Regus always had to fight. Every single time. The other students didn't every day, but he did.
He never lost, of course.
But the opponents didn't get harder. Hashim had wanted to see if another one of them could handle the same fight, but Regus was too focused on their image.
Nothing was fun anymore. They were still in the period of relative peace where each of the factions were deciding how to handle them, and if they had to stay like this for much longer, Hashim would lose his mind.
So when they announced the tournament that would be coming up soon, a massive event even bigger than former years to "celebrate" the Academy being opened to male students, Hashim was a little bit excited.
But then they had announced that it would be in two weeks.
Maybe it was just because he hardly ever had control of the body except in the morning. Maybe it was something else. But he just couldn't bring himself to care about anyone or anything.
By the time the week was over, he was done dealing with the Academy's politics. He had stopped eating and sleeping a few days ago. Anguis was able to take in enough energy that they didn't need it, and their body automatically used it for fuel.
That part of it was almost surreal. Instead of wasting the time where they would usually be sleeping, they were able to use it.
But for what?
Anguis, Regus, and Gensa couldn't stay aware past what they guessed was midnight, and they often dissolved sooner. That hadn't used to be the case. In fact, it used to be that there was no disconnect at all between Hashim and the others. But as they continued to neglect sleep, that had changed. First the fusions' dissolutions moved earlier and earlier, and then the others' began to follow suit. As it was, Hashim was left alone for the last quarter of the night and somewhat into the morning.
He busied himself training their body. Bowshots out in the Puddles, laps, some few other exercises.
And when he knew no one was looking, he practiced the sword.
He didn't have anything worth practicing with, but he had a simple, solid wooden stick. He had been using it recently as a walking stick, or rather, more of a cane, because he didn't depend on it at all. He just liked having it. He had noticed it on one of his infrequent weektime visits into the City of Metals, and he had snatched it up on a whim.
It wasn't worth it. And it wasn't even near a good substitute for cold, unyielding metal. But it was all he had, so he clung to it.
He didn't know any forms, but he could imagine them. Enemies in your mind were the same as enemies outside, except the ones in your head know your every move.
If he thought too far ahead and set up an incredibly complex strategy, they would never fall for it. The second he discovered a counter to a move that he had made, which was usually immediately, they knew it too.
So Hashim learned to flow.
Filling a mold was never good enough. Having a predetermined strategy or moveset would get him destroyed. He never knew how his mind shadows would move, so it wasn't like it went both ways. They were the perfect form of him, moving in the air like mist, even constants like the length of their arms or the strength of their legs shifting.
Hashim moved like water poured into a sieve. He escaped all boundaries, breaking through one and every expectation of both himself and everyone else. He was not a whirlwind, not a spike, not a solid wall.
He was the sword.
And he longed for the sword to be his.
Every session ended with him having to pull up short, nearly having broken his stick. He was always able to stop himself before that final impact with his opponent's weapon, the one that he was sure would shatter his cane and leave him defenseless aside from his hands against their blades.
It was silly, really. After all, his enemies were only in his head. They were never there after he opened his eyes.
But still it continued.