"C'mon, man—one more rep. "Riko's voice cut through the hum of the gym, drawing Tarrin's attention.
Jayden was struggling beneath the barbell, arms shaking as he pressed up a solid hundred kilograms. He managed a third rep through pure grit, his face red and veins bulging.
Tarrin watched with a raised brow. Not bad. Being Scarred really changes the game. A few weeks ago, he'd have snapped his arms trying.
Across the room, Lena was hammering out reps on the leg press, again. She refused to train anything else—said leg strength was everything. Tarrin didn't argue.
But his mind wasn't in the gym.
That damn deal.
The one he made with Vincent the night before had been gnawing at him all day. He couldn't shake the weight of it.
'Was it the right call? Should I tell her?' He imagined Celith's reaction.
'No... if it leaks, they'd kill me before I could even argue.'
"Tarrin, you're up." Jayden's voice yanked him back to the present. Tarrin checked his Telcom, then shook his head.
"Afraid I've got to skip. Duty calls." He smirked, tossing the towel over his shoulder.
Riko scowled. "Pussy. Scared of a few extra kilos?"
Jayden looked up, brows drawn. "Where you off to?"
"Extra training. Sergeant Vincent's orders." Tarrin turned to leave, but couldn't resist the jab. "Remember when Baldy pulled me into his office? Yeah. Turns out I'm special."
Riko scoffed. "What the hell would that chrome dome even want from you?"
Tarrin grinned over his shoulder. "Guess I'm just built different. Later, lil boys."
He left without another word, offering no explanation to the two boys still staring at his back with wide-eyed confusion.
Riko was the first to break the silence, glancing at Jayden. "Think he's lying? Maybe off to visit his elite girlfriend or something?"
Jayden flushed slightly at the word girlfriend, but shook his head. "I don't think Tarrin would lie. Not about something like this."
"Yeah," Riko muttered, unconvinced. "Guess you're right."
Meanwhile, Tarrin walked with purpose, steps light but deliberate. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the address Vincent had sent to his Telcom.
The facility before him wasn't like the public training grounds—no crowds, no mess, no noise. This place radiated exclusivity.
Polished stone walls, reinforced steel doors, and discreet surveillance nodes embedded into every corner. It wasn't a gym. It was a proving ground.
He held up his military ID to the scanner. A quiet beep followed, and the door slid open with a smooth, mechanical hiss.
Inside, the atmosphere was colder, cleaner—clinical in its precision.
Tarrin moved through the silent halls until he reached a training chamber far larger than anything he'd seen before. Incomparable to Celith's 'Private training grounds'.
He checked the time—5:45 PM.
Good. Fifteen minutes to sharpen the edge.
Without hesitation, he strode to the weapon rack, fingers closing around a standard-issue practice blade.
No frills, no decoration—just cold steel and weight. He took his stance and began.
The forms came back to him instinctively. He'd drilled them enough times with Celith to etch them into muscle memory.
Dawn Slash—a clean diagonal cut, shoulder to hip.
Crescent Thrust—a sharp lunge from low guard, tip aimed at the throat.
Zenith Strike—a brutal overhead chop, both hands gripping tight, force driving down like a hammer.
Comet Sweep—a wide horizontal slash, sweeping low, deadly to any who dared rush in.
The Four Pillars of the Standard Blade Form. Basic. Efficient. Lethal.
There were dozens of variations across the Isles—schools layered with style and flair—but this was the root. The foundation.
Tarrin cycled through them again and again, seeking fluidity. Each transition needed to be seamless. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
But he could feel it—tiny lags. Fractional delays between forms. Nothing a casual observer would catch, but to someone trained?
It'd be obvious.
'Sloppy. Unrefined. Weak.'
Gritting his teeth, Tarrin tightened his grip and went again.
Dawn. Comet. Pivot into Zenith. End with a Crescent.
Swish.
Tarrin exhaled, blade slicing through the air in a clean arc—until the rhythm broke.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He turned, sword still raised, to find a hulking figure approaching. Broad shoulders, a face carved from stone, and a head so bald it caught the overhead lights. Sergeant Vincent. Cold-eyed and unimpressed.
'Looks like someone pissed in his coffee. Guess the idea of a teenager outmaneuvering him doesn't sit well.'
"Good afternoon, Master," Tarrin said with a theatrical bow, lips curled into a smirk.
Vincent's glare could've peeled paint.
"Come on, where's that famous sense of humor?"
"Hello, bastard," Vincent said, voice flat and rough like gravel. "Today marks day one of your personal hell. Get comfortable."
His words carried no exaggeration. Just a promise.
Vincent rolled up the sleeves of his uniform with deliberate calm, each movement methodical. Then he grabbed a practice blade from the rack—heavier than Tarrin's, scarred from years of use.
"I saw you running the Standard Form," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Did you integrate the reverse techniques yet?"
Tarrin blinked, caught off guard. "Reverse?"
Vincent didn't wait. "The extended variations. Dawn slash from hip to shoulder. Upward strikes instead of down. You adapt the form to the angle, not the other way around. You get it now?"
He stepped into stance without waiting for an answer. "Now, let's begin."
Tarrin mirrored him, body shifting into position, muscles coiled tight.
"The first round is offense," Vincent said, voice sharp. "You come at me with everything. No holding back."
He hadn't even finished the sentence before Tarrin launched forward, blade leading the charge.
A quick thrust—low and fast. Clean entry.
Clang!
