The celebration ended hours ago.
The streets outside her uncle's home glimmered faintly with holo-banners fading into night.
Everyone else slept, but Eghosa sat alone by the window — arms folded over her knees, her mind still fighting ghosts.
Her victories felt distant now.
Even with laughter still echoing in her ears, all she could see were her failures.
The slow swing. The missed timing. The way Amos never hesitated.
"He acts," she whispered. "I wait."
The words stung, but they were true.
In the art of war, hesitation was a wound no medic could treat.
She began to think through each skill she had — reasoning, strategy, awareness — all strong. But when she pictured standing in front of Amos again, it wasn't philosophy or empathy she saw missing.
It was power.
It was decisiveness born from strength.
"Combat," she murmured. "That's where I'm weakest… and it's the fastest to fix."
Her comm blinked in the dim light. She scrolled past hundreds of contacts until one name stopped her thumb.
Theran Solace.
S-Grade Combat Candidate.
The boy who had once stood up during Ancelot's introduction and asked,
"By what standards do you call someone qualified to fight for humanity?"
She'd never forgotten his tone — not defiant, just honest.
The kind of honesty that came from strength.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then pressed call.
Static. Then a low voice answered, smooth but edged.
"What do you want, Eghosa Precious?"
"I need training," she said simply. "Real training. I won't reach the Empire Royal Academy half-prepared."
There was silence — not doubt, just evaluation. Then:
"You want to fight like me?"
"No," she said. "I want to stop losing to people like you."
A low chuckle came from the other end, half-amused, half-impressed.
"There's no one like me," he said. "I reject. I can't waste my time training you."
She'd expected that answer.
So she smiled slightly and replied,
"Trisha will be there."
A pause. Then:
"Are you sure?"
"Completely."
"Fine," he said at last. "Come to the old school sparring dome tomorrow at dawn. Don't bring armor. Bring pain tolerance.
If you survive three minutes, I'll train you.
And if I don't see Trisha — you're dead."
The call cut.
Eghosa stared at the dark screen, her reflection fractured in the glass — tired eyes, bruised pride, and something else… resolve.
"Three minutes," she whispered. "I'll make it four."
Outside, thunder rolled far away — like the sound of a blade being drawn.
She had gotten her trainer.
Now all that remained was to get Trisha along.
That part was easy — her friend's hunger to improve matched her own.
---
The next morning, Eghosa explained to her mother that she would be away for a few days of training. Her mother only sighed, proud but worried.
"Be careful, my daughter," she said softly.
Eghosa nodded. "I will."
Convincing Trisha was easier than expected. The only resistance came when she realized who the trainer was.
To Trisha, Theran Solace wasn't just the top combat candidate — he was also a persistent admirer who'd sent her love letters since they were seventeen.
But even Trisha couldn't deny he was the best person for the job.
So, with a reluctant sigh, she agreed.
They arrived at dawn.
The old sparring dome loomed before them — broken glass, rusted steel, walls scarred by forgotten battles.
Theran was already there.
Red hair catching the morning light, muscles carved like iron, eyes glowing faintly crimson — the kind of presence that filled the whole space.
He turned as they approached, grinning.
"You truly came. And on time."
Eghosa nodded. "Of course."
He looked at Trisha, his grin softening.
"Trisha — long time no see. How have you been? I brought you a flower."
Eghosa scoffed. He acted like a storm to me and a poet to her.
Trisha sighed, arms folded.
"How many times will I tell you? I'm not interested."
To be fair, Eghosa almost pitied Theran — no one could accuse him of giving up easily.
"Is it the flower? My hair? The perfume? Or maybe because I'm wearing black today—"
"Are you here to train us or talk too much?" Trisha cut him off coldly.
Theran's smile faded. The air changed.
One heartbeat, he was teasing. The next, the dome itself seemed to hold its breath.
It wasn't killing intent — it was something heavier. Ancient. Predatory.
Eghosa felt it immediately.
Her grip tightened around her sword; instinct screamed danger.
Trisha too shifted stance, blade half-drawn.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pressure vanished.
Theran exhaled softly.
"Good. You both reacted. That's enough for now."
"What was that?" Eghosa asked, still catching her breath.
"Were you trying to kill us?" Trisha snapped.
He chuckled lightly.
"I just needed to see your instincts. And I saw what I needed."
He turned his gaze on Eghosa.
"You felt danger but stood still, gripping your sword. That means you don't trust your instincts yet — or you don't understand them."
Then he looked at Trisha.
"You drew your blade immediately and stood your ground. Better — but still wrong."
