The first husk reached me in a blur of skin and bone.
I didn't wait. I slid left on soft knees and let it rush through the space where I had been. My right foot set down again. I drew a breath. I stepped and sent a straight punch into its temple. The sound was a dull crack, like thin ice breaking. Skin wrinkled around bone that had no reason to hold. It spun and hit the wall, leaving a smear the color of old paper.
The second husk came in low and fast, hands out like hooks. I pivoted on the ball of my foot and felt the ground push into my hips. My left hand touched the top of its skull and guided it past me. My right fist snapped out and back, a short shot at the jaw hinge. The joint folded. Its head hung on skin and scraps, more attached by habit than structure. It still tried to rise.
'They don't care if it hurts. They don't feel it.'
The third husk's speed stuttered in a way that would have fooled me a week ago. It reached for my throat. I sank an inch, kept my weight centered, and let the grab slide along my forearm. I breathed out and drove my fist into the hollow under its cheekbone. The bone flexed. The skin stretched like old leather over nothing. I stepped through and clipped its knee from the side with my shin. The leg bent the wrong way. It dropped but kept clawing.
The first husk twitched at the wall and leaped. I saw the start before the jump. My feet moved first. A half step back, then a short angle to my right. It flew past and slapped stone where my head had been. I jabbed twice into its ribs. The first strike sank. The second punched through. My hand came back stinging. I changed levels and hit the spine with a straight shot where the skin ran thin over the bumps. The body went slack. The arms still clawed for a heartbeat, then stopped.
'They are no longer faster than me.'
The second husk lurched with its crooked head and flailing hands. It had strength where it shouldn't. The push rocked me. My heel bit down. I didn't meet it head-on. I slid and let its force pass. I breathed in, then hammered the notch above its collarbone. Something gave. One arm drooped and twitched. I made a small circle with my feet and lined up the next shot. I struck straight into the bridge of the nose. Bone crushed. The skin tented and fell. The rest followed.
The third husk crawled at my feet and grabbed for my ankle like a broken dog. I stepped out and let it catch my wrap instead. It pulled. I let it think it had me, then stamped the side of its elbow with the edge of my heel. The joint caved. My heel came back to ground. I breathed out and punched down between the eyes. The thin skull split like a cracked bowl. It went still.
Silence tried to creep back into the alley. It didn't last.
The first husk twitched again.
'Why are they so persistent.'
I stepped in and finished it with two fast shots—temple, then jaw—the second strike driving through to the wall. The bones had no more arguments left. It fell quiet. I held my breath for two beats and listened for more. Only wind answered, pulling ash along the broken street.
I dropped my hands and shook out my fingers. The wraps were scuffed. My knuckles glowed pink and warm. The aches felt right. They felt honest.
[Good work. You still have much to improve. But good work.]
I breathed and nodded. I didn't need more.
ººº
Days blurred into training and short fights.
Husks started showing up near the house every day. At first one, then two, then more. Maybe it was the cooking. Maybe it was me. Either way, they wandered out of the streets and found my door. Ithas warned me with a short word when one got close. I began to sleep with the wraps beside my bed.
I redrew the practice lines in the patio until they made a cross and two triangles. Footwork first, every morning. Short steps. Turns on the ball. Small angles. I added a slip to the side when I shadowboxed. I kept my breath steady—breathe in on the set, out on the strike. When I held stance, my legs shook less.
Hardening moved forward a little. The ash bucket got a handful of pebbles. I tapped the wrapped trunk with light punches in sets, then opened my hands and stretched the fingers. I learned to stop before the pain turned sharp. My knuckles thickened. The skin stopped complaining about every touch.
I hunted small scavengers between sessions, moving quiet through empty rooms. The sling still worked. Ithas gave short cues—where to wait, when to loose—and I listened. I boiled meat on the hob when I had a core to spare and tried not to think about taste. Water came from the tank in small sips. I heard it echo in the tin and frowned.
'If more husks keep coming because of me, I'll have to move. But where do I find another working tank?'
