[Fencing Hall – Horizon Shelter Annual Competition Arena]
The atmosphere inside the domed fencing hall was electric, a palpable thrum of anticipation. The usual cheerful chatter of the orphanage was replaced by a low, collective murmur, like a brewing storm. Spectators, mostly other orphans and a few staff members including Miss Lydia and Noah, filled the tiered seating that encircled the competition arena. The main lights of the hall had dimmed, plunging the stands into twilight, save for one brilliant, stark white spotlight that beat down mercilessly on the raised circular platform at the center.
Veyron Martel stepped into that unforgiving circle of light, his borrowed fencing whites crisp, the protective mask tucked under his arm. He could feel the familiar pre-match adrenaline coursing through him, a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. Across the pristine white surface of the arena, his opponent, Renji Tanaka, was already waiting. Renji, a year older, lean and wiry, stood with an almost casual grace—his practice foil held loosely in one hand, his posture relaxed, his expression cool, confident, and faintly amused. He was one of Horizon's most accomplished fencers, known for his speed and surgical precision.
Their eyes met across the ten-meter divide. Renji offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of a smirk playing on his lips. Veyron's jaw tightened. In that instant, the murmuring crowd, the oppressive lights, the weight of expectation—everything else vanished. His world narrowed to the circle, to the opponent, to the feel of the foil grip in his gloved hand.
It's just you and me now, Tanaka. Let's see who's still standing.
Veyron's heartbeat, which had been hammering against his ribs, seemed to slow, each beat deliberate and forceful. He donned his mask, the world reducing to the meshed viewscreen, his own breathing loud in his ears.
The referee, Mr. Davies, the aging but still spry gym instructor, raised a hand, his voice echoing slightly in the hushed hall. "Fencers, en garde! Prêts? Allez!" The final word was like a gunshot.
Veyron exploded forward like lightning unleashed from a storm cloud. No hesitation. No tentative probing. Just pure, unadulterated aggression. Move. Strike. Overwhelm. His blade, an extension of his will, slashed downward in a fierce diagonal, then whipped across horizontally—each movement fueled by months of grueling training, of countless failures, of burning frustration, and an unquenchable inner fire. Metal clashed against metal with a piercing shriek. Sparks, like tiny, fleeting stars, danced in the spotlight. The sharp, percussive sound of their swords meeting and parting echoed through the dome like a volley of gunfire.
Renji, however, was a phantom. He parried Veyron's initial onslaught smoothly, his form an exhibition of flawless classical technique, his movements economical and precise. He danced backward with a ghostlike agility, his feet barely seeming to touch the mat, giving ground but never appearing pressured. Renji's voice, slightly muffled by his mask but still carrying its characteristic smirk, cut through the clang of steel. "You've certainly improved, Martel. More fire in your belly. But brute strength and blind fury won't win this bout. Not against me."
Veyron's jaw tightened further under his mask. He's trying to get under my skin. Don't let him. He ignored the taunt, resetting, then striking again. A high thrust aimed at Renji's shoulder—then a deceptive feint downwards—then a rapid pivot into a reverse slash, a move he'd practiced a thousand times with Azrael. Predict me now, you arrogant bastard.
But Renji, with uncanny anticipation, saw it coming. He twisted his body with fluid grace, his own blade a silver blur as he executed a textbook circular parry, flicking Veyron's blade harmlessly away as if swatting an annoying fly. The force of the parry, though not jarring, was expertly directed, momentarily unbalancing Veyron. "Too eager," Renji chided, his tone light but condescending. "You still telegraph your desperation. That burning need to prove yourself? It's a glaring weakness, Martel. It won't work on me."
Veyron gritted his teeth, forcing himself to regain his composure. "I'm not desperate." I'm just done losing. To you. To anyone.
They circled each other warily, blades held ready, the tips tracing nervous patterns in the air. The initial flurry had passed, replaced by a tense, probing dance. Renji moved like the wind—silent, fluid, and utterly unreadable. His feints were subtle, his footwork impeccable. Veyron's eyes narrowed, watching, trying to decipher the rhythm beneath the surface. He remembered Azrael's relentless coaching, the countless hours spent drilling not just techniques, but perception. "Don't chase the blade, Veyron. The blade is a liar. Chase the rhythm, the shift in weight, the flicker in his eyes. Anticipate. Don't just react."