"Wrong?" Trisha snapped. "Then what would you have us do?"
Theran's red eyes gleamed like embers.
"I would have had you run."
Both girls stared — then burst out laughing.
"Run? That's your grand lesson?" Eghosa grinned.
"You expect us to run away?" Trisha mocked.
Theran didn't laugh. His tone dropped, all trace of playfulness gone.
"Yes. If you stand before a predator you cannot defeat, you run.
In that moment, strength, skill, decisiveness — none of it matters.
Only survival does.
Combat isn't beautiful. It isn't noble. It's survival. And survival starts with knowing when you're outmatched."
The dome fell silent.
For the first time, they understood he wasn't teaching theory — he was describing experience.
Then, slowly, he smiled again.
"Now, let's begin your actual training."
He turned toward the shadows at the far end of the dome, leading them deeper inside.
"Before we start," he said without looking back, "tell me once more — what do you think truly matters in combat?"
Eghosa answered first, confidence returning.
"Decisiveness."
Trisha followed.
"Skill."
Theran stopped, facing them fully now.
"Good answers. Logical. Refined."
He paused. Then, in a low, steady voice:
"But both wrong."
"You two think combat begins in the mind," he continued. "It doesn't. Combat begins with body."
He tapped his chest, then his arms.
"Physique — that's the true foundation. Strength. Speed. Endurance. Resistance. Agility.
These are the raw tools — the law of battle. Everything else is philosophy."
He stepped closer, eyes sharp.
"No matter how decisive you are, you won't cut down a reptiloid with a kitchen knife.
No matter how skilled your technique, if your muscles can't move faster than its claws, you die.
That's reality."
Eghosa thought to herself in silence.
"People like Amos think victory comes from clarity. And maybe it does — in human fights."
"But on the field of survival? Against beasts? Against monsters? Clarity means nothing without strength."
He straightened, voice turning to command.
"Decisiveness and skill come after physique.
You build power first — the ability to move, to react, to endure pain that would kill another.
Only then does decisiveness matter.
Only then does skill shine."
He turned, gesturing forward.
"That's why we start with endurance.
If your body breaks, no mind or will can save you."
They followed him through the ruins of the training dome. The scent of rust and old oil filled the air. Faint lights hummed from half-broken machinery.
Then Theran stopped before a massive cylindrical tank. At first, it looked like an old water chamber — until they noticed the ripples moving upward.
"This," Theran said, tapping the glass, "isn't water as you know it. It's high-pressure, density-regulated fluid.
On the surface, it feels calm. But the deeper you go, the heavier it gets.
Every meter adds pressure enough to crush bone."
He picked up a stone and tossed it in.
At first it floated. Then sank.
Halfway down — crack! — the stone shattered to dust.
Trisha took a step back.
"You want us to get into that?"
Theran smiled faintly.
"Exactly. The surface will accept you. The deeper you go, the more your body screams. It'll feel like drowning — but that's the point."
Eghosa hesitated.
"And what are we supposed to learn from drowning?"
He smirked.
"To breathe through pain. To endure pressure without breaking.
A soldier dies when she stops fighting.
A warrior dies when she stops breathing."
Then, without hesitation, he removed his shirt and dove into the tank.
The sound was clean — no splash, no struggle.
He sank to where the stone had split, stayed there several seconds, then resurfaced — steam rising from his skin.
When he climbed out, his breathing was calm. Too calm.
"You see?" he said. "It's not strength that keeps you alive. It's control."
"You'll go in one by one. Don't fight the water. Let it teach you what it means to resist by yielding."
The girls exchanged glances.
For the first time since the UNE trials, both felt something stronger than fear — reverence.
Theran looked at them — and a dangerous smile crossed his face.
"Let's see which one of you breaks first.
Eghosa stood before the tank.
The surface shimmered like liquid glass, reflecting her face — nervous, but unyielding.
The closer she stepped, the more the air around it seemed to hum, as if the water itself were alive and waiting.
Trisha folded her arms, still unconvinced.
"You're really going in first?"
"He said endurance," Eghosa replied quietly. "Then endurance is what he'll get."
Theran leaned against a console, arms crossed, eyes gleaming red beneath the flickering dome light.
"Remember," he said, "you don't fight the water. You let it teach you."
"And what if it decides to kill me instead?" Eghosa muttered.
Theran's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then you weren't ready to live."
She glared at him once, then exhaled.
No armor. No fear. Just a swimsuit and the sound of her heartbeat thudding in her ears.
She stepped onto the platform, toes grazing the water's surface.
