The sun had barely climbed above the rooftops when Serik stepped into the courtyard. The air was cool, a dry morning breeze brushing past the tall stone walls that boxed in the training grounds. He had woken before the birds this time, mind already turning, rehearsing movements even as his eyes adjusted to the pale dawn light.
He rolled his shoulders once and exhaled. There was no tremble in his hands, no flutter in his gut. It was strange — almost suspicious — to feel so calm on a morning like this. But it wasn't numbness. It was readiness. A clarity earned the hard way, day by day, bruise by bruise.
A month ago, he would've felt sick standing here. A week ago, tense. Today he only felt steady.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Jons stepped out first, posture straight, expression unreadable, but Serik caught the faint shift of attention in his eyes. Jons was measuring him — quietly, subtly — the way someone measured a blade to see if the edge was finally right.
Then came the assassins.
They filed out behind Jons like shadows peeling themselves off the walls.
Pan walked first, dragging her cleaver lazily across the dirt, leaving a crooked line behind her. Wiry and sharp-edged, with dark eyes that never stayed still for more than a heartbeat, she always gave the impression that she might attack before anyone said "begin."
Spikes came next, wrapped in strips of cloth that shifted like old bandages. His arms bristled with needles, thin and metallic, but the most unnerving thing about him was the stare — pale, unblinking, disturbingly patient.
Stomp was last. The largest of the group, bare-chested even in the cold morning air, shoulders wide enough to blot out the doorway behind him. His footsteps made the ground breathe beneath him.
Serik had been fighting them for a month. Losing to them for a month.Breaking under them, learning from them, rising again.
He met their gazes now without flinching.
Pan smirked. Spikes blinked once, slow. Stomp cracked his knuckles like snapping tree branches.
No taunts today. No warm-ups. They understood just as clearly as he did: this was the final day.
Jons raised one hand.
"Begin."
The assassins moved instantly.
Spikes lunged first, predictably, but faster than Serik had ever seen him move before. His needles flashed, darting in sharp angles meant to pierce flesh and poison bloodstream. Serik stepped in rather than out — a choice that would've gotten him killed a month ago.
The first strike slammed into his forearm. He felt the sting, the vibration through bone, but Emperor's Root guided the force downward. He twisted his wrist, redirecting the next needle out of line, letting Spikes' momentum slide off him like water off stone.
Spikes faltered half a step.
Pan was already closing in. Her cleaver whistled upward in a vicious arc. Serik ducked under it, feeling the rush of air skim his hair. He planted one foot behind him, coiled his muscles, and struck her center mass with a compact burst of Jade Pulse.
Pan's breath left her in a harsh gasp as she skidded backward. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand — and grinned wider.
Before he had time to reposition, Stomp was there.
The giant's shadow fell over him an instant before the fist did. Serik barely shifted aside in time, and even then the grazing blow hit like a thrown boulder, spinning him sideways. He caught the ground with one hand and forced his weight into balance, using the momentum rather than fighting it.
His shoulder throbbed. He ignored it.
Stomp advanced again, but this time Serik was ready. He circled quickly, eyes tracking each heavy step. Stomp didn't waste motion — he never had. His size made him look slow, but his attacks came without hesitation, each one a full-force strike meant to end things instantly.
Serik couldn't block him.He couldn't trade with him.He had to redirect.
Moon Hollow flowed through his body, smooth and instinctive now after weeks of practice. He leaned just enough to let Stomp's fist pass by, then slid under the follow-up hook and planted a light step against the ground, using Kōdan's footwork to cut sideways with precision.
Spikes rejoined the fight with a sharp kick toward Serik's ribs. Serik caught the leg, twisted, and kicked the inside of Spikes' knee. Something gave. Spikes hissed through clenched teeth, collapsing down on one leg before rolling out of reach.
Pan swooped in again. Always relentless. Always swinging.
Serik blocked her strike with both arms, teeth rattling from the impact. He stepped into her space, grabbed her elbow, and threw her over his shoulder. She hit the earth hard, dust puffing around her, but she was already scrambling upright before Stomp nearly trampled her.
He'd learned their language during the past month. Today, that gave him the advantage.
Pan and Spikes moved to flank him. Stomp charged from the front. A three-point assault meant to compress him into a corner.
A month ago, he'd fallen for it.Today, he stepped directly into it.
Spikes went low with a sweep. Serik jumped over it, twisting midair as Pan's cleaver sliced where his legs had been. He landed behind Pan, swept her legs, and sent her crashing down again.
Stomp was already swinging at him — a punch like a battering ram. Serik slid into Moon Hollow again, feeling the pressure of the air around that massive fist, and rushed toward Stomp's center.
He couldn't fight Stomp directly…but he could break his stance.
He ducked low and slammed his knee upward into Stomp's abdomen. The impact felt like striking solid stone — but then the stone cracked. Stomp doubled forward with a grunt, air bursting from his lungs. Serik hooked his arms around the man's neck, planted both feet, and used Stomp's own weight to throw him backward.
The giant hit the ground with enough force to shake dust loose from the walls.
Pan screamed something unintelligible and sprinted toward him, cleaver high. Serik didn't turn fully. He reached behind him, caught her wrist mid-strike, and spun, using her speed to hurl her several meters away. She hit the dirt hard and slid until the cleaver tumbled from her hand.
Spikes limped forward, fury twisting his usually empty face. He lunged with the last needles he had, each one aimed for arteries.
Serik saw every strike. Every opening. Every weakness.
He parried the first three, ducked under the fourth, sidestepped the fifth, and drove a fist into Spikes' ribs. The man fell, curling inward, choking on breath that wouldn't come.
Pan tried to get up again. Her arms shook too much. Her legs wouldn't obey. She stayed down.
Stomp rolled onto his side, struggling to push himself up, but the damage was too deep. He stayed on his elbows, breath ragged, head bowed.
The courtyard fell still.
Serik stood in the center of the three fallen assassins, sweat rolling slowly down his temples, breath coming heavy but controlled. His body hurt everywhere — but not the kind of hurt that broke you. The kind that told you you'd earned something.
He looked at his hands.
Not trembling. Not weak.Not afraid.
He had fought three killers. Three people who had broken him again and again. And he had given them everything he had…and this time, it was enough.
Footsteps approached softly.
Jons walked past Pan without glancing at her, past Spikes with the detachment of someone stepping around a fallen branch, past Stomp like the man wasn't five times his size.
He stopped in front of Serik.
The wind rustled lightly between the courtyard walls, carrying dust and breath away in gentle waves.
Jons studied him in silence. His eyes didn't shine with pride — Jons was not a man who showcased emotion openly — but there was a quiet acknowledgement in the way he held his posture, in the way his gaze lingered longer than usual.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are ready," Jons said, voice low but unmistakably certain, "to learn Nen."