Nev stood alone in the underground training room as the lantern flame flickered low. The stone walls held the cold of the earth, and the air smelled faintly of iron and dust. His muscles were already sore, but he did not stop. Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed a single memory to rise clearly to the surface.
Hazel.
That was the name.
He had learned it only after the assessment, when other trainees whispered it with a mix of respect and quiet envy. Hazel was not loud. He did not boast. He did not look for attention. Yet when he fought, everyone watched.
Hazel was Tier 1.
Not newly awakened. Not barely qualified. He had been Tier 1 for years and trained like someone who understood exactly what stood above him and what waited below.
Nev remembered the first time he had truly watched Hazel fight.
It had been during a controlled assessment match, not meant to injure but to measure. Hazel's opponent had been larger, heavier, and visibly confident. Most expected Hazel to retreat or defend.
He did neither.
Hazel's stance had been calm, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. His blade was held low, almost lazy, but Nev had noticed the tension in his wrists. Hazel was relaxed, but not loose.
When the signal sounded, Hazel did not rush.
He waited.
His opponent attacked first, swinging wide with raw force. Hazel shifted his weight half a step to the side, not backward. The strike missed by less than an inch. Hazel's sword moved immediately, not to counterattack, but to threaten. A shallow cut aimed at the wrist. The opponent withdrew instinctively.
Control.
Hazel controlled the distance from the first exchange.
Nev opened his eyes and adjusted his own stance, mirroring what he remembered. Feet aligned, knees bent, center lowered just enough to allow movement in any direction. He raised his sword and held it low, copying Hazel's relaxed guard.
It felt wrong at first.
Nev tightened his grip, then loosened it again. Hazel's grip had not been firm or slack. It had been balanced. Ready.
Nev practiced drawing his blade upward from that low position. The first few attempts were clumsy. His shoulder moved too early. His wrist lagged behind.
He stopped and tried again.
This time, he focused on the sequence. Wrist first. Elbow second. Shoulder last. The blade rose smoothly, cutting upward with minimal resistance.
Better.
Nev exhaled slowly.
Hazel did not waste movement.
That was the key.
Nev remembered how Hazel never chased an opening. He created pressure and waited for the mistake. His movements were small, precise, and disciplined. He did not overextend. He did not commit unless the outcome was certain.
Nev began to practice footwork.
Short steps. Controlled pivots. No jumping. No unnecessary speed.
He moved forward one step, then angled his body slightly to the side. He practiced shifting his weight without lifting his feet too high. Every movement was meant to keep him balanced and ready.
Sweat formed on his brow.
He remembered Hazel's eyes during the fight.
Calm.
Focused.
Not cruel.
Hazel did not fight to dominate. He fought to end the exchange cleanly.
Nev practiced again.
He imagined Hazel in front of him. He imagined the way Hazel tested reactions with shallow cuts and feints. Hazel never attacked to finish immediately. He attacked to gather information.
Nev raised his sword and feinted left. Then he paused. He imagined Hazel watching, not reacting. Waiting.
Nev adjusted.
Instead of attacking again, he stepped sideways, changing angle. Then he struck, not hard, but fast, aiming at where Hazel's guard would shift.
Nev stopped.
That would not work.
Hazel would have seen it.
Nev clenched his jaw and wiped sweat from his face. He paced the room, replaying the fight again and again in his mind.
Hazel's strength was not overwhelming. Hazel's speed was not monstrous. His danger came from understanding rhythm.
Nev began to understand something important.
Tier 2 Holders were not just stronger than Tier 1.
They were better at breaking rhythm.
Hazel had been training for that.
Nev practiced slowing his own rhythm deliberately. Then he practiced speeding it up suddenly. He practiced stopping mid-motion and changing direction. His muscles protested, but he forced them to adapt.
He remembered how Hazel had ended the match.
The opponent had grown frustrated. He rushed in with a heavy swing. Hazel stepped inside the arc of the blade, close enough that the attack lost power. He twisted his wrist and struck once.
Clean.
Decisive.
The match had ended immediately.
Nev tried to replicate the motion.
Step inside.Twist the wrist.Short strike.
The first attempt failed. His timing was off. He would have been hit.
The second attempt was better.
The third was almost right.
He practiced it again and again until his arms trembled.
Nev stopped and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
Hazel had trained for years.
Nev had trained for hours.
And yet, he could feel the difference shrinking.
That realization scared him more than it comforted him.
Nev picked up the sword again.
He did not want to copy Hazel completely.
Hazel's style was built for fair fights. For structured assessments. For duels where both sides followed rules.
Nev did not live in that world.
He lived in a world where cult blades came from darkness and Tier 2 Holders did not announce themselves.
So he changed the style.
He lowered his stance further than Hazel ever had. He practiced fighting closer to the ground. He trained his legs to move faster than his upper body. He practiced retreating diagonally instead of straight back.
He practiced protecting his vital points instinctively.
Neck.Throat.Heart.
He practiced striking without full commitment, keeping his blade ready to withdraw instantly.
This was not Hazel's style anymore.
This was Nev's.
Hours passed.
The lantern burned low.
Nev's movements slowed, but they grew cleaner. His body learned the altered rhythm. His instincts sharpened. The shard in his chest pulsed softly, responding to intent rather than force.
He remembered one final detail about Hazel.
Hazel never looked surprised.
Nev smiled faintly.
He would.
Not because he underestimated opponents.
But because he intended to survive them.
When dawn light finally crept into the training room, Nev lowered his sword and stood still. His entire body ached. His hands shook from exhaustion. His breathing was heavy but controlled.
He had trained through the night.
He had taken a Tier 1 warrior's foundation and reshaped it into something colder, sharper, and more dangerous.
Nev knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Hazel was strong.
But Hazel had never trained to be hunted.
Nev had.
And if a Tier 2 stood before him now, he would not win easily.
But he would not die like he had before.
Not anymore.