President Cross was waiting in one of the observation rooms.
She had coffee.
I had water.
This felt unfair.
“Sit.” “I’m sweaty.” “The chair will survive.” I sat.
Grant had worked me hard that morning.
Running, balance drills, resistance work, then forty minutes of sword practice against three different instructors who had apparently agreed that hitting a recovering seventeen-year-old was excellent government policy.
My right forearm still ached.
Cross pushed a tablet across the table.
“What’s this?” “Your next phase.” I didn’t touch it.
“That sounds ominous.” “Everything sounds ominous when you say it like that.” “You said it.” “You interpreted it.” I looked at the tablet.
There was a schedule.
Not a medical schedule.
No blood work.
No neurological scans.
No physical therapy blocks.
Conditioning.
Core control.
Combat.
Monster response.
Emergency medicine.
Academic instruction.
Field assessment.
I scrolled.
Then looked at Cross.
“This looks like training.” “It is.” “I’ve been training.” “You’ve been rehabilitating.” “Grant hits me with sticks.” “Therapeutically.” I stared at her.
She took a sip of coffee.
I hated that answer.
“What changed?” “Medical cleared you yesterday.” My hand stopped over the screen.
“Cleared me for what?” “Normal physical activity.” Normal.
I looked at the word on the report.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
It did.
“Normal?” “Within reason.” “That’s not normal.” “Nothing about you is going to come with an uncomplicated sentence for a while.” Fair.
I scrolled farther.
“Field assessment?” “Later.” “How much later?” “When Grant says you’re ready.” “That’s a terrible system.” “I trust him.” “I don’t.” “You asked him to hit you harder yesterday.” “He was getting predictable.” Cross smiled into her coffee.
I put the tablet down.
“So rehabilitation is over.” “Medical rehabilitation.” The distinction mattered.
I waited.
Cross folded her hands.
“Your muscles have recovered enough that we’re no longer rebuilding basic function.
Your cardiovascular health is within acceptable range.
Balance has improved.
Fine motor control is normal.
Your doctors don’t believe continued restriction is helping.” I looked at my hands.
They didn’t shake anymore.
I hadn’t noticed when that stopped.
“You’re still behind where you would’ve been without the containment,” Cross continued.
“You’re underweight for the physical demands you’re placing on yourself.
Your Core remains unfamiliar.
And your combat ability is…” She paused.
I raised an eyebrow.
“What?” “Grant’s wording was inconsistent.” “Read it.” “No.” “President Cross.” She sighed and looked at the tablet.
“‘Technically infuriating, physically unfinished, and developing enough bad ideas to require supervision.'” I smiled.
“That’s basically praise.” “He also wrote, ‘Do not tell him this is praise.'” I smiled wider.
Cross turned off the tablet.
“You’re entering rebuilding now.” I leaned back.
“What’s the difference?” “Before, we were trying to return what the ice took from you.” “And now?” “Now we find out what you can become after it.” I didn’t like the way that sentence made my chest tighten.
Not fear exactly.
Something closer to anticipation.
I looked through the observation glass.
The training floor waited below.
A sword rack stood near the wall.
“Okay.” Cross watched me.
“Okay?” “Yeah.” “That’s surprisingly cooperative.” “Don’t ruin it.” Grant ruined it.
The next morning, he took away my sword.
Again.
I’d started noticing a pattern.
Whenever my training became enjoyable, someone removed the sword.
Grant tossed me a pair of gloves.
“What are these?” “Gloves.” “I know what gloves are.” “Then we’re making progress.” I put them on.
“What are we doing?” He pointed toward a training dummy.
“Hit it.” “With what?” “Your hands.” I stared at him.
“My ability is swords.” “Your arms aren’t.” “I think you’ve misunderstood my entire thing.” Grant folded his arms.
“Hit the dummy.” I punched it.
Pain shot through my knuckles.
“Ow.” “Excellent.” “How was that excellent?” “You learned something.” “That punching hurts?” “Your wrist collapsed.” I looked at my hand.
“Again.” He showed me how to align it.
Basic.
Embarrassingly basic.
I punched again.
Better.
Then again.
Then he taught me how to move while doing it.
My feet wanted sword footwork.
Grant stopped me immediately.
“No.” “What?” “You’re standing like there’s a blade in your hand.” “There should be.” “There isn’t.” He kicked my lead leg.
Not hard.
Enough.
My stance broke.
“Different tool, different problem.” I reset.
Again.
By the end of the hour, I understood something unpleasant.