Renji lunged—a sudden, explosive movement, faster than Veyron had anticipated. There! Veyron sidestepped—barely. The hiss of steel whispered past his ear, so close he felt the displacement of air. He countered instantly, dropping low and executing a sweeping strike aimed at Renji's leading knee, a riskier, less conventional move.
CLINK! A solid hit. The tip of Veyron's foil connected with the protective padding on Renji's knee guard. Renji stumbled, his perfect form momentarily broken. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. It was the first clean touch Veyron had ever landed on him in a formal match.
Veyron's mind raced. He's fast… incredibly fast… but he's not untouchable. I can touch him. A surge of confidence, fragile but potent, warmed him.
Renji regained his footing almost instantly, his composure seemingly unruffled, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. He flicked an imaginary strand of hair back with the tip of his sword, a deliberately theatrical gesture. "A lucky tap, Martel," Renji mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're pretty good, for someone so… unrefined. But next to true skill, true artistry? You're so fade, like an old, forgotten book on a dusty shelf."
Veyron's eyes burned with a sudden, cold fury. The casual dismissal, the arrogance—it was a spark to dry tinder. "Then remember me as the one who rewrote your final chapter, Tanaka," he retorted, his voice low and dangerous. He charged again—but this time, it wasn't blind aggression. It was faster, yes, but also more controlled, more refined. He'd learned from the initial exchange. He was adapting.
Renji's eyes widened—just a fraction, almost imperceptibly—behind his mask. He's learning… adapting mid-match? Interesting.
Their blades met again, and again. A sharp clash. A grating grind of steel on steel as they bound blades. A quick separation. Then another furious exchange. The blades rang out like church bells in a violent storm, a chaotic yet compelling symphony of combat. Each parry, each riposte, was a question and an answer. He's good, damn good, Veyron admitted inwardly, his respect for Renji's skill warring with his fierce determination. But I've bled for every inch I've gained in this life. I've fought for every scrap. You? You've probably had it easy. You're just another wall in my way. And I'm tired of walls.
Renji, sensing a shift in Veyron's attack, ducked under a wide slash, slid forward with incredible speed, and nearly pierced Veyron's shoulder with a whip-thin, lightning-fast jab. Too close! Way too close! Veyron twisted his body away desperately, a fraction of a second from a direct hit. The tip of Renji's blade grazed his uniform, leaving a faint silver streak on the white fabric. His heart hammered. The referee, Mr. Davies, watched intently but didn't call a point. It was a touch, but not a valid one according to the strict rules of engagement. Still in. He didn't get the point.
Sweat rolled down Veyron's cheek, stinging his eyes. His lungs burned with the effort, each breath a ragged gasp. His arm ached from the strain of controlling the foil, from absorbing the impact of Renji's powerful parries. I can't overpower him with brute strength. His technique is too polished. His defense is too tight. But… I have to beat him. There has to be a way.
Then, an idea sparked. A gamble. Something Azrael had drilled into him – calculated risks, breaking patterns. Veyron shifted his stance, moving into a slightly unorthodox guard—one that deliberately, and very obviously, left his left side more exposed than was conventional. It was an invitation. A dare.
Renji's brow, visible above his mask, lifted slightly. A flicker of surprise, then calculation, in his eyes. "That's… an interesting choice, Martel," Renji commented, his voice laced with curiosity and a hint of suspicion. "Bold. Or foolish." He didn't hesitate for long. The opening was too tempting. He went for it. A straight, powerful lunge, his foil aimed precisely for the seemingly undefended open side. Exactly what I wanted. Veyron's mind screamed with a desperate hope. Got you.
As Renji's blade shot forward, Veyron didn't retreat. He didn't try to parry conventionally. Instead, he twisted his body mid-motion, a complex, risky maneuver. He caught Renji's incoming blade not with a direct block, but on the forte of his own guard, angling it perfectly. He used his opponent's powerful forward momentum, the very force of Renji's lunge, to help rotate his own body— —and in that same fluid, almost impossibly quick motion, he slipped inside Renji's extended guard. One perfect, seamless movement. It was over before Renji could even register the change. Veyron's blade, now on the inside line, found its mark. The button tip of his foil pressed firmly, unmistakably, against the protected surface of Renji's throat. A perfect, undeniable contact.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence descended upon the fencing hall. Even the crickets outside seemed to hold their breath. For a long moment, neither fencer moved. Renji stared down at the blade resting against his neck, his body frozen in the lunge. Veyron's arm was steady, his gaze intense. Then, Mr. Davies' voice cut through the stillness, sharp and decisive. He raised his hand. "Point! Match! Veyron Martel wins!"