With a flick of his wrist, Vincent parried the blow like swatting a fly. Then, without warning, a boot slammed into Tarrin's chest, sending him sprawling.
The air fled his lungs before he even hit the ground.
"You're too slow," Vincent barked. "Combat isn't about memorizing forms. It's about adjusting on the fly. Adapt. Think. Move."
Tarrin growled under his breath and rolled to his feet.
'Fine. Round two.'
He came again—low slash aimed at the legs. Blocked.
Reset. Left feint. Right strike. High cut. Downward thrust.
All parried with mechanical ease. No wasted movement from Vincent. No tells.
Just a wall of skill.
'Faster!'Tarrin screamed it in his head, but his arms couldn't keep up with the command. His mind surged ahead—perfect timing, perfect form—but his body lagged behind, clumsy and heavy.
Comet to reverse Dawn.Another failure. No flow. No connection.
Then he made a mistake.
He overextended—just for a breath, a fraction of a second too far. Vincent didn't miss it. The flat of the sergeant's training sword cracked against the side of Tarrin's skull with a sharp whack.
Stars burst in his vision. His footing gave way, and he hit the ground with a dull grunt.
Then came laughter.
Not mocking. Worse.
Genuine.
Vincent chuckled, almost giddy. "Thoroughly enjoyed," he said, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.
Tarrin groaned, rubbing the side of his head. "Very funny, Sergeant."
"Want another one?" Vincent asked, tone light, teasing.
Tarrin stood up without a word, jaw tight. "Again."
He launched in. Zenith to Dawn. Again. Again.Blades clashed, sweat flew, and pain piled on like bricks.
The next thirty minutes blurred into one long torment—Tarrin's breath turning ragged, his muscles screaming, each strike met with ruthless resistance. Every mistake came with punishment. Flat blade to ribs. Shin. Shoulder.
By the end, he was soaked in sweat, arms like lead, chest rising and falling like a bellows.
Vincent finally lowered his sword. "Alright. That's the first half."
Tarrin didn't answer. He just stared, eyes dark, weighing the risk of sucker-punching the bastard.
Not that it would land.
'What is this guy? Scarforged?' he thought bitterly.
Vincent folded his arms. "Now, your task is to remember."
'The hell's that supposed to mean?'
Tarrin blinked, expression flat. "You mean you have no idea what I am supposed to do?"
Dead-on. Vincent just smirked and shrugged.
"Definitely not. But I can't hand everything to you. Warrior's journey and all that—self-discovery, growth, pain, yada yada."
Tarrin narrowed his eyes. "Did you just quote a training manual?"
Vincent's only response was a hum, tinged with amusement.
'This smug bastard isn't even gonna admit it.'
'The cafeteria... how did I do that?'Tarrin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to trace the memory. He hadn't summoned anything back then, not consciously.
He just wanted Felix to back off, to feel it—his intent, his anger, his presence.
'Was it fear? Did I want him to fear me?'
He exhaled slowly and focused. Imagined pressure pouring out of him like water from a shattered dam, flooding the room, cracking walls, freezing blood.
Nothing.
No rush. No tremor. Just silence.
A single drop of sweat slipped down his temple.
Vincent snorted. "Try harder, boy. You're embarrassing yourself with that constipated face."
Tarrin's eye twitched.
Vincent kept going, voice full of lazy amusement. "You look like you're stuck between childbirth and taking the meanest shit of your life. Not sure which one's worse."
Tarrin's eyes snapped open. He glared daggers. "I'm trying, alright? It's not as easy as just flipping a switch."
Vincent's face turned thoughtful—for about half a second. "Alright. New idea."He smiled. "How about I beat the crap out of you?"
Tarrin stared. Deadpan. "…You serious?"
'Sadist. This place has them at every corner, huh?'
"I mean it. The only time you triggered that pressure nonsense was during stress. Maybe pain's the key."
Tarrin hesitated, but deep down, he knew Vincent had a point. 'Better pain than uselessness.' If it worked, it was worth it.
"Fine. How do we start—?"
CRACK.
His head snapped to the side. Vincent was suddenly in front of him, hand still raised from the slap.
"What the—"
BAM.A punch to the gut folded him. Another clipped his jaw. One to the ribs. Then a rising uppercut that sent him stumbling.
Vincent didn't let up. Every blow was precise—measured. Strong enough to hurt, not enough to break.
But it hurt.
Five minutes in, Tarrin was gasping for air. His body throbbed. Bruises bloomed across his skin like flowers of war.
"S-stop. It's n-not working—"
Another blow shut him up.
He lashed out, wild and desperate. Vincent dodged and punished him with a slap that left his ears ringing.
'What is wrong with this guy?'
Low kick. Slap. Gut-punch. A sharp jab to the liver that left him reeling.
"I said stop!" Tarrin wheezed, stumbling back. His vision blurred. The room swam. Every part of him burned.
Vincent kept coming.
And something snapped.
"I said—fucking stop!"
The air shifted.
A pressure rolled off Tarrin in a wave—The air shifted… hot, heavy, suffocating.
For a moment, a commanding presence pulsed from Tarrin, making even Vincent's stance falter, as if the room itself obeyed his will.
His skin prickled. His eyes widened.
It worked.
The weight pulsed from his core, raw and unfiltered, the same presence he'd felt in the cafeteria.
Tarrin froze, heart racing.
'That's it… That's the feeling. Burn it into memory. Don't let it slip.'
"Perfect. Now onto the resonance chamber." Vincent's voice snapped Tarrin out of his stupor, tuning down the aura around him.