I was terrible at fighting.
Not sword fighting.
Fighting.
Without a sword, the certainty disappeared.
I still had whatever instincts I’d developed before the ice.
Observation.
Timing.
A decent understanding of distance.
But knowing how a sword could solve a problem had apparently made me forget that sometimes there wasn’t a sword.
Grant grabbed my shirt and threw me onto the mat.
I landed properly.
At least I’d learned that.
He followed me down.
Knee near my hip.
One hand controlling my wrist.
I tried to move.
Nothing.
“Dead.” “You say that a lot.” “You die a lot.” “I’d bite you.” “Go ahead.” I considered it.
He saw my face.
“Don’t.” “You offered.” He released me.
I sat up.
“What am I supposed to do there?” “Before or after I put you on the ground?” “Both.” Grant smiled.
“Good question.” Then he showed me.
We spent two weeks making me uncomfortable.
That was apparently the official curriculum.
Unarmed work.
Knife defense.
Escapes.
Falling.
Getting up quickly.
Moving through confined spaces.
Fighting while tired.
Fighting after sprinting.
Fighting after carrying someone.
That one was horrible.
They gave me a rescue dummy weighing almost as much as an adult person and made me drag it fifty meters before Grant attacked me.
“Seriously?” He swung.
I ducked.
“Patient!” “I know!” “Then protect them!” I reached for the sword at my side.
Grant kicked the scabbard.
The practice weapon flew across the floor.
“Hey!” “Patient!” He attacked again.
I moved between him and the dummy.
Wrong.
The baton came toward my ribs.
I raised my arm.
Also wrong.
Pain.
I backed away.
Grant advanced.
The sword was six feet to my left.
Dummy behind me.
I could reach the sword.
Maybe.
If I abandoned the patient.
I stopped looking at it.
That was the answer.
Not the sword answer.
The actual answer.
I grabbed the dummy under the arms and dragged it behind a reinforced barrier.
Grant hit me twice before I got there.
One across the shoulder.
One against my side.
Then the wall separated us.
I pulled the dummy deeper into cover.
Grant stopped.
I breathed hard.
“Dead?” “No.” “Patient?” He checked the sensor.
“Alive.” I leaned against the wall.
“Then I win.” “You got hit twice.” “Still win.” Grant nodded.
“Correct.” That felt better than touching him with a sword.
Strangely.
Core training stopped being breathing exercises around the same time.
I missed the breathing exercises immediately.
Dr.
Sato, one of the specialists, placed a sensor against my sternum.
“Again.” I focused.
The warmth inside my chest responded.
Not like a muscle.
More like trying to move something without touching it.
I pulled.
The sensor chirped.
“Too much.” “That was barely anything.” “For you.” “What does that mean?” “Your output spikes.” “Is that bad?” “It’s inefficient.” I looked at the display.
The line had jumped sharply, then collapsed.
“What should it look like?” Sato demonstrated using a recorded example.
Smooth rise.
Stable plateau.
Controlled release.
Mine looked like someone falling down stairs.
“That’s embarrassing.” “Your Core was active during containment.” “I know.” “That doesn’t mean you controlled it.” “I know.” “Then stop trying to overpower the exercise.” “I’m not.” She stared at me.
I sighed.
“Fine.” Again.
Breathe.
Feel it.
Don’t grab.
Guide.
The warmth rose.
Sensor chirped.
Too high.
Again.
Too fast.
Again.
Collapsed.
Again.
Better.
Again.
Worse.
Again.
After an hour, sweat ran down my back even though I’d barely moved.
Core work was exhausting in a way muscles weren’t.
Sato removed the sensor.
“Enough.” “I can keep going.” “That’s why we’re stopping.” I frowned.
She pointed at the display.
“Your Core responds aggressively when you’re frustrated.” “That’s rude.” “It’s yours.” “Still rude.” She started packing the equipment.
I looked at my hands.
“Does Sword Mastery use it?” “Possibly.” “Possibly?” “We see increased activity when you hold a sword.” “How much?” “Enough to notice.
Not enough to explain the ability.” I thought about that.
“So the knowledge isn’t coming from the Core?” “I didn’t say that.” “Then what did you say?” “That we don’t know.” I groaned.
Sato smiled.
“You dislike that answer.” “I’ve heard it a lot.” “You should get comfortable with it.” “Never.” She laughed.
I liked her slightly less.
Grant started combining everything.
That was when training became interesting.
