A week passed since Richard accepted Manuel's challenge, yet he was no closer to defeating him than on day one. His strength had grown. His speed had grown. His form and footwork were sharper than ever. But Manuel had trained under military discipline, and compared to that, Richard's progress felt painfully small.
Match after match blurred together as the days rushed by. Richard felt his endurance stretch further. His muscles showed new definition. His confidence rose. Still, no matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't match Manuel.
When their latest session finally ended, the two collapsed beside each other in the shade, catching their breath. Manuel's eyes drifted toward the sword belt lying at Richard's side.
"Since when do you carry a weapon?" Manuel asked, hand extended to inspect it.
Richard picked it up, hesitated, then handed it over. "My father bought it for me. I just… didn't care for the lesson that came with it."
"What lesson?" Manuel drew the blade and studied it with a nod.
"The whole 'it's not a toy, it's a weapon to kill' thing," Richard muttered. "All this time I treated training like a game. But now I'm realizing I'm learning how to take a life. I don't know if I actually can."
"You can," Manuel answered, tone steady. "And you will. War is ugly. Violence is necessary, even when we hate it. You need to sharpen your instinct to kill, and fast."
"But what if I don't want to?"
"No one wants to," Manuel shrugged. "But when it's you or someone else, you take their life. That's how the world works."
Richard swallowed hard and took back his sword.
"It's a good blade," Manuel said. "You could upgrade it to tier two, maybe. But beyond that? Probably not. It's perfect for your first year in the Order."
"There's tiers?" Richard asked, suddenly inspecting it as if something new might reveal itself.
"There are," Manuel confirmed. "Right now, yours is tier zero."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means it's a basic weapon with no special properties. You use materials and crystals to increase the tier. When your power awakens, it'll flow into your weapon too."
"How did you tell just by looking at it?"
"Because I touched it," Manuel replied. "If it were tier one, my power would've reacted instantly. Tier zero stays dormant."
That small detail fascinated Richard enough to temporarily forget the grim topic they'd just abandoned.
"Don't worry," Manuel added. "No one enters the Order with anything higher than tier zero. Your father knew what he was doing."
Richard hesitated, then forced out the question. "Have you ever killed anyone?"
Manuel paused, seeing how much the thought troubled him. "No. But you'll get the feel for it at the Order. The machines simulate real combat. The opponents feel real, they fight real, and you have to kill them. When the time comes, you won't feel the difference."
Richard went quiet again.
"It's almost time," Manuel said finally.
"Yes," Richard whispered. "It's late."
"That's not what I meant." Manuel stood. "It's almost time for me to return to the Order. You have until the end of the week to beat me. After that, you won't see my power again until we meet inside the Order."
Richard froze. His chest tightened, a knot forming in his throat. Manuel had become part of his mornings, his training, his thoughts. Losing that felt like losing a piece he didn't know he'd needed.
"Will I see you at Condor?" he asked, voice unsteady.
"Maybe," Manuel said. "But we won't be able to talk. I'll be a year ahead, assigned to a squad. Unless we're on the same mission, we probably won't get to speak."
Richard turned away, blinking fast. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait," Manuel called, but Richard didn't look back. "I'm not dying, and I'm not disappearing forever. We'll still be friends. And when your training's done, we'll meet up whenever we want."
Richard lifted a hand in acknowledgment. "I know. But tomorrow… I'm kicking your butt."
"Looking forward to it."
Richard didn't wait to watch him leave. He walked straight into the manor, swallowing the lump in his throat until he finally felt steady again.
His father sat in the study, writing reports for his last mission. Richard didn't bother waiting for permission.
"Father," he said, stepping inside.
"What is it?"
"Have you ever fought someone better than you and still won?"
"All the time."
"But without using your power."
"Yes."
"How?"
His father leaned back, recognizing exactly what this was about. Every night, Richard had come home complaining about losing to Manuel. This was different. This was desperation.
"If you believe skill alone always wins, you'll never beat someone like Manuel," his father said. "You need strategy. You need to sharpen your strengths, and take his away."
"How?" Richard snapped. "Everyone keeps telling me what to do but not how."
"Sit," his father said. "Let me tell you something."
Richard obeyed.
"When I was younger, I fought an opponent with the Speed Power. I was stronger, more skilled, and one strike would have ended the fight. But I couldn't hit him. Not once."
"If he was so fast, how didn't he beat you?" Richard asked.
"I had better armor. His attacks couldn't defeat me, but they hurt. Enough hits and I would've worn down."
"How did you win?"
"I calmed myself. I breathed. I studied the angles of every attack. Then I realized something."
"What?" Richard leaned forward.
"He wasn't attacking me with a strategy. He was following the terrain. He always moved along the smoothest ground without realizing it."
Richard's eyes widened.
"So I let him push me back. The terrain got rougher. His speed dropped. All I needed was for him to commit to one more attack."
"But how do you make someone attack?"
"It's easier than it sounds," his father said. "I dropped my guard. Arms low. Breathing heavy. I looked broken. He saw an opening. He took the smoothest path he could find and charged."
"Then you knocked him out!"
"I grabbed him," his father corrected. "Caught his leg with enough force to break it. The fight lasted longer after that, but that was the moment the advantage became mine."
Richard sat in silence, absorbing everything.
"I've been fighting straight," he admitted. "Skill for skill."
"That's fine for training. But if you want to win, you need to make your own opportunities. Use the field. Use your strengths. Use your opponent's habits. Make the fight yours."
"Thank you," Richard breathed. "I think… I get it now."
That night, after eating and cleaning up, he went to his room. He placed his sword gently by the window overlooking the training grounds.
"Create your own opportunities," he repeated.
The idea hit him all at once. His eyes lit. A smile broke across his face.
"I got it."