It was cold — unnaturally so, like a thousand small needles dancing on her skin.
Then she dove in.
The world went silent.
At first, it was just water — smooth, clear, cold.
She sank a few feet, pushing downward with steady strokes.
This isn't bad, she thought.
Then it began.
Pressure.
At first, like a gentle hand on her shoulders. Then a weight — then a claw.
Every inch downward squeezed her lungs tighter, pressed against her ribs until her heartbeat itself felt like thunder inside a cage.
Her ears screamed. Her temples burned.
Still, she pushed deeper.
Above her, the world blurred — light thinning into darkness. She reached her hand forward, but the movement slowed, as if the water had turned to glass.
She tried to kick — and her legs barely moved.
Her lungs begged her to rise.
Her instincts screamed at her to turn back.
But Theran's voice echoed in her mind:
"Endure pressure without breaking. Don't fight — adapt."
She closed her eyes.
Her body trembled. Every nerve screamed rebellion.
Then — she stopped struggling.
She let the water carry her instead of resisting it.
And just like that — she felt it.
The shift.
The pain didn't vanish, but it changed — from suffocation to rhythm.
The pressure no longer felt like an enemy, but like a teacher showing her how fragile the human body truly was.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Her mind sharpened.
She opened her eyes again — and saw herself in the reflection of the glass wall, deeper than she'd ever expected to go.
I can endure this.
But then she pushed a little further — too far.
The world tilted. Her chest constricted again. Bubbles burst from her mouth. Her body spasmed — instinct took over, screaming UP!
She kicked wildly, breaking the surface with a violent gasp —
Air slammed into her lungs like fire.
She clung to the edge of the tank, coughing, shaking, her skin trembling as steam rose faintly from her arms.
Trisha was already beside her, eyes wide.
"Eghosa! Are you—"
"I'm fine," she croaked, forcing a weak smile. "Just… testing the limits."
Theran crouched nearby, gaze unreadable.
"You lasted one minute and fifty seconds."
Eghosa blinked.
"That's all?"
"That's everything," he said. "Most people faint at forty."
She gave a shaky laugh, then looked back at the tank.
Her reflection seemed different now — less fragile, more alive.
"So that's what you meant by control," she said.
Theran nodded.
"Exactly. The water crushes everyone equally. But only those who listen to it survive.
Combat works the same way. The strong don't fight pressure — they adapt to it."
Trisha crossed her arms, trying to sound unimpressed.
"So you're saying we just… surrender to pain?"
"No," Theran said calmly. "You negotiate with it."
He looked at both girls — one dripping wet, the other watching in disbelief — and his grin returned.
"Now, Trisha. Your turn."
---
Trisha froze.
"Wait, what?"
"You didn't think you were getting away, did you?"
Eghosa managed a weak laugh from the floor.
"Go on, Miss Skill."
Trisha glared at both of them, muttering curses under her breath, then took off her jacket and stepped toward the tank.
"If I drown, I'm haunting both of you."
"Good," Theran said with a grin. "I could use the company."
With a scowl, she dove in.
For a while, the water stayed calm.
Then the surface rippled violently — as if the tank itself were wrestling with her.
Even Theran leaned forward, intrigued.
"Huh. She's actually forcing her way through it."
Eghosa frowned. "Is that bad?"
"It's bold," he replied. "But boldness and survival don't always agree."
Then — silence.
For a second, no movement. No ripple.
Then the surface exploded.
Trisha burst upward, gasping for breath, eyes wide, laughter mixing with defiance.
> "How long?" she panted.
> "one minute" Theran said, smirking. "Barely."
> "Then that's enough."
He laughed softly.
> "You two are stubborn. I like that."
He stood up, his tone turning serious again.
"Remember what you felt down there — the pressure, the panic, the silence.
That's combat. It doesn't wait for permission.
You either adapt… or drown."
Eghosa nodded slowly.
For the first time, she understood what he was trying to teach — not just survival, but control through surrender, strength through calm.
She looked at Theran, his red eyes glinting like embers.
"Tomorrow," she said, "I'll go deeper."
Theran smiled faintly, like someone recognizing the first step of a long path.
"Then tomorrow, we begin real training."
---
The night found Eghosa lying awake again, her body sore but her spirit alive.
Her muscles burned with every breath — but she smiled through it.
For the first time, she could feel herself growing.
"Adapt," she whispered into the darkness. "Don't fight."
Outside, the storm clouds gathered over the old dome.
The rain came softly — not as an end, but as a baptism.
And in her heart, a new fire began to form — quiet, steady, unyielding.