The sound of flowing water filled the cavern—loud, relentless, crashing against stone as if it had been fighting the walls for centuries and had no intention of stopping now.
I stood near the edge, staring into the rushing current, lost so deep in thought that I didn't notice my name being called.
"Asher!"
The shout echoed sharply through the cavern.
I flinched, shoulders jerking as my heart spiked. "—Sorry," I said quickly, turning toward them. "I was… distracted."
Whatever thought I'd been trapped in slipped away the moment I met their eyes.
Sare stood with her arms crossed, gaze moving between Trace and me like she was making sure neither of us drifted off again. "We're discussing what we're doing tomorrow morning," she said evenly.
Trace shifted, still favoring her side but standing on her own now. "After I finish recovering today, we leave early. Earlier than last time," she added. "We'll move faster since we already know the terrain."
Sare nodded. "Once we pass the ground we've already covered, we slow down. That's when we start searching for a place we can rest for more than a night."
I exhaled. "Alright. That works."
I hesitated, then added, "Our real goal is still finding a gate. A town. Somewhere we can actually get back."
Neither of them argued.
"On the way," I continued, my voice tightening, "we'll need to kill monsters. We're out of food. If we don't hunt…"
My nails scraped unconsciously against the stone beside me.
"…starvation will finish us before anything else does."
Trace's eyes locked onto mine—sharp, focused, unreadable. "If it comes down to it, we just need to pin the incoming creatures together. Control the fight. Make it easier to survive."
I nodded. "I know. Together, all at once, we stand a better chance."
I paused.
"But today… I want you to train me more."
Trace took a step back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"
I swallowed, choosing my words carefully. "My technique was off in my last fight. I felt it. I don't want that happening again—not when it actually matters."
The words felt heavier once spoken.
"I want to be fully prepared when the time comes," I said. "I want to get stronger."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The water kept roaring behind us—endless, uncaring.
Waiting.
"Alright," Trace said. "I'll train you."
She straightened, chest upright, shoulders set—every inch of her posture deliberate. Beside her, Sare rose to her feet as well, calm but ready.
"I'll spar with you," Sare added, stepping forward.
Before we began, Trace moved closer. Too close. Her presence pressed in on me, eyes widening slightly as they locked onto mine.
"Before we start," she said quietly, "I need to know something."
She leaned in just enough that I couldn't ignore her.
"What do you think a fight means?"
My shoulders lowered as I exhaled, a scoff slipping out before I could stop it. "It's about survival," I said. "About winning."
"No."
The word was flat. Immediate. Absolute.
"A fight means death," Trace said.
The cavern seemed to still around us.
"When you fight, someone will die," she continued. "Whether it's you. A Hollow creature. Or another person."
The words hung in the air—heavy, sharp, inescapable.
"There's no place on a battlefield for fear," she said. "Only awareness. And killing."
She stepped back. "Let's begin."
Sare moved first, settling into a balanced stance, legs grounded, center steady.
"This will be hand-to-hand," Trace said, gesturing toward her. "Sare doesn't have a weapon."
I studied Sare's posture, the way her weight was distributed, the angle of her shoulders. Then I mirrored her, adjusting my footing until it felt right.
I lunged.
She rolled aside, smooth and controlled, then snapped back with a quick jab. I brought my left arm up, deflecting the strike and shoving her arm wide.
For a moment, we traded blows.
My strikes landed—but barely mattered. Her body absorbed them like stone.
Every hit she threw, though, felt like being run through by a charging beast. Each impact rattled through my bones, driving the breath from my lungs.
Then—
"Stop!"
Trace's voice cut through the clash.
I froze, chest heaving, muscles burning. Only then did I realize how I'd been moving—how my body had chosen without asking.
Cedrick's style.
Clean. Efficient. Reactive.
Almost perfectly suited to counter Sare.
The realization barely had time to settle before Trace sighed.
"Asher," she said, "your strikes are fearful."
The words hit harder than any blow I'd taken.
Fearful.
She stepped closer again, gaze unrelenting. "Your fighting style only responds to fear."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"When you attack," she continued, "you fear killing."
"When you block, you fear being killed."
"When you protect someone, you fear failing them."
Each sentence cut deeper than the last.
"When I strike," Trace said, her voice steady, "I kill."
"When I block, I counter."
"When I protect someone—"
her eyes flicked briefly toward Sare, then back to me
"—I save them."
Silence followed.
The water kept roaring behind us.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure which scared me more—the monsters ahead…
or what I would have to become to survive them.
Trace studied me for a long moment before speaking.
"Take your sword," she said. "One thousand swings."
I stared at her, mouth falling open. "A thousand—?"
"Will give you subconscious reaction," she cut in. "And stamina."
No room for argument.
I drew Midnight.
The blade drank in the dim light, its surface blacker than the shadow pooling beneath my feet.
"Down-left," Trace said sharply.
I swung.
"Again."
I repeated the motion.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The command echoed in the cavern, stern and unyielding, until the rhythm stopped feeling external. The motion began engraving itself into my muscles, into my bones—but not cleanly. Something resisted. Something inside me wanted to adjust, to adapt, to make the movement its own.
Even so, I forced the repetition.
Sweat poured down my face, soaked into my clothes. My grip burned first—fingers screaming as they clenched Midnight's hilt. Then my forearms. Then my shoulders. Then deeper still, into the fibers that refused to let go.
Each swing felt like fire.
Not heat—hellfire.
Like Tartarus itself had crawled through my veins, igniting everything it touched.
I didn't stop.
Hours later, the sword slipped from my hand.
Not dropped—fell.
My fingers opened, but when I tried to close them again, they wouldn't respond.
I stood there shaking, chest heaving, staring at my useless hand like it belonged to someone else.
Sare approached after cleaning herself up, her voice quieter than before. "Your body is weak right now," she said. "And you're in pain."
"I know," I replied, shrugging as best I could.
"There's no point in acting like that," she said softly. "I can see it with my own eyes."
I exhaled, long and tired. "Alright."
She tilted her head, studying me. "Did you learn anything?"
I looked down at my trembling hand. At Midnight resting against the stone.
"I think so," I said after a moment.
"Or at least… I think my body did."
I stayed there longer than I should have.
Not training. Not resting.
Just breathing.
That was when I noticed it.
My shadow wasn't still.
At first it was subtle—barely more than a tremor along its edges. Then it began to move, stretching and recoiling in slow, deliberate patterns across the stone.
Mimicking.
Down-left.
The shadow's shape shifted, repeating the motion my body had carved into itself. No command. No thought. Just repetition.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Cold crawled up my spine.
I hadn't summoned it.
I hadn't asked.
Yet it moved with the same rhythm I'd bled into my muscles, its form tightening with each cycle, sharper than before—cleaner.
Efficient.
"Stop," I whispered.
It didn't.
The shadow completed another swing, then another, its edge cutting the darkness with a precision I hadn't achieved myself.
Only when my hand finally twitched—when pain flared bright enough to ground me—did the shadow still.
It flattened against the stone, silent. Waiting.
Like it had learned something.
Like it was waiting for the next command…
or the next thousand swings.