He stopped telling me what the exercise was supposed to teach.
Instead, he’d give me a situation.
Three civilians.
One exit.
Smoke.
Unknown threat.
Go.
Or: Class II monster.
Parking structure.
Structural damage.
Two injured people.
Go.
Or: Armed attacker.
Narrow hallway.
Sword available.
Civilian behind target.
Go.
That one caught me.
I drew.
The answer arrived.
Thrust.
Fastest ending.
Straight through center mass.
Except the civilian was directly behind him.
I stopped.
Grant’s baton hit my wrist.
The sword fell.
“Dead.” I stared at the civilian dummy.
Grant waited.
“My ability told me to thrust.” “Did it?” “Yes.” “Or did it tell you the best sword response to the opponent in front of you?” I looked at him.
Different question.
Grant nudged the practice sword with his foot.
“The sword doesn’t know your objective.” I picked it up.
“No.” “You do.” Again.
This time, when the opening appeared, I didn’t take it.
I moved.
Changed angle.
Forced Grant away from the civilian.
He adapted.
My ability kept feeding me solutions.
Some I ignored.
That felt wrong.
Almost physically wrong.
There was a perfect counter available and I deliberately didn’t use it.
Grant attacked.
I retreated.
He pushed.
I gave ground.
Then his position changed.
Civilian clear.
Now.
I moved.
Blade stopped at his throat.
Grant froze.
I breathed hard.
“Better.” I lowered the sword.
“That felt terrible.” “Good.” “Why good?” “Means you’re learning.” I looked at the blade.
Perfect technique wasn’t the same thing as a perfect decision.
I was beginning to understand that.
My body kept catching up.
Slowly.
Then suddenly.
One morning, I ran five kilometers without stopping.
Daniel checked the time.
I checked whether I was dying.
Apparently not.
Another week, I managed forty push-ups.
Then fifty.
My shoulders broadened.
Not dramatically.
I wasn’t becoming Frank.
But the thinness left.
Muscle returned to my legs.
My grip strengthened.
The first time I noticed veins standing out across my forearm while holding a sword, I stared at them for too long.
Daniel noticed.
“What?” “Nothing.” “You’re flexing.” “I’m not.” “You absolutely are.” “Go away.” He laughed.
I flexed once after he left.
Just to check.
Maybe twice.
Nobody needed to know.
The Saturday photograph stayed in my room.
I stopped carrying it everywhere.
That felt important.
At first, leaving it behind felt like betrayal.
Then I realized I knew the picture without looking.
Every face.
Every position.
Threya leaning against me.
Me looking at her.
I didn’t need to touch it every hour to remember who I was.
Akio wasn’t stored in a photograph.
That helped.
A little.
The new identification card was harder.
KAI SKYLINE I used it at the training site.
At controlled medical appointments.
For educational records.
The first few times someone checked it, I felt like I was committing a crime.
Eventually it became boring.
That scared me less than I expected.
Boring wasn’t the same as real.
It was just routine.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Three months into rebuilding, Grant finally took me outside the main training grounds.
Not into the city.
Not around civilians.
A government-managed ecological response reserve.
I knew what it was the moment I saw the warning signs.
CONTROLLED MONSTER HABITAT CLASS I-II SPECIES PRESENT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY I looked at Grant.
“Field assessment?” “Not yet.” “Then why are we here?” “Because training dummies don’t breathe.” My stomach tightened.
Not fear.
Memory.
Glassbacks.
Stonegrazer.
Beetle.
Grant noticed.
“You good?” “Yeah.” “You sure?” “No.” He nodded.
“Better answer.” We entered.
The reserve was huge.
Wooded hills.
Wetlands.
Reinforced observation structures.
Core-sensitive fencing where necessary.
Not a zoo.
A managed ecosystem.
That distinction mattered.
Grant handed me binoculars.
“No sword?” “You have one.” I touched the practice blade at my side.
“Then why binoculars?” “Because your first job isn’t killing something.” We walked.
For almost an hour, nothing happened.
That was apparently intentional.
Grant asked questions.
Tracks.
Broken branches.
Core residue.
Feeding signs.
Territory.
I answered what I could.
Got some wrong.
Then we found the Glassbacks.
Three adults.
Two juveniles.
They moved slowly through tall grass, translucent plates catching the afternoon light.
For a second, I was fourteen again.
Threya beside me.
Dried mango in my hand.
I smiled.
Grant noticed.
“Know them?” “Yeah.” “From where?” “School.” He accepted that.
