The Hunter moved first.
Not with speed.
With authority.
Reality bent to accommodate its step, the way a crowd parts for something that has earned fear. The ground didn't crack—it remembered being lower and sank to match.
"You carry it badly," the Hunter said, circling. "Power without lineage. Law without permission."
Kairo didn't answer.
The Fringe slid along his spine, attentive.
How a Veteran Fights
The Hunter struck without warning.
Its blade didn't cut flesh.
It cut continuity.
The world skipped.
One moment Kairo stood whole—the next, his left arm was elsewhere, detached not by force but by narrative error.
Kairo grunted, staggered.
The pain was real.
The second heart spasmed.
Good, the Hunter said calmly. "You still feel."
Kairo clenched his jaw.
The arm did not bleed.
It hung in the air, unreal, like a thought not yet finished.
The Fringe surged.
Error Correction
Kairo grabbed his own severed arm.
Pulled.
Hard.
Space resisted—then snapped.
The arm slammed back into place, reality screaming as the discontinuity closed.
Kairo breathed once.
Twice.
His arm worked.
The Hunter laughed—a dry, ancient sound.
"Most die before they learn they can argue with wounds."
Pressure, Not Power
The Hunter advanced again.
Each blow carried experience, not strength. Feints layered with inevitability. Every strike forced Kairo to choose between protecting himself and protecting the world around him.
That's the test, the Fringe murmured.
They want to see what you sacrifice first.
Kairo blocked a strike that would have bisected the street.
The impact shattered windows for blocks.
He twisted, redirected another blow skyward—where it tore a hole through cloud and symbol alike.
The Hunter nodded approvingly.
"You choose collateral last," it observed. "Good instinct. Expensive, but good."
Names as Weapons
"Kairo Vale," the Hunter said again.
The name hooked this time.
Memories surged harder—faces, voices, a life that had ended without ceremony.
Kairo screamed—not in fear, but refusal.
The Fringe flared, wrapping the name in shadow, smothering its power.
"Don't," Kairo growled.
The Hunter paused.
Interest sharpened.
"Ah," it said. "You're learning to defend your anchor."
The Truth of the Hunt
They clashed again—closer now.
The Hunter leaned in, voice low.
"You think this is about stopping you," it said.
"It's not."
Kairo shoved it back, feet carving trenches in stone.
"Then what?"
The Hunter straightened.
"This is training," it said.
"For the day you decide to turn that law outward."
The words landed heavier than any blow.
Kairo froze for half a heartbeat.
The Hunter didn't attack.
"Every variable like you," it continued, "either burns out… or becomes an answer."
The Fringe pulsed.
Kairo felt it—not hunger.
Purpose.
A Crack in the Mask
Kairo stepped forward.
Not to strike.
To stand.
"No," he said quietly.
"I'm not your answer."
The Hunter's smile thinned.
"Then you're a question," it replied.
"And questions get asked."
It raised its blade.
The sky dimmed.
Somewhere far away, Eli ran—and lived.
Here, Kairo planted his feet.
The Fringe unfolded fully for the first time.
Not as shadow.
As law unspoken.
The ground went still.
Even the Hunter hesitated.
Because for the first time since the Hunt began—
Kairo wasn't reacting.
He was deciding.