It was currently nighttime and I was with Tukson. We are near the edge of the forest where Grimm aren't that much populated.
I stared up at the shattered moon then towards her back. Her weapon was a branch which she kept calling a staff even though it fell from a three. I instead held a spare wooden Knife i took from the bakery.
"How should we train." Tukson asked, turning to face me. Her amber eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and her bat ears were perked forward with barely contained excitement. She held her 'staff' in both hands, already falling into a ready stance.
I considered the question, weighing it against the fragmented combat knowledge that existed somewhere in my muscle memory. Training wasn't just about swinging weapons at each other until someone got tired.
"Fundamentals first," I said, moving to stand a few paces away from her. "Your stance is good, but your weight distribution is off. You're leaning too far forward—it gives you speed, but you'll be easier to knock off balance."
Tukson's ears flattened slightly. "I thought you said I had good instincts."
"You do. But instincts aren't the same as technique." I shifted my own stance, demonstrating. "Your instinct is to be aggressive, to press the attack. That works against weaker opponents or when you have the element of surprise. But against someone stronger, or in a prolonged fight, those small inefficiencies will exhaust you."
She adjusted her stance, shifting her weight back slightly. "Like this?"
"Better. Now, before we spar, we should establish what we're actually training for." I held up my wooden knife, examining it in the moonlight. "Signal Academy will expect us to fight Grimm. That means understanding how to work with aura, how to read an opponent's movements, how to adapt when things go wrong."
"So we just... hit each other until we figure it out?" There was a note of challenge in her voice, that competitive fire I'd noticed earlier.
"No. We start with forms. Movement patterns. I'll attack slowly, and you defend. Then we switch. Once we understand how the other moves, we can spar properly."
Tukson's expression fell slightly. "That sounds boring."
"It's necessary. Unless you want me to exploit every opening you have and leave you frustrated and bruised."
Her ears perked back up, and a smirk crossed her face. "You're assuming you can."
I felt that familiar twitch at the corner of my mouth. "I've been watching you fight for eight months, remember? I know exactly where your openings are."
"Creepy phrasing aside," she said, spinning her branch-staff in a show of confidence, "prove it."
I moved before she'd finished speaking.
Not fast enough to rely on speed alone—that would defeat the purpose of training—but with the precision of someone who'd observed every pattern, every habit, every unconscious tell. I closed the distance in three steps, the wooden knife held in a reverse grip, and struck toward her left side.
Tukson reacted on instinct, bringing her staff across to block. But I'd already adjusted, my blade sliding along the length of her weapon as I stepped to her right. My free hand reached out, tapping her exposed shoulder.
"Opening one," I said quietly, already stepping back. "You commit too fully to your blocks. It leaves your opposite side vulnerable."
Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Again."
This time she was more cautious, her staff held in a middle guard, weight balanced. I approached from a different angle, feinting high before dropping low. She adjusted smoothly, her staff shifting to intercept—but I'd already noted the shift in her feet, the slight overextension of her knee.
I swept my leg out, not hard enough to actually trip her, but enough to demonstrate. My wooden knife came to rest against her back.
"Opening two. When you adjust your guard downward, you lean too far into it. Your mobility is compromised."
Tukson's face was flushed now, whether from embarrassment or frustration, I couldn't tell. Probably both. "Okay, I get it. You're better at this than me."
"I'm more experienced," I corrected, offering her a hand. She'd managed to catch herself before falling. "You're faster than me, more athletic. If you can cover these openings, you'll be formidable."
She took my hand, pulling herself up. Her grip was warm—that newly awakened aura making itself known. "Show me how to fix them."
For the next hour, we worked through the movements methodically. I demonstrated the proper stance, the proper weight distribution, the way to block without overcommitting. Tukson was a quick learner when she focused, her natural athleticism allowing her to adjust her form with surprising speed.
"The key," I explained as we ran through another sequence, "is to think of combat as a conversation. Every attack is a question. Every defense is an answer. You need to be ready to ask and answer at the same time."
"That's... actually kind of poetic," Tukson said, breathing harder now. Sweat gleamed on her forehead despite the cool night air. "Where did you learn to fight like this?"
"Before I met your mom, I fought in the wilderness not knowing anything and my body has muscle memory even though I have no memories of my previous life." I made sure to say life instead of lives.
Tukson's ears twitched, that tell of curiosity. "That's... kind of sad, actually. Having skills but not remembering how you got them." She paused in her stance, lowering her staff slightly. "Does it bother you? Not remembering?"
I considered the question, feeling the weight of seven lifetimes I couldn't fully recall pressing against the edges of my consciousness. "Sometimes. It's like trying to read a book where most of the pages are missing. You know the story exists, but you can only glimpse fragments."