One juvenile wandered closer.
I didn’t move.
Grant didn’t either.
The adult lifted its head.
Plates shifted.
“Threat display?” Grant whispered.
“No.” “Why?” “Ears are forward.
Weight’s neutral.” “Good.” The juvenile sniffed the air.
Then continued past.
I watched it go.
Nothing attacked.
Nothing exploded.
Nobody died.
A monster was just an animal walking through grass.
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to see that.
On the way back, an alarm sounded.
Not loud.
Three short tones from Grant’s radio.
He stopped.
I did too.
A voice came through.
“Response team, Sector Four.
Fence disturbance.
Possible Class Two movement.” Grant touched the radio.
“Location?” Coordinates followed.
He looked at me.
“Back to the vehicle.” I stared.
“What?” “Assessment’s over.” “Sector Four is closer than the vehicle.” “Not our problem.” “You’re response staff.” “Today I’m your instructor.” Another transmission.
“Confirmed Class Two.
One ranger injured.
Unknown condition.” I looked toward the trees.
Grant looked at me.
“No.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” An old line.
Emi.
Grant pointed back.
“Vehicle.” Then the radio crackled again.
“Second ranger pinned near service trail.
Response ETA four minutes.” Four minutes.
I looked toward the trail marker.
Sector Four.
I remembered the map from the entrance.
“That’s maybe six hundred meters.” Grant’s expression changed.
“You memorized the map?” “Most of it.” “Of course you did.” Another sound rolled through the trees.
Low.
Animal.
Not close.
But not far.
Grant swore quietly.
Then keyed the radio.
“Grant.
I’m approximately six hundred meters south with one trainee.
Moving to observation only.” The answer came immediately.
“Negative.
Trainee returns to secure point.” Grant looked at me.
I already knew.
“Vehicle.” I hated it.
But this wasn’t training.
There were real people.
Real injuries.
That meant the rules mattered more, not less.
I nodded.
We started back.
Then something crashed through the brush ahead.
Grant stopped.
I did too.
A ranger stumbled onto the path.
Blood covered one sleeve.
“Move!” Behind him, trees shook.
Grant pushed me back.
“Now you can draw.” The sword was in my hand before he finished.
Certainty flooded in.
My body settled.
The ranger ran past us.
Grant stepped beside me.
“Do not engage unless it comes through that tree line.” I nodded.
Something moved beyond the brush.
Heavy.
Low.
My Core stirred.
Not much.
Enough.
The leaves parted.
A creature stepped into view.
Four legs.
Dark hide.
Bone ridges across its skull.
About the size of a large bear.
I knew the species.
“Ridgeback.” Grant nodded.
“Class Two.” The Ridgeback’s front leg was bleeding.
A length of damaged fence wire dragged behind it.
Not hunting.
Injured.
Terrified.
Its head swung toward us.
My ability offered answers.
Distance.
Neck opening beneath the jaw.
Front leg compromised.
If it charged, step outside injured side.
Cut upward.
Efficient.
Clean.
I didn’t move.
The Ridgeback huffed.
Grant kept his baton low.
“Read it.” “Pain.” “What else?” “Cornered.” “Good.” The creature stamped.
My grip tightened.
The perfect cut waited.
“Does it want us?” Grant asked.
I watched.
Head low.
Body angled away.
Eyes flicking toward the trees behind us.
No.
“It wants past.” Grant nodded.
“So?” I lowered the sword slightly.
We moved.
Not backward.
Sideways.
Opening the trail.
The Ridgeback watched.
One second.
Two.
Then it ran.
Past us.
Not at us.
Into the deeper reserve.
Gone.
I exhaled.
Grant looked at my sword.
“You had the shot.” “Yeah.” “Why didn’t you take it?” I looked toward the trees.
“Wrong answer.” Grant smiled.
Not much.
“Good.” The response team arrived less than a minute later.
They didn’t need us.
That was good too.
Cross was furious.
Not at me.
Mostly.
“You took him toward an active response?” Grant stood across from her.
“I took him away from it.” “You reported moving to observation.” “Before the threat crossed our retreat route.” “You had a recovering civilian with you.” “Trainee.” “Recovering civilian.” I sat between them.
“This is fun.” Both looked at me.
I shut up.
Cross turned back to Grant.
“He is not licensed.” “He didn’t engage.” “He drew a weapon.” “After a Class Two entered our path.” “Enough.” That was me.
They both stopped.
I looked at Cross.
