Yuna couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw them. Five hundred thousand corpses frozen in ash. Her mother's hospital room. The violet sky tearing open above Seoul.
Insufficient.
The word echoed in the dark.
She gave up trying at 4:30 AM. Dressed in the training clothes from yesterday. Cleaned again, somehow, while she slept. Walked through empty corridors toward the only place that made sense.
The training grounds.
Dawn hadn't arrived yet.
The Academy courtyard was dark except for silver-gold light beginning to creep across the eastern horizon. Cobblestones glowed faintly in their geometric patterns, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
Empty.
Except.
Yuna stopped.
Someone was already there.
At the far end of the courtyard, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom, a massive figure stood in front of one of the stone training posts.
Punching it.
Over and over.
The sound carried across the empty space. Fist hitting stone. Bone-deep thuds, rhythmic and mechanical.
Yuna walked closer.
The figure resolved into Marcus. Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders. Hands the size of dinner plates.
Hands covered in blood.
His knuckles were torn. Skin shredded. Blood on the stone post, black in the silver-gold light. But he didn't stop.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His face.
Yuna's breath caught.
Not anger. Not determination.
Anguish.
Jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped. Eyes haunted, staring at the post like it was something he needed to destroy. Or be destroyed by.
His lips moved between punches. Muttering words Yuna couldn't hear.
The post cracked.
A hairline fracture appeared in the stone, running vertically from where his fists kept landing.
Marcus didn't notice.
Kept punching.
That's not training. That's punishment.
Yuna knew that look. That desperate need to DO something, anything, to make the grief stop hurting. She'd felt it in the hospital after her mother died. The urge to run until her lungs screamed, to throw things, to break something external because everything internal was already broken.
Marcus was breaking himself.
She walked forward.
"You'll break your hands before the post breaks."
Marcus startled.
Spun toward her, hands up instinctively, defensive, almost violent. Then forced them down when he saw it was just Yuna.
"Leave me alone," he said.
His voice was rough. Exhausted. How long had he been out here?
Yuna didn't leave.
She walked to the bench ten feet away from the post and sat down. Didn't speak. Just sat.
Marcus stared at her. "I said..."
"I heard you."
She looked at the training post. At his bloodied knuckles. At the crack in the stone.
"But I'm not leaving."
Marcus's jaw worked. He turned back to the post like he might start punching again, prove he didn't care if she stayed or left.
But he didn't.
His hands trembled.
Fine tremor, barely visible in the dim light, but Yuna saw it. Saw him notice her noticing. Saw him clench his fists trying to stop the shaking.
It didn't stop.
He made a sound. Frustration, pain, something breaking. And sat down.
Not on the bench. On the ground, back against the post he'd been destroying. Head in his hands.
Long silence.
Sixty seconds. Ninety. Two minutes.
Yuna waited.
Don't push. He'll talk when he's ready.
She'd learned that in hospice. Sitting with her mother in those final weeks. Sometimes silence was the only kindness you could offer.
But something else was happening too.
Her chest ached.
Not physical pain. Not her lungs or ribs. Deeper. Warmth spreading beneath her sternum, pulsing in rhythm with something that wasn't her heartbeat.
Grief. Guilt. So much guilt.
But not hers.
His.
Yuna's breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her chest.
The CHORD Attunement. This was what Thess had meant. Emotional connection to the Weave. Feeling what others felt.
Marcus's grief was crushing.
"I lost my mother three days ago," Yuna said quietly.
Marcus didn't move. Didn't look up.
"Before the portal. Cancer. Stage four. She died in hospice while I was reading her rejection letters out loud, trying to make her laugh."
The ache in her chest shifted. Her grief now, mixing with his.
"She told me I was enough. Right before she died. Her last words." Yuna's voice cracked slightly. "I didn't believe her."
Marcus looked up. His face was a mess. Not crying, but close to it. Grief calcified over six years, breaking apart.
"Why not?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Fifteen rejections. 2.1 Resonance. Insufficient everywhere I applied." Yuna managed a bitter smile. "But she believed anyway. Even when I couldn't."
Marcus stared at her. Then looked down at his hands. Those massive, trembling, bloodied hands.
"I killed my brother."
The words dropped like stones.
Yuna didn't recoil. Didn't gasp or flinch or pull away.
She waited.
Marcus took a shaking breath.
"Six years ago. I was twenty-two. He was sixteen."
The ache in Yuna's chest intensified. Felt like her ribs were being crushed.
That's not my pain. That's his.
"Tell me what happened," she said.