The crowd erupted. A wave of cheers, applause, and astonished shouts washed over the arena. The sound was deafening. Veyron slowly pulled his blade back, stepping away from a still-frozen Renji. He lowered his foil, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. He sheathed his sword with a sharp, shaky exhale. Renji finally moved, slowly straightening up, his mask still hiding his expression. He removed it, revealing a look of utter disbelief, quickly masked by a wry, almost impressed smirk. Veyron, his voice quiet but carrying clearly in the momentary lull as Renji recovered, spoke. "The pale, forgotten book… just painted you red, Tanaka." Renji actually chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Touché, Martel. Well played. You earned that one." He extended a gloved hand. Veyron, after a moment's hesitation, took it. A brief, firm shake. Respect, hard-earned.
As the applause thundered around them, Veyron looked up toward the massive skylight far above the arena. Sunlight streamed through it, a brilliant, almost heavenly shaft of gold, catching the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating the faint, old scars on his knuckles, and igniting the unquenchable fire that still burned brightly in his eyes. The fencing hall continued to erupt in applause. Veyron, panting and drenched in sweat, finally allowed his legs to buckle, dropping to one knee for a much-needed breath. He pressed his forehead to the cool grip of his foil. Veyron (between ragged breaths): "I… I did it. After all this time… I finally won against him." A grin, wide and triumphant, spread across his face.
On the sidelines, near the edge of the stands, Azrael watched with his arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hardened, analytical. He hadn't joined in the applause. Azrael (his voice cold, cutting through Veyron's elation as he approached later, away from the crowds): "You took too long. Far too long. Your footwork was sloppy in the initial exchanges, and you let him dictate the pace for half the match. If you struggle this much, hesitate this much, in a mere school competition against someone like Renji, you'll be utterly crushed at the nationals. Even a normal, competent fencer dared to challenge you, to push you to your limits. That's not dominance."
Veyron's triumphant grin vanished, replaced by a flash of frustration and anger. He stood up, his fists clenching. Veyron (frustrated): "Tch… I still won, didn't I? Against Renji! Isn't that enough for you, Azrael? Can't you just be happy for me for once?" Azrael's eyes snapped, a rare flash of impatience in their usually stoic depths. "Winning isn't everything, Veyron! Not when our goals are so much higher. It's about how you win. It's about dominance. Precision. Absolute control. You were reactive, not proactive. You showed moments of brilliance, yes, that final move was… acceptable. But overall? You're still weak. Your foundations are shaky. Do you truly want to get stronger? Strong enough to face what's out there, what might come for us? Then come. Let me train you. Properly." Veyron's shoulders slumped. He knew, deep down, that Azrael was right. The victory felt good, but it had been a desperate, hard-fought scramble, not the effortless dismantling Azrael seemed to expect. Swallowing his pride, a bitter pill, he met his brother's intense gaze and nodded slowly. Veyron: "Fine. Train me more. Whatever it takes." A ghost of a smirk touched Azrael's lips, cold and predatory. "Good. I've been waiting for you to say that. For you to finally understand."
A crimson sunset, vivid and dramatic, bled across the vast expanse of the sky, painting the clouds in hues of orange, purple, and blood red. The open training ground behind the orphanage, a patch of hard-packed earth Azrael had claimed as their own, was silent, save for the rhythmic, sharp sound of wood striking wood. Two figures stood alone, silhouetted against the dying light—brothers in blood, but increasingly, rivals in spirit and ambition.
Azrael's voice was as cold and sharp as the evening air. "You won the match, Veyron. Congratulations on that minor achievement. But you didn't dominate it. You hesitated at crucial moments. Your defense was reactive, not anticipatory. You let Renji control the narrative for too long." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "I know I am an Arnis player primarily, not a classical fencer. My art is different, born of different necessities. But the principles of combat are universal. I will teach you only two things, but I will teach them until they are etched into your very bones: attack and defense. Pure, efficient, and absolute."