“I was fine.” “That’s not the point.” “I know.” She seemed surprised.
I continued.
“Grant told me to leave.
I listened.
The animal crossed our route.
I drew because he told me to.
I didn’t attack.” Cross looked at Grant.
He nodded.
I leaned back.
“So if you’re going to fire him, do it after tomorrow.
We’re working on close-range transitions.” Grant looked pleased.
Cross looked exhausted.
“I’m surrounded by children.” “He’s forty.” “Forty-six,” Grant said.
“Not helping.” She rubbed her forehead.
Then looked at me.
“How did it feel?” I knew what she meant.
Real monster.
Real danger.
Real sword.
I thought about it.
“Different.” “From the beetle?” “Yeah.” “How?” I looked toward the window.
“The beetle needed to die.” Cross waited.
“This one didn’t.” Something in her expression softened.
“Good.” Grant folded his arms.
“That’s what I said.” Cross pointed at him.
“Don’t.” He shut up.
I smiled.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the Ridgeback.
Because I’d made the right choice.
That sounds arrogant.
Maybe it was.
But three months earlier, Sword Mastery had felt like an answer to everything.
Hold sword.
Know.
Move.
Win.
Today, it had given me the cleanest way to kill an injured animal.
And I’d ignored it.
Not because the ability was wrong.
Because I had asked it the wrong question.
How do I cut this?
Instead of: Do I need to?
I lay there thinking about that for a long time.
Then I got up.
Not to train.
For once.
I went to the kitchen.
The secure residence was quiet.
I poured water.
Drank.
Put the glass down.
Someone had left tomorrow’s schedule on the counter.
I picked it up.
Running.
Core control.
Combat.
Academic work.
Monster response.
Nothing unusual.
At the bottom, Grant had written something by hand.
NEXT PHASE SOON.
DON’T GET COCKY.
I smiled.
Underneath, in different handwriting: He is already cocky.
Cross.
I found a pen.
I CAN READ THIS.
I left it on the counter.
Then went back to bed.
The next morning, Grant was waiting beside a government transport.
Not the usual training room.
Not the reserve vehicle.
A larger one.
Equipment cases in the back.
I stopped.
“Where are we going?” “Field work.” “I thought I wasn’t cleared.” “You’re not.” “Then?” “Observation.” I looked at the cases.
“Observation of what?” Grant tossed me a bag.
I caught it.
First aid supplies.
Radio.
Water.
Protective equipment.
Then he handed me a sheathed practice sword.
Not wood.
Blunted steel.
My grip tightened around it.
“Grant.” He opened the driver’s door.
“Relax.” “Where are we going?” “Controlled response exercise.” “Where?” He gave me the location.
I didn’t recognize it.
That was becoming rare.
“What am I doing?” “Watching.” “Only watching?” “Probably.” I stared at him.
“That’s suspicious.” “Get in.” I climbed into the passenger seat.
Grant started the engine.
As the training grounds disappeared behind us, I watched the sword resting across my knees.
Three months ago, I’d needed help standing.
Now I could run.
Fight.
Carry someone.
Use my Core without making every sensor in the room complain.
I still wasn’t where my ability wanted me to be.
Not close.
But my body had stopped feeling borrowed.
Kai Skyline had stopped feeling like someone I was impersonating every second of the day.
Not real.
Not yet.
But usable.
A life I could move inside.
Grant turned onto the highway.
“You nervous?” “No.” “Liar.” “A little.” “Good.” I looked out the window.
“Why good?” “Means you’re paying attention.” Trees passed.
Then buildings.
Then open road.
I rested my hand on the sword.
“Grant?” “Yeah?” “What’s the exercise?” He glanced at me.
“Evacuation and containment.” “What class?” “Three.” I looked at him.
“You said controlled.” “It is.” “Class Three controlled?” “Professionals will be handling the actual threat.” “And me?” “You’re support.” I thought about the Ridgeback.
The beetle.
Frank bleeding beneath my hands.
The ice afterward.
My fingers tightened around the sheath.
Grant noticed.
“Your job isn’t to prove anything.” “I know.” “Say it.” “My job isn’t to prove anything.” “Your job isn’t to kill the monster.” “I know.” “Say it.” “My job isn’t to kill the monster.” “Your job is?” I looked ahead.
The road stretched toward the horizon.
“Help where I’m useful.” Grant nodded.
“Good.” I watched the world move outside the window.
For the first time since waking, we weren’t driving somewhere to repair me.
We were driving somewhere that might need me