The soreness didn't hit all at once.
It settled in gradually, creeping into his arms and shoulders as the morning went on. By the time James picked up the practice sword again, the weight of it felt different from yesterday—not heavier, just… harder to manage.
His grip tightened instinctively.
Then slipped.
He adjusted it, remembering what he'd been told.
Looser.
It still didn't feel right.
"Start."
The instructor's voice carried across the hall without effort.
James stepped into position, setting his feet the way he'd practiced. It took him a second longer than it should have, but he didn't rush it. Yesterday's mistakes lingered in the back of his mind—too stiff, too slow, too forced.
He raised the sword.
Swung.
The motion fell short. Not by much, but enough to feel it. The balance was off, his shoulders slightly out of line.
He didn't immediately try again.
Instead, he held the end position for a moment, exhaling quietly as he adjusted his footing. The instructor's demonstration from earlier replayed in his head—not the speed, but the way the movement had flowed without resistance.
James reset.
Tried again.
This time, the swing felt smoother. Still imperfect, but the stiffness had eased just a little.
"Better," the instructor said from somewhere behind him. "You're not fighting yourself as much."
James let the blade lower slightly. "It still feels off."
"It will," the man replied. "You're trying to control everything. That slows you down."
James frowned faintly. "Shouldn't I be controlling it?"
"You should know what you're doing," the instructor said. "That's different."
James didn't respond immediately.
The distinction wasn't clear—but it wasn't something he could figure out just standing there either.
He raised the sword again.
This time, he focused less on the exact movement and more on how it felt. The shift in his footing, the angle of his wrist, the weight of the blade as it moved.
The swing followed.
Not clean.
But closer.
Time passed without him really noticing.
The rhythm of the hall settled around him—wood striking wood, footsteps adjusting against the floor, the occasional correction cutting through the noise. No one wasted words here. Everyone was focused on their own progress.
James stayed with his own.
Each movement was slightly different from the last. Sometimes worse, sometimes better. The inconsistency was frustrating, but it wasn't as overwhelming as before.
His arms still ached.
His grip still slipped.
But he was starting to understand where things went wrong.
That mattered.
At some point, the faint buzz returned.
It came quietly, slipping into the background of his awareness rather than forcing itself forward. James noticed it without reacting immediately.
He didn't try to push it.
Just let it be there.
He adjusted his stance, then moved.
The blade cut through the air in a smoother arc than before. Not by a wide margin—but enough for him to feel the difference.
James paused.
He glanced down at his hand, then back at the sword.
The buzz lingered faintly, like something just out of reach.
He tried again, this time paying attention to both the movement and that subtle feeling beneath it.
The swing followed.
Still uneven.
But more controlled.
"…Okay," he murmured under his breath.
Not understanding it fully—but recognizing it.
"Pair up."
The instructor's voice cut through the room, shifting the atmosphere slightly.
James lowered the sword, glancing around as others began to move. Some paired up quickly, already familiar with each other. Others hesitated briefly before choosing someone nearby.
A figure approached him after a moment.
"You're new, right?"
James looked up. "Yeah."
The other boy stood a little taller than him, his posture more relaxed but steady. There was a confidence in the way he held the practice sword—not careless, but practiced enough that he didn't need to think about it.
"I'm Leon," he said. "We're sparring."
"James."
Leon gave a short nod and stepped back, raising his weapon. "Don't worry about winning. Just don't freeze."
"…I'll try."
They circled each other slowly.
James adjusted his footing, trying to keep everything in mind without overloading himself. The instructor's words echoed faintly—don't force it.
Leon moved first.
The strike was simple, but quick.
James reacted a fraction too late, bringing his sword up just in time to meet it. The impact ran through his arms, jarring enough to make his grip tighten again.
"Too slow," Leon said, already pulling back.
James reset, exhaling through his nose.
Again.
Leon shifted, then struck from a different angle.
James moved—
Not fast enough.
The wooden blade clipped his shoulder.
"Watch the setup," Leon said. "You're reacting after it starts."
James nodded once.
That made sense.
It didn't make it easier.
The next exchange came quicker.
James forced himself to focus—not on the swing, but on the moment before it. The slight shift in Leon's stance, the way his shoulders turned just before the strike followed.
There.
Leon moved.
James reacted.
Their swords met.
The contact felt different this time.
A faint spark snapped across his fingers, subtle but sharp enough to register.
Leon paused, just slightly.
"…Did you feel that?"
James didn't answer.
He was too focused on the sensation.
It had come at the moment of impact.
Not before.
Not after.
During.
Leon stepped back, adjusting his grip. "Do it again."
"I'm not doing it on purpose," James said.
"Then figure it out."
They reset.
This time, James paid closer attention.
Not just to Leon—but to himself.
The buzz returned faintly as he steadied his stance.
Leon attacked.
James moved.
The timing was still off—but closer than before.
Their blades met again.
The spark came with it.
Small.
Inconsistent.
But real.
Leon flinched slightly, more from surprise than pain.
James felt it too.
That moment.
Contact.
Trigger.
His grip shifted instinctively, pushing forward just a little.
Leon stepped back, caught off guard, then steadied himself.
"…Okay," he said, a hint of interest in his tone now. "That's something."
They continued for a while after that.
James didn't win.
He didn't come close.
But he wasn't completely overwhelmed either.
Each exchange lasted longer than the last. His reactions were still slow, but they weren't as delayed. His stance still faltered, but not as often.
More importantly—
He was starting to see things.
Not clearly.
But enough to react.
"Break."
The instructor's voice cut in again, bringing everything to a stop.
James lowered his sword, his breathing heavier now, the strain in his arms more noticeable.
Leon rolled his shoulder once, then gave him a brief nod. "You're not bad. For a first day."
"Doesn't feel like it."
"It never does."
With that, he stepped away.
James remained where he was for a moment longer.
The buzz had faded again, settling back into something quiet and distant. He focused on it briefly, trying to bring it back the same way.
Nothing happened.
He let out a slow breath.
Still inconsistent.
"Of course it is."
James looked up.
The instructor had approached without him noticing, his gaze briefly flicking between James and the practice sword still in his hand.
"You're trying to catch it," the man said. "That's why it slips."
James frowned slightly. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
The man shrugged. "Figure out what causes it."
James glanced down at his hand again.
The answer felt close—but not clear.
"…When," he said quietly.
The instructor gave a short nod. "Exactly."
By the time the session ended, the hall had started to empty out.
People left in small groups or alone, conversations low and scattered. No one lingered without reason.
James returned the practice sword to the rack, flexing his fingers as the soreness settled deeper into his muscles. It wasn't sharp anymore—just steady, present.
He stepped outside.
The air was cooler than before, the sky still overcast.
For a moment, he stood there without moving.
Thinking.
He hadn't improved much.
Not in any obvious way.
But something had shifted.
He could feel it—not in strength, but in understanding.
Slight.
Incomplete.
But there.
James exhaled slowly.
It wasn't enough.
But it was a start.
Across the street, a figure lingered near the edge of the pavement, partially obscured by passing pedestrians.
They didn't stand out.
Didn't try to.
Their attention rested briefly on James as he stepped out of the hall, then shifted away just as easily.
A phone buzzed softly in their hand.
A short message was typed, precise and unremarkable.
– Subject located. Early-stage development. No confirmation.
Sent.
The screen dimmed.
By the time James looked up again, the figure was already gone.