He tossed Veyron a weighted wooden sword—a bokken, heavier and more crudely shaped than a practice foil, not a toy for children, but a tool for warriors. It thudded into Veyron's outstretched hands with surprising force. Azrael: "This… is what real training feels like. No padding, no referees, no applause. Just consequence. Let's begin." Veyron gripped the sword. His hands, already tired from the fencing match, shook slightly from the unaccustomed weight and awkward balance—but his eyes burned with a renewed, fierce resolve. He would not fail this. Azrael, noticing the slight tremor: "Is it too heavy for you, little brother? Perhaps we should start with a lighter stick?" The taunt was subtle, a test. Veyron's jaw tightened. "No. It's fine." Azrael nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He pulled out a small, battered stopwatch from his pocket and clicked it. Sixty seconds. An eternity. Azrael: "Strike me. As fast as you can. As hard as you can. Nonstop. Don't think about form yet. Just unleash whatever you have."
Veyron lunged, the heavy wooden sword feeling clumsy and unwieldy after the lightness of the foil. Clack! Azrael met the strike with his own bokken, deflecting it with an almost casual ease. Veyron struck again. And again. And again. Each swing was fueled by a desperate desire to prove himself, to meet Azrael's impossible standards. Each clumsy, furious blow landed against Azrael's blade—but Azrael barely flinched, his stance rooted, his counters fluid and effortless, turning Veyron's attacks aside with minimal movement. Azrael (his voice calm, almost conversational, despite the ferocity of Veyron's assault): "You're using too much shoulder, not enough core. Your power is bleeding away. Your form's breaking down already. Predictable." Veyron ignored him, pushing harder, his teeth gritted. He kept going. His muscles screamed in protest. His chest heaved, lungs burning for air. With each passing second, the wooden blade in his hands felt heavier, like a bar of lead. The sunset glare seemed to mock his efforts. Azrael: "Pain is a messenger, Veyron. Listen to what it's telling you about your limits, about your technique. But don't you dare obey it. Push through. Find what's on the other side." The sixty-second timer beeped, a shrill, unwelcome sound. Veyron's arms dropped, the bokken falling from his numb fingers to thud onto the dusty ground. He bent over, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off him.
[Library – Afternoon Light, Earlier That Same Day]
While Veyron was battling in the fencing hall, Elara Martel sat quietly in a sun-drenched alcove of the Horizon Shelter library, lost in the pages of a thick, leather-bound book of myths and legends. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her world was silent, filled only with ancient heroes and fantastical beasts—until a playful shadow crossed her path, falling over the illustrated page. Daichi Sakamoto, a lanky boy with perpetually messy black hair, bright, intelligent eyes, and an irrepressible grin, leaned against the bookshelf. He was a year older than Elara, a fellow orphan known more for his quick wit and occasional troublemaking than his academic prowess. Daichi (grinning): "You're always buried in books, Elara-chan. Don't you ever get tired of studying all those dusty old words?" Elara (without looking up, a small smile playing on her lips): "And you're always bothering me when I'm trying to read, Daichi-kun. Don't you ever get tired of failing your history tests?" Daichi clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. Your words wound me, fair maiden. Deeply. But guess what? For your information, I passed this time. With flying colors! Well, maybe not flying colors, more like… barely scraping by colors. But a pass is a pass!" He puffed out his chest proudly. Elara finally looked up, her expression one of mock shock. "Is this a miracle! Did the esteemed Mr. Harrison finally take pity on your soul?" Daichi laughed, a warm, genuine sound. He slid a carefully folded piece of paper across the polished wooden table toward her. Curious, Elara picked it up. It was a sheet of notebook paper, and on it, in Daichi's surprisingly neat handwriting, was a poem. Elara (reading softly, her voice barely a whisper): "In halls of stone, where shadows play,A mind takes flight, to brighter day.Through tales of old, and knowledge sought,A quiet strength, so bravely fought.
Even in a world of ink and page,The heart still writes upon life's stage.Let courage beat, though fears may shy,A gentle soul, beneath a watchful sky.
After all, this light she holds, so fine,A precious hope, forever to shine…"
She looked up, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. Her eyes, usually so serious when engrossed in a book, held a soft, warm light. Elara (gently): "This… this is beautiful, Daichi. You wrote this?" Daichi shuffled his feet, a rare hint of bashfulness coloring his usual confidence. "Yeah, well, got a bit inspired, I guess. All those fancy words you use must be rubbing off on me." He grinned, then leaned in conspiratorially. "So… does this display of literary genius earn me another sweet date to the kitchens for Mrs. Gable's leftover cookies tonight?" Elara laughed, a light, melodious sound. "Only if you promise not to fail the next history test. And you have to help me reach the books on the top shelf later." Daichi (saluting smartly): "You have my solemn vow, and my ladder-climbing services, milady!" They laughed together, their eyes drifting to the window, watching the sunset begin to paint the sky outside the library. The warm golden light enveloped them, reflecting off their quiet, shared moment of connection, a small island of peace in their often-turbulent world.