[Not a problem. Find an empty tank and I will make it work.]
I didn't ask how. I trained.
At night, when wind pushed through broken roofs, I ran the drills slow. I pictured a husk stepping into range, then two, then three. I placed my feet, set my breath, kept my hands tight and fast. When I dreamed, I dreamed of the dead tree and ash and a line from heel to knuckle.
Each morning more husks came. I broke them faster. Their speed surprised me less. Their wrong strength still rang my bones when they hit, but it didn't throw me like before. I let them pass and hit them on the side, on the hinge, on thin spots where the skin pulled tight. They were puzzles with loud answers, if I stayed calm.
[Footwork first. Always.]
I listened.
ººº
A week after the last ritual, I saw a shape I didn't want to see.
A skinless moved at the far end of the street, crawling along a roof with its long claws soft on the tile. It paused like a cat, tasted the air with a black tongue, then slid over the lip and vanished behind a chimney.
'That's way too close.'
I pulled back inside and held my breath. Then I started to pack. Wraps. Sling. Knife. Spare shirt. The last core went into a small tin and then into my pocket. I thought about the direction of Owl's workshop and chose the other way.
I slipped through alleys and cut across empty parlors. Twice I stopped and waited while a pair of husks shuffled past a doorway. I didn't hit them. I kept moving. It felt like walking the edge of a black pool.
On the third street I found a house that had not fallen in. The roof was damaged but not open to the sky. Inside, the stairs still held my weight. In the attic a water tank sat in the corner, empty and dusty but whole. The space was larger than the last place—low beams, long floor, two small dormer windows, a trap door I could pull up. The air smelled like dry wood instead of mold.
'This could work.'
I set down the pack and listened. Nothing above. Nothing below.
[We can make the tank work. Gather chalk, ash, wire, and a glass jar.]
I scavenged. A broken frame gave me wire. The hearth gave me ash. I found a small jar with a tight lid in a kitchen drawer. Chalk came from a child's shattered board. I carried it all back up in a dented pan.
[We will draw a simple array to pull moisture and condense it.]
He guided my hand with short instructions. I drew circles around the tank's base. I added a triangle touching each circle. I marked a small pattern near the jar and linked it to the tank with a thin chalk line. I pressed wire into the grooves to make a path. It looked like a map on a dusty floor.
[Now for smell and sound.]
We added a circle at the attic door and three small marks around the trap. Lines ran from those to the windows. I traced a thin ring on the ceiling above where I would sleep. I brushed the dust away with my sleeve and checked the joins with my nail.
[Power them. One core to start. The arrays will hold charge from ambient energy. Keep at least one core in reserve for cooking and emergencies.]
'So we wait on the next ritual.'
[Yes. Keep one core free.]
I nodded. The fog in my head was almost gone, but the memory of the last ritual sat in my bones like a bruise. I didn't argue.
I set the core at the tank array. A soft hum, like a far kettle, came through the metal. The air near the wire turned cool. Mist formed on the inside wall of the tank and gathered into drops. The jar at the smell-and-sound array warmed in my hands for a second and then went quiet. The attic felt smaller in a good way, like a tent pulled tight against wind.
I rolled my shoulders and looked over the space. I could lay a bedroll by the far beam, hang the sling from a nail, keep the bucket under the tank. I could draw new lines in the dust here too.
Water solved. Smell and sound softened. A roof and space. For a moment, I let myself breathe.
'I still need a core. I can't rely on luck. A skinless won't come to me and die politely.'
I sat on the floor with my back to the tank and stared at my hands. The wraps were frayed at the knuckles. The tree had taught them one lesson. The husks had taught another. A skinless was a different problem altogether.
'I need a new weapon... Or a trap. But how do you trap something that fast?'
Ideas came, small and sharp. Not all good. Some dangerous. A few possible. I held the best one and turned it in my mind like a stone.
'If I can build it, maybe I can bring a skinless down before it reaches me.'
I started to plan.