They didn't train in a field or a gym. Not even a drift platform.
Just an old terrace.
Empty rooftop of some retired government building. The kind of place that smelled like ozone and pigeon shit. Cracked tiles. Dust over glass. Wind blowing faint across the cityline.
Lucen stepped out, squinting at the sunrise. Then looked down at the blade in his hand.
"Feels wrong," he said.
"Good," Varik replied.
No warm-up. No lesson.
Varik just pointed.
"Stance."
Lucen blinked. "Stance what?"
"Take one."
He hesitated. Then lowered his knees a bit, planted his left foot back, held the sword up and out like he'd seen in duels.
Varik tilted his head. "You watching anime or trying to fight?"
Lucen adjusted. "What—like this?"
"Worse."
Lucen groaned, lowered the sword. "Okay, then show me."
Varik stepped close. Didn't speak.
Just moved.