The scene shifts—zooming into the fiery orb of the setting sun, the image blurring, then sharpening, focusing with unnerving intensity on Veyron's sweat-drenched, determined eye back on the training ground. He was still panting, but his breathing was evening out. He'd retrieved his bokken. Azrael: "Good. You're seeing the immediate result of fighting with pure, undirected rage. You burn out quickly. But you're already tired—and it's only been a single minute of uncontrolled flailing. That's not nearly good enough. Not for what's coming." Azrael stepped closer, his voice stern and instructive, like a seasoned general addressing a raw recruit. Azrael: "Fight with your instincts, Veyron, yes. But temper them with your brain. Don't just react; anticipate. Don't force things when subtlety will serve you better. Observe your opponent. Learn their patterns, their tells, their fears. Strike only when it matters, when the opening is real, when your blow will be decisive. Don't show your full strength too early—or your enemy will adapt, they will measure you, and they will find your weaknesses. When you hold back, when you feign weakness or uncertainty, they underestimate you. They grow complacent. And then, they make mistakes. Fatal mistakes. If you go all out from the start, they'll prepare for your onslaught, they will weather your storm, and then they will exploit your inevitable flaws, your exhaustion. Even in that short exchange just now, I gave you multiple chances to strike me effectively. A quick reverse of the blade could have hit my hand when I overextended on a parry. A shift in your footwork could have opened my flank. But you never saw them. You were too lost in your own aggression. You missed every chance." He stepped back, pointing the tip of his bokken towards Veyron's chest. Azrael: "You must learn to read your enemy like a book. Understand their strengths, yes, but more importantly, identify their weaknesses. Hide your own weaknesses as if they are your most precious secrets. And then, when the moment is right, capitalize on theirs with ruthless efficiency. That's how you win. Not like a brawler. Like a king." Azrael exhaled slowly, the intensity in his eyes softening slightly. "Now, let's try something different. Something that requires less brute force and more… finesse." Azrael walked to the center of the dusty training ground. He dragged the tip of his wooden blade in a slow, deliberate circular motion, etching a near-perfect ring, perhaps six feet in diameter, into the hard-packed dirt. Azrael (his voice low, almost reverent): "Defense isn't just about blocking an attack, Veyron. It's about controlling your zone—your space, your presence. This circle," he gestured to the ring with his bokken, "is your dominion. Your sanctuary. Your battlefield." He pointed to the ring. Azrael: "You will stand inside. You must not step out. I will enter the circle, strike you once, and then leave the circle. Your task is to deflect my strike—not block it with brute force, not dodge out of the way—deflect it, redirect its energy, without moving your feet from their initial position. Make it elegant. Make it efficient. That is a true swordsman's grace." Veyron frowned, looking at the small circle, then at his brother. Veyron: "One hit at a time? That sounds… easy." Azrael's lips curved into a cold smirk. Azrael: "You won't last five strikes. I guarantee it." Veyron stepped into the circle, planting his feet, gripping his bokken with renewed focus. He would prove Azrael wrong. Azrael stepped in—like wind cutting through absolute silence. His movement was a blur. The first strike came from above, a swift, chopping blow aimed at Veyron's head. Veyron reacted on instinct, his blade shifting just enough to meet the attack, parrying it upwards, the wood hissing as it skimmed past his face. Clack! Azrael (coolly, already outside the circle): "One." The second strike—Azrael was inside the circle again, a low, sweeping attack aimed at Veyron's shins. Veyron bent his knees slightly, dropping his center of gravity, angling his blade downward to intercept. Clack! Azrael (his voice devoid of emotion): "Two." Third—Azrael used the side of his blade to feint high, drawing Veyron's guard up, before spinning with blinding speed into a rising jab aimed at Veyron's chest. Veyron flinched but managed to adjust his parry in time, redirecting the tip of Azrael's bokken sharply upward, just past his shoulder. Clack! The force of the deflection jolted his wrist, sending a shockwave up his arm. Veyron (through gritted teeth): "Tch…" Azrael: "You're stiff. You're reacting too late. You're thinking too much. Let your blade breathe, Veyron. It should move before you even consciously think. Feel the intent, not just the weapon." The fourth strike—this was Azrael's real test. He didn't aim at Veyron's blade this time. He didn't aim for a conventional target. He