The virtual training field stretched out in all directions. An endless plain of dull gray under a cloudless, artificial sky.
The light was bright and clean, like someone had scrubbed away all imperfections until only this sterile imitation remained.
Kyle stood at its center, still as a statue. His tachi—black as a starless night—rested against his shoulder.
Reo groaned, pushing himself up from the crater his body had left in the ground.
His face ached where Kyle's fist had landed. The phantom sting lingering even after the simulation's safety protocols had erased the damage.
He spat to the side, tasting metallic of blood, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip was split. Just a little, just enough to remind him how badly he had been outplayed.
"Damn it," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His grip tightened around his spear, knuckles turning white.
