Stan passed her the shortened blade. In her hands it looked like a strange knife, heavier than it appeared.
"It grows or shrinks as you want," he said. "When you can feel Qi and move it, you'll use it properly. Try and learn to use it as soon as possible."
She took it with both hands. "Thank you." The words were automatic. The rest of her was still catching up.
He was not finished.
The martial knowledge he carried, years compressed into instinct, body mechanics, the ugly practical poetry of how a human frame ends a fight, he sent outward. Into Sacha. Into the others. Every girl who was his except Camilla, whose path did not need his overlay.
Sacha's second jolt was worse.