aimed directly at Veyron's exposed shoulder, a strike meant to inflict real pain, to test his nerve. Real intent. Veyron, surprised by the directness and brutality of the attack, instinctively leaned away slightly… and in doing so, his body remembered a lesson. He didn't just block; he used his guard to meet the strike, turning his shoulder with the impact, redirecting Azrael's momentum, almost making Azrael stumble. Azrael (halting his follow-through, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes): "…Impressive. You used the impact." He stepped back, pausing for a beat longer than before. Azrael (his voice softer now, almost thoughtful): "Last one, Veyron. Make it count." He circled slowly, his bokken trailing lightly in the dust, his eyes never leaving Veyron. Then—without any discernible warning, no tell-tale shift in weight or breath—he lunged. It wasn't a strike of brute force, but a silent, serpent-like thrust, aimed directly at Veyron's center mass. Fast. Deceptive. Deadly. Veyron didn't have time to think. He reacted. His wrist pivoted in a tight, economical arc, his blade a mere extension of his will. It kissed Azrael's attacking bokken, deflecting it just centimeters off its intended line—his body remained still, his feet rooted firmly to the ground within the circle. Wshh—Clack! Silence. The only sound was their harsh breathing in the twilight. Azrael slowly lowered his bokken. Azrael: "Five." He stepped out of the circle, a rare hint of approval in his expression. Azrael (calmly): "Now you begin to understand. Defense isn't a just a desperate game of blocking incoming attacks. It's the art of control in the midst of chaos. It's not just about your weapon—but your breath… your balance… your weight distribution… your acute awareness of your opponent's rhythm, their intent, their very spirit." Veyron was panting, his arm aching, but a grin touched his lips. Veyron: "It's… it's like dancing… a really violent dance." Azrael allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Azrael: "No, little brother. It's like war… disguised as a dance. And you just took your first real steps." He gestured towards the orphanage buildings, now dark silhouettes against the fading light. "Now, go bring me some water from the kitchens. My throat is dry from all this profound wisdom I've been imparting." Veyron rolled his eyes, but the relief and camaraderie were evident. "So much wisdom, so much strength… but the mighty Azrael still can't get his own water? You are far too lazy for a supposed warrior-monk." He managed a weak chuckle. Azrael actually chuckled in response, a surprisingly light sound. Veyron, instead of going, unclipped a water bottle from his own belt – one he'd filled before the fencing match – and tossed it to his brother. Azrael caught it deftly. They both took long swigs, the cool water a balm to their parched throats and tired bodies. Azrael (wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a surprisingly boyish grin transforming his usually stern features): "Alright. Enough philosophy for one day. Now. Let's end the day with one last spar. No points, no circles. Just… movement." Veyron, despite his exhaustion, felt a surge of energy. "I'm ready." They took their stances. Veyron, slightly confused by the sudden shift in Azrael's demeanor, watched his brother carefully. Azrael attacked first—a lightning-fast, almost playful strike aimed at Veyron's chest. Instead of parrying with his bokken, Veyron reacted purely on instinct, his left hand shooting out, catching Azrael's attacking wrist in a firm grip. Azrael stopped, nodding slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Brilliant instinct… your reflexes are sharpening. But your left-hand control, your off-hand awareness, is still weak. You caught me, but you couldn't have maintained that grip against real resistance or transitioned it into an effective counter." Azrael disengaged his wrist with a simple twist and stepped back. He then did something unexpected. He placed his wooden sword carefully on the ground. Azrael (a genuine, almost mischievous smirk now playing on his lips): "Actually… I think my legs have had enough war-dancing for one day. Let's go chill in the canteen. I hear Mrs. Gable made her infamous mystery meat stew tonight. It's an adventure in every bite." Veyron stared, then burst out laughing, the tension of the day finally breaking. "You just want an excuse not to get beaten by me in a real spar!" Azrael shrugged, the smirk widening. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply crave the culinary thrill that is Horizon's stew. Come on." He slung an arm surprisingly companionably over Veyron's shoulder, and the two brothers, one still aching, the other deceptively relaxed, walked off the training ground and towards the distant lights of the orphanage, their shadows merging in the deepening twilight.
To be Continued…