Marcus looked at her for a long moment. Like he was deciding whether to trust her with this. Whether saying it out loud would make it more real or less.
Finally:
"Oslo. Gymnasium. He wanted to spar."
Marcus's voice was flat. Rehearsed. Like he'd told this story to police, therapists, himself in mirrors at 3 AM.
"Dylan. My younger brother. Blond hair, always laughing. Sixteen years old and convinced he was invincible."
A ghost of a smile crossed Marcus's face, then died.
"I was already six-foot-three. Already too strong. I'd had... accidents. Arm-wrestling contest with Dylan when I was fifteen, dislocated his shoulder. Breaking doorknobs. Cracking concrete when I punched walls during arguments."
He looked at his hands.
"BEDROCK Attunement. It awakened early. On Earth. Before anyone knew what Attunements were or how to control them. I just thought I was a freak."
"Dylan wanted to spar that day. Wrestling. 'Just one round,' he said. 'I'll go easy on you.'"
Marcus's voice cracked slightly.
"I said no. I said I didn't want to hurt him. He laughed. Said, 'I'm fast, you're strong, it'll be fun.'"
Yuna's chest ached harder. She could barely breathe through the weight of his guilt.
"I should've walked away. Should've remembered the shoulder. Should've known better."
"But he was smiling. He was alive. He was the only person who didn't look at me like I was dangerous."
Marcus's hands clenched.
"So I said yes."
"We sparred. Started well. Dylan dodging, laughing, making it a game. I pulled every punch. Twenty percent strength, maybe less. Just tapping."
"He kept laughing. 'Is that all you've got? Come on, hit me for real!'"
"I told him no. Kept pulling punches."
"He got frustrated. 'I can take it. Promise. Hit me!'"
Marcus's voice dropped to barely audible.
"So I threw a real punch. Controlled. Careful. Forty percent. Maybe fifty. To me, that was nothing. Barely trying. Just... just a tap."
"Dylan blocked."
"His arm buckled. I heard bone crack. But momentum, the punch kept going. Connected with his neck."
Marcus stopped. Swallowed hard.
"The snap was so loud."
Yuna's eyes burned. The ache in her chest was unbearable now. Grief and guilt so intense she thought she might drown in it.
"He dropped. I caught him. Blood everywhere. From his mouth, his nose, pooling on the gym floor. I was screaming his name. 'Dylan, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...'"
"But his eyes were open. Empty. Gone."
"I killed him with forty percent. Just forty."
Marcus looked at his hands like they were weapons he couldn't put down.
"These hands are killers. That's all they'll ever be."
Silence.
The silver-gold light had brightened. Dawn arriving, indifferent to tragedy.
Yuna's chest ached so badly she could barely sit upright. The CHORD Attunement was showing her everything. Six years of guilt, self-hatred, the weight of a brother's death carried alone.
He's been punishing himself every day for six years.
That's why his hands shake. Not weakness. Fear of himself.
"Your hands aren't just killers," Yuna said.
Her voice was steady despite the pain in her chest.
Marcus laughed. Bitter, broken. "How do you figure that?"
"Because you're here."
He looked at her.
"You're here," Yuna repeated. "Training. At dawn. Bloodying your hands trying to learn control you think you should've had six years ago."
"I should've..."
"Maybe. But you're learning now. That's what matters."
"It's too late." Marcus's voice cracked. "Dylan's dead. Nothing changes that."
"No." Yuna met his eyes. "Nothing changes that. But you can choose what his death means."
Marcus stared at her.
"Does it mean you're a monster who should never touch anyone? Or does it mean you're someone who understands the weight of strength and will spend his life making sure no one else dies because he wasn't careful enough?"
The ache in Yuna's chest shifted.
Not lighter. Still crushing. But... different.
Marcus's grief was changing. Still there, but the shape of it. Not just punishment anymore. Something else forming underneath.
Purpose.
"The Ancient System," Marcus said quietly. "More power. What if I lose control again? What if I hurt someone here?"
"Then we stop you."
"You can't..."
"Not alone. But there's seven of us." Yuna leaned forward. "Aria's tactical. Sees patterns. Asha sees futures. Chen Wei fights. We'll figure it out together."
"You sound sure."
"I'm not." Yuna smiled slightly. "But I'm here anyway. Insufficient, remember?"
Marcus almost smiled.
Almost.
"Insufficient," he repeated.
His hands steadied.
Not completely. The tremor was still there. But lighter. Manageable.
He took a deep breath.
"You should learn to defend yourself. Wings won't always save you."
"Teach me?" Yuna asked.
Marcus hesitated. Looked at his hands. Killer's hands, protector's hands, teaching hands.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Okay."
They moved to an open section of the training grounds.
The sun was rising properly now. Violet sky lightening to that strange silver-gold. Other summons would arrive soon.
But for now, just them.
Marcus stood across from Yuna. Professional. Controlled.
"Stance first. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent. Like this."
He demonstrated. Solid. Balanced.
Yuna copied. Wobbled slightly.
Marcus stepped closer. Careful, telegraphing every movement. Placed hands on her shoulders. Adjusting her position.
Light touch. Gentle.
Yuna felt the CHORD ability pulse. Not grief now. Something else.
Focus. Care. Purpose.
His hands trembled slightly against her shoulders, but he didn't pull away.
"There," he said. "That's better."
Killer's hands.
Teaching hands.
"Now guard. Protect your face and ribs. Elbows in."
Yuna raised her arms. Too low.
"Higher. If someone swings, block first."
She adjusted.
"Like this?"
"Better. Again."
They drilled for twenty minutes. Basic stance. Guard. Footwork. Nothing fancy. Just fundamentals.
Marcus was patient. Surprisingly gentle for someone who could crack stone with his fists.
Every correction was careful. Every demonstration slow and controlled.
Yuna watched him teach and understood: this was healing.
Not forgiveness. Not absolution.
But purpose instead of punishment.
Redemption through teaching hands instead of killing ones.
"Try the wings," Marcus said after they'd run through blocks for the tenth time.
Yuna blinked. "What?"
"Your silver wings. Thess said they're CHORD Attunement. Emotion-based." He stepped back, giving her space. "You've been trying to learn fighting technique. Logical. Controlled. But what if your power doesn't work that way?"
Yuna thought about it.
The wings had appeared twice. Portal crossing, terror. Reach landing, desperation.
Both times, emotion overwhelming logic.
"What were you feeling when they manifested?" Marcus asked.
"Grief. Fear." Yuna paused. "Desperation."
"Emotion, then. Not logic." Marcus nodded slowly, understanding. "Try thinking of something that matters."
Yuna closed her eyes.
Thought of her mother. Hospital bed. Oxygen mask. Hand growing cold in Yuna's grip.
You are enough.
Grief surged.
Her chest warmed. Different from the CHORD ache. This was hers. Her power.
Light flickered behind her shoulders.
Silver light. Brief. Faint.
Wings manifested for two seconds, barely visible, then vanished.
Yuna gasped. Opened her eyes.
"I felt them."
"Good." Marcus almost smiled. "That's more than yesterday."
"Barely."
"Progress is progress."
Footsteps approached.
Other summons arriving. Aria rolling across the courtyard in her wheelchair. Chen Wei with her military posture. Lyric in vibrant colors. David clutching his book. Asha flickering at the edges.
The training grounds filled.
Thess appeared without walking. One moment absent, next moment present, standing in the center of the courtyard.
"Morning session," she announced. Her voice carried without shouting. "Yesterday was introductions. Today is reality."
The seven gathered.
"Pair assessments. You'll fight together. See how your Attunements complement each other."
She pointed.
"Marcus and Yuna. BEDROCK and CHORD."
"Aria and Chen Wei. RIFT and BEDROCK."
"Lyric and David. RADIANCE and RIFT."
"Asha observes. ECHO watches timelines."
Marcus looked at Yuna. "Partners?"
The word carried weight. Not just training. Something more.
Trust beginning.
Yuna felt the CHORD ability pulse between them. Emotional connection forming. Not romance. Not obligation.
Found family.
"Partners," she agreed.
The ache in her chest, Marcus's grief mixed with her own, was still there.
But lighter when shared.
This is what CHORD does. Connects. Makes burdens bearable.
First time Yuna understood her Attunement's purpose.
Not just feeling others' pain.
Carrying it together.
Thess raised her hand. Light blazed from her palm. Gold and silver and something beyond both.
"First blood exercise. You'll face an Unraveling construct. Controlled. Safe."
She paused.
"Mostly."
First blood.
The phrase hung in the air.
Marcus's hands didn't tremble. He looked at Yuna, nodded once.
Yuna nodded back.
We can do this. Together.
"Let's begin," Thess said.
And somewhere in the distance, beyond the Academy walls, out in the Ashfall Reach where five hundred thousand corpses lay frozen, something howled.
The sound carried on the wind.
Hungry.
Waiting.
[END CHAPTER 6]