The training hall was flooded with cold morning light. Mirrors along the perimeter multiplied the figures of the combatants, creating the illusion of an entire army.
CRACK.
The wooden sword met Marcus's thrust once again.
Lane was fifteen.
His body knew no doubt. Only pure, crystalline movement.
Overhead strike, a sharp pivot, a parry. His sword didn't just defend; it appeared at the precise point of impact a millisecond before the attack, as if reading the master's mind.
"Faster!" Marcus barked, launching into a series of ferocious strikes. — Where is your rage? Where is the desire to drive this piece of wood into my ribs?
Marcus—an old hawk with a grey beard—attacked with the suddenness of a viper. He moved with brutal economy, his blows heavy and precise. He adapted instantly; as soon as the boy sped up, the master raised the bar.
But the longer the sparring lasted, the darker Marcus's expression became.
"Defend yourself!" the master roared, delivering a crushing sequence.
But Lane wasn't thinking. His body found the answers on its own. Muscle memory, forged through thousands of repetitions, operated without the involvement of his mind.
"Enough," Marcus suddenly lowered his sword and stepped back.
Lane froze in his starting stance. His breathing was hauntingly steady; only a few beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He was ready to continue at this pace for hours, simply because that was the training protocol.
Marcus stared at him for a long time, his gaze a strange cocktail of admiration and horror.
"Your technique is flawless. Not a single mistake. Not one wasted motion. But... you aren't here. Your eyes... the old man paused, searching for words."
"They are empty. You are an instrument, Lane. Not a warrior."
Marcus stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"A sword is an extension of the soul. When you strike, you must pour intention into it. A will to win. A thirst for life. But there is no soul in your movements. You strike not because you want to hit, but because you were taught to."
Lane looked at his teacher, yet he didn't understand. "Intention"? "Soul"?
"I have taught you for five years," Marcus said softly.
"And every year you become more technically perfect. But every year, your eyes grow more dead. I see your strikes, but I don't feel you. Why do you do this? What do you want?"
"Because it is correct," Lane replied. His voice was as flat as his gaze.
Marcus froze for a moment. He slowly lowered his training sword, searching the boy's face for even a spark of doubt or irony.
"Correct?" Marcus repeated quietly.
"And what does that word mean to you? Who defined these boundaries of "correctness"?"
Lane opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught in his throat.
Nothing.
The words wouldn't come. Inside him, in the place where ordinary people harbor doubts or convictions, there was only silence.
"Exactly," Marcus smiled bitterly and turned toward the window, drowned in that cold light. His shoulders slumped.
The master vanished into the frozen radiance of the hall, leaving Kira standing in the silence, clutching the piece of wood.
Emptiness. Yes. That is the correct word.
Kira opened his eyes.
The ceiling of the cell hadn't changed: the same water stains, the same grey mold resembling frozen clouds. He didn't bolt upright in terror as he had during the first nights. He simply lay on the rotting straw, feeling the ghostly glow of the training hall fade away, yielding to reality.
"Those dreams again..." he thought, staring into the void above him.
He touched his face, expecting to feel the soft skin from his dream, but his fingers met only hard callouses and caked grime.
The name "Lane" had sounded so natural in those visions that for a second, he almost believed in it. But here, in this damp pit, it felt like a borrowed garment, forced upon him.
"Lane... who are you, really?"
A strange sensation stirred in his chest. Looking at that perfect boy from his memories, Kira felt a fleeting pang of compassion.
"I almost feel sorry for you..."
He had been in this cell for fourteen days. The Man in Grey hadn't reappeared. He hadn't been led to new fights or pushed into the arena. They had simply left him here.
He raised his hands. Fourteen days ago, his left arm had been a mess. Now, it was perfect. No trace of Halden turning his shoulder into pulp.
"It's as if I've stepped into a new skin..."
"Hey, Zero! Get up, carrion!"
The baggy-eyed guard was standing at the bars. The same one who, a month ago, had lazily picked his teeth with a splinter while shoving Kira toward his first fight.
But today, everything was different. The man stood stiffly, his hand clamped onto the hilt of his heavy club, his fingers visibly trembling.
"Come out," the guard grunted, backing away two steps the moment the door creaked open.
They stepped into the dark corridor. The guard's boots thundered against the stone, while Kira walked beside him like a silent shadow.
"Where are we going?"
The guard flinched. He glanced around quickly as if checking for eavesdroppers.
"To the "Red Sector." To the Master. Or rather... not exactly to him, but to the training block."
He shoved Kira in the back but jerked his hand away immediately, as if scorched by cold steel.
"You... listen, the guard spoke lower as they entered a long hallway lit by flickering torches. — How did you do it, kid? Halden... he was a mountain. And you just... broke him."
"I don't know," Kira answered honestly. The truth terrified him as much as it did the guard.
"You don't know?" the guard gave a nervous chuckle.
"All you freaks say that. You smell like a cellar, kid. Like something dead."
They reached a massive iron door. The guard fumbled with the heavy bolt, careful not to brush against the boy.
"Listen..." Kira said quietly.
"Do you know who I was before this? Before they brought me to the pits?"
The man slowly turned his head. In the dim light, his eyes flickered with fear. He scanned the area for other sentries and leaned close to Kira's ear, his voice a rasping whisper:
"Kid, no one here knows who you really were. People like you are brought here every week in sealed crates. But your case... it's special. The guys who unloaded the cargo told me you were simply bought. You didn't even remember your own name when they pulled you out of that box."
Kira froze. The puzzle in his head began to assemble, but the pieces wouldn't fit. The dreams of Marcus, the training, the "correct" behavior—how could all of that belong to someone who was merely bought like a common object?
"I wonder..." Kira looked up at the guard.
"Is the Association involved in this?"
The guard stared at him in utter bewilderment. For a second, he just gaped at Kira, then let out a nervous, almost hysterical snort.
"The Association?" He shook his head. Kid, do you even know what that is? If the Association found out about this place, about what happens here... they'd wipe us all out in a heartbeat. Don't talk nonsense.
He struggled with the final lock. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the torch-lit path into the training block.
"Go on. He's waiting for you. And forget that word if you want to see tomorrow's sunrise."