The hall was quiet but tense, the only sounds were the soft scuff of feet and the occasional clash of steel. Hana faced the Herald, every muscle taut, eyes cold and precise. The Herald lunged first, swinging a blade in a wide arc meant to intimidate, but Hana moved with fluid grace, slipping past the strike and delivering a swift counter that sent the Herald stumbling back.
Hana didn't hesitate. She pressed forward, weaving, dodging, striking. Each move was deliberate, calculated—feints, angles, pressure points exploited with near-perfect timing.
The Herald tried to adapt, but Hana's control was flawless. Finally, a sharp thrust to the side knocked the Herald off balance, and she fell, landing hard on the padded floor.
Hana stepped back, signaling for the Herald to rise. "Again," she said, calm, voice devoid of any hint of triumph.
From the observation deck, the Savior's voice cut through the quiet.
"Mercy is weakness."
Hana glanced at him, eyes steady. "These are allies," she replied.
"You train for enemies," he said, stepping down and pointing at two more Heralds. "Both of you. Join her—and kill. Even against those with no emotion, show no hesitation."
The two Heralds approached, their faces unreadable behind masks. Hana's body shifted instantly, every movement measured but instinctively lethal. The spar began in earnest.
The first Herald attacked aggressively, blades flashing. Hana parried, twisting, rolling with a momentum that let her evade and strike in one fluid motion. The second Herald came from the side, attempting to pin her in a corner. Hana pivoted, using her adversary's force against them, sending the first Herald sprawling with a precise elbow strike before delivering a controlled kick to the second Herald's chest.
Metal clashed, leather met leather, and the hall echoed with the rapid rhythm of combat. Hana moved like water, flowing around them, striking where they left gaps, blocking when they feinted, dodging and countering. Though pressured, she remained perfectly composed, each attack carefully measured to avoid fatal harm but maximize control.
Blades met at the final moment. Hana disarmed both Heralds in a single motion, twisting the knives from their hands, leaving her opponents with shallow cuts along their arms and shoulders from her strikes. A final sweep of her leg sent both Heralds sprawling, unconscious but breathing, bruised and bleeding slightly.
She stood above them, chest rising, eyes sharp. "They are knocked out," she said softly, almost emotionally, looking at the fallen Heralds.
The Savior watched, nodding slightly. "But still alive."
Hana's lips curved into a faint smile. "They are allies," she said, her voice calm but with a spark of something almost like pride. She turned, shoulders back, and walked from the hall, leaving the bruised but conscious Heralds behind.
___
The training hall was vast, steel beams supporting a reinforced roof, the polished floor reflecting the flickering lights above.
Aziel and Malak circled each other, swords in hand, striking and parrying with precision. Every motion was calculated, but fluid, a product of instinct honed over years.
Watching closely were Seraphina, Elara, Rafael, and Zahara, leaning against the railing, analyzing each movement, quiet murmurs breaking the tense rhythm of the sparring.
"Have you heard what they say about these Saints?" Seraphina whispered, her eyes fixed on the dueling figures.
"Thousands of girls kidnapped… experimented on… trained from childhood. Absolute efficiency."
Elara shook her head, lips tight. "I spoke with a scientist once. He said they even tried to breed them. Most didn't survive the process. It's… appalling. And impressive."
Rafael exhaled, voice calm but thoughtful. "Even with all that, they have feelings, right? Curiosity, surprise… maybe regret. That could be their weakness."
Zahara's gaze followed Malak's swift strike. "Or strength. Awareness means caution. They're not mindless. Their reflexes… their precision… we still don't know the full extent of their powers. And Hana… that one is unknown."
Aziel forced Malak to step back with a precise thrust, pausing for a moment, catching his breath. "Their abilities are extraordinary," he said. "One can see farther, another can manipulate the body in ways that defy ordinary limits… but Hana's power? That's the one that matters. Leader or not, she's unpredictable."
Malak smirked, delivering a controlled kick, testing Aziel's response. Aziel blocked smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Emotion won't win fights," he said. "But it shows where they hesitate… where we can test them."
Seraphina crossed her arms, eyes sharp. "We can pity them if we want. Feel bad about what they've endured. But in combat, focus is everything. Head straight, hearts irrelevant. That's how we survive."
Elara added softly, almost under her breath, "Knowing their history… it makes you respect them. Terrifying, but respect nonetheless."
The sparring continued, blades clashing, strikes testing reflexes and limits. Outside, the hum of the underground base was a steady reminder that the real test was still waiting — the Saints were out there, unknown, unpredictable, and now, firmly in the Seraphs' minds.
___
The room was quiet, insulated from the hum of the base. Soft light reflected off a polished table where two men sat across from each other.
A holographic screen between them replayed fragments of the recent encounter—blurred movements, precise strikes, moments where the Saints clearly held back.
The doctor leaned forward, fingers interlocked, eyes fixed on the footage.
"Philip… I've reviewed the fight multiple times," he said, voice measured but heavy. "It looks balanced at first glance. But it wasn't."
He tapped the table, freezing a frame mid-motion.
"The enemy had the upper hand. Our only advantage was surprise—and even that didn't last. They adapted almost immediately."
Philip said nothing.
The doctor continued.
"I know the capabilities of the Seraphs. I helped design half of what they are. If those girls had intended to kill…" he paused, exhaling slightly, "a surprise attack alone would've been enough to take out one or two of them instantly."
Silence lingered.
"They're experienced," the doctor added.
"Not just soldiers—assassins. Precise. Efficient. Controlled."
He finally looked up.
"Are you sure this approach—non-lethality—is the right one?"
Philip leaned back in his chair, calm, composed, his expression unreadable.
"Andrew…" he began quietly, "believe me, I don't want to send them into encounters where the enemy won't hesitate to kill."
He glanced at the paused image of the Saints.
"But there are things I can't explain. Not yet."
Andrew frowned slightly.
Philip leaned forward now, voice firm.
"For now, I need you to make something strong enough to knock them out."
A brief pause.
"Then something strong enough to hold them."
Andrew stared at him for a moment, then leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"Do you have any idea what you're asking?" he muttered. "I get a headache just thinking about it."
Philip didn't respond.
Andrew let out a short, dry laugh.
"You say 'use all available resources' like it's simple." He shook his head, standing up. "Exactly—that's the problem. It's not available."
He turned and walked toward the door, frustration evident in every step.
The door slid open.
Then closed behind him.
Philip remained seated.
For a moment, he said nothing—just watching the frozen image of the Saints on the screen.
Then, slowly…
He smiled.
Not out of amusement.
But understanding.