"But you remember enough to fight like this," she gestured at me with her staff. "And you remembered enough to design those weapons. That's something, right?"
"It is," I agreed, settling back into my stance. "Now, less talking. More training. Your turn to attack me."
A competitive gleam returned to her eyes. "Oh, this I'm going to enjoy."
She came at me with more enthusiasm than strategy, her staff sweeping in a wide arc that I sidestepped easily. But there was improvement—her footing was more stable, her recovery faster. When I countered, she managed to redirect my strike rather than blocking it fully, just as I'd taught her.
"Better," I said, and meant it.
We continued like this, trading attacks and defenses, gradually increasing the pace. Tukson's natural speed began to shine through as she grew more comfortable with the refined technique. There were moments where she surprised me—a sudden burst of acceleration, a feint that almost worked, a spinning strike that used her whole body's momentum in a way that was uniquely hers.
"You're adapting already," I noted after she managed to score a touch on my shoulder. "You're starting to blend what I showed you with your own style."
She was grinning now, breathless but energized. "I told you I'd make you regret that 'if you can land a hit' comment."
"One hit isn't regret. It's progress."
"Oh, you're just asking for it now." She lunged forward, her staff whirling in a combination that forced me back several steps. She was getting bolder, more confident, and while her attacks were still readable, there was an unpredictability to how she chained them together.
I let her press the advantage for a moment, observing how she moved when she thought she had the upper hand. Then I shifted my weight, redirected her staff with my knife, and stepped inside her guard. My hand came to rest gently on her sternum.
"Opening three," I said softly. "You get excited when you think you're winning. Your attacks become more aggressive but less controlled."
We were standing very close now, close enough that I could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her amber eyes had widened slightly. Her aura pulsed faintly, a warm violet glow that seemed to respond to her elevated heart rate.
"That's... not fair," she said, but there was no real heat in her voice. "You're like a fighting computer or something."
"I'm not a computer," I said, stepping back to give her space. "I just pay attention. And you make it easy—you wear every emotion on your face. Or your ears."
Her bat ears flattened immediately, and a deeper flush colored her cheeks. "I do not."
"You do. They're very expressive. When you're curious, they perk forward. When you're embarrassed, they flatten back. When you're about to attack, they twitch twice—left, then right."
Tukson's hand unconsciously reached up to touch one of her ears. "That's... okay, that is a little creepy. But also helpful, I guess? If I can learn to control them, it'd be harder to read me."
"Exactly. Self-awareness is part of combat training."
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes studying me in the moonlight. "You know, for someone who claims they don't remember their past, you sure know a lot about fighting. And training. And reading people."
"Muscle memory," I repeated. "And observation."
"Is that really all it is?" Her voice was softer now, more serious. "Sometimes when you move, it's like you've done this a thousand times before. Like you're remembering something really specific, even if you can't put words to it."
She wasn't wrong. In moments like these, when I let instinct take over, I could feel echoes of something deeper. A golden corridor. Dust settling on tiles. The weight of a real knife in my hand, not wooden but cold steel. The knowledge that the next strike would be final.
And...the nauseating scent of dust.
"Hey...uhm your eyes glowing red...are you ok Chara?." There was a hint of fear in her voice, I blinked, my eyes returning to their normal darkness.
I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. The memories—or whatever they were—receded like a tide pulling away from shore. My eyes returned to their normal darkness.
"I'm fine," I said, though my voice came out rougher than intended. I took a breath, centering myself. "Just... remembering something. Or trying to."
Tukson hadn't moved back, despite the fear I'd heard in her voice. Instead, she was watching me with concern, her staff lowered completely. "That looked like more than just remembering. Your whole aura changed—it went from that crimson-shadow thing to just... red. Angry red."
I looked down at my hands. The wooden knife felt heavier than it should, or perhaps it was just the weight of what it represented. "Sometimes the memories aren't pleasant ones."
"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked the question tentatively, like she wasn't sure if she should.
"There's not much to talk about. Just... fragments. A feeling of dust. Of finality." I met her eyes. "Of making choices that couldn't be unmade."
Tukson's ears drooped slightly. "That sounds heavy for someone who can't remember their past."
"The body remembers what the mind forgets," I said quietly. "Or so I'm told."
We stood there in silence for a moment, the sounds of the forest around us—distant insects, the rustle of leaves in the night breeze, the occasional far-off cry of some nocturnal creature. The shattered moon hung overhead, casting broken light across the clearing.
"We should probably head back," Tukson said finally. "Mom will wake up soon to start baking, and if we're not in our beds, she'll know we snuck out."
Like that both of us returned back home, even though i know Mrs Xiong knew we were sneaking around though she would probably ignore it.