised an eyebrow.
"Do that again. Without the whining."
"No promises."
They continued through a basic form. Sereth's movements were sharp but imprecise—too fast on the draw, too loose on the follow-through. Masaru didn't scold; he just adjusted Sereth silently, like tuning a fussy instrument.
Eventually Sereth threw up his hands. "How do you move so calm all the time? It's like you're made of serenity and unflavored tofu."
"I breathe."
Sereth flopped onto the ground.
"Okay well I breathe too, but when I do it wrong apparently the moon explodes and I dishonor twelve generations of random people's ancestors."
Masaru gave him a long-suffering look. "The moon will be fine."
There was a pause between the two.
...
Sereth sat up and brushed a few dust bunnies off his coat. "Alright, moon talk aside... there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
Masaru didn't look at him. "That usually means I'm about to get a headache."
"I'm serious," Sereth said, unusually calm. "I've seen you fight once —against Eldritch, then that weird appliance war you barely described—"
"That was not a fight," Masaru cut in. "That was trauma."
Masaru rubbed his head, trying to forget his unsettling encounter with Thalen for the 40th time as Sereth started to talk again.
"Anyway, I was gonna ask, What even is your power? Like, you decimated Eldritch no problem, and you were super calm about it the entire time. What the hell are you doing?"
Masaru didn't answer right away. He stared at Sereth, then looked away and grabbed a cloth to wipe off the bokken again. "I use a sword."
Sereth blinked. "Yeah, and I breathe oxygen. Try again."
Masaru's tone cooled. "You want a breakdown? Fine. I use refined technique, strength, and control. That's it."
Sereth snorted. "You act like you're just some guy with a hobby. You did something that looked like he could have been a meat in a lunchtime sandwich."
Masaru's eyes narrowed slightly. "That technique was Orochi no Kata. It was my father's. One hundred thousand cuts in a single motion."
Sereth's eyebrows raised. "See? Now that's a name. Way cooler than 'I use a sword.'"
Masaru's expression didn't change. "I don't name moves to impress anyone."
"No, you just execute people so precisely it looks like performance art."
Masaru stepped closer. "Do you actually want to know, or are you just filling the air with noise?"
Sereth shrugged, lying back and folding his arms behind his head. "Both."
Masaru glanced at him for a long moment. "My father died chasing something beyond technique. I'm still trying to understand what he was reaching for. I have pieces. They work. That's all."
Sereth tilted his head. "Sounds pretty deep."
Masaru walked past him without comment.
After a beat, Sereth sat back up and stretched. "Alright, fine. My turn."
Masaru didn't respond. Just crossed his arms and waited.
"I convert force into speed," Sereth said. "Hit me, push me, I store that and go faster. The more I move, the faster I can move. It builds and builds. I discharge it one of two ways—calmly or catastrophically."
Masaru gave a nod, slow and minimal.
"That's how I beat Dragok. Burned through all my built-up energy and turned it into my personal favorite technique, Tenrai Shougeki."
"Overkill."
"Effective," Sereth said, smirking. "Fried him like a discount rotisserie."
Masaru stared for a second. "You don't control it well."
"I said I'm working on it," Sereth shot back. "Why do you think I'm letting you poke my knees and insult my spine?"
Masaru considered that. "I suppose that's true."
They stood in silence for a moment, the dust settling between them.
"I still think your technique names are pretentious," Sereth added.
"And I think your attitude explains your combat instability," Masaru replied flatly.
Sereth grinned. "We're bonding already."
Masaru sighed, gripping the bokken tighter. "Let's get back to work before I regret this."
"Oh, you already do. That's what makes this beautiful."
Masaru didn't answer—but he didn't stop the session, either.
And so they trained. A bit of sarcasm, a bit of jabs, but now—underneath it—a beginning. A mutual sense of purpose. Rough-edged and unfinished, just like them.
...
Aeon was overjoyed—because he had just found what might have been the only patch of green in the entire city.
It had started with a breeze. And he simply drifted with it. He tossed and turned throughout the city, as various signs flickered when he passed.
He came to a small area far beyond most of where contestants would explore. It appeared to be a small, run-down, public park. Which didn't make much sense to Aeon, due to there hardly being any people around.
He approached the small clump of weeds he had found, and he sat down next to them. The breeze blew like a gentle whisper, as he closed his eyes. Not to sleep, just to think.
And he thought for a while.
Torvak wasn't the kind of guy who worried much. But something about that quiet kid wandering off into the rusted guts of the city didn't sit right with him. So he followed—at a distance, boots thudding like polite thunder behind Aeon's feather-light steps.
He found him seated in the cracked dirt of a half-dead park, like some storybook monk communing with weeds. Torvak squinted at the greenery. "Huh. Didn't think anything grew here."
Aeon opened one eye, smiling faintly. "Most people don't think to look."
Torvak scratched his chin, taking a few slow steps forward. "You always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like a fortune cookie someone stepped on."
Aeon laughed softly, which only confused Torvak more. He plopped down beside Aeon with a grunt, his fall shook the nearby bench.
Torvak gave him a sidelong look, unsure if he was being mocked or enlightened. "Right. Well, just don't start levitating or talkin' to ghosts. I ain't built for that."
Aeon leaned back on his hands, watching the breeze stir the weeds. "You followed me."
Torvak grunted. "Didn't like the look of where you were heading."
"That's kind of you."
"Don't push it."
A moment of quiet stretched between them. A city siren wailed faintly in the distance, quickly swallowed by static.
"...You miss it?" Aeon asked suddenly, still staring at the weeds.
"Miss what?"
"Where you're from. Or rather, knowing you knew."
Torvak squinted into the middle distance. "Dunno."
Aeon slowly turned to face Torvak.
Torvak shrugged. "I actually can't recall anything."
Aeon nodded slowly, as if this made perfect sense. "That must be hard."
Torvak snorted. "Easier than remembering it all, maybe."
Another quiet pause. Aeon reached down and gently brushed the dust from a sprouting blade of grass.
"I think things grow better when someone's there to see them," he said softly.
Torvak looked at him sideways. "You talk like you're a hundred."
"And you listen like you're ten."
A chuckle escaped Torvak's chest before he could stop it. "You're funny, kid."
"Thanks, large bear-like man."
They sat in silence a while longer. Torvak eventually leaned back, propping one arm on the edge of the broken bench.
"...You think those weeds'll bloom?"
Aeon tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't know. But I'll keep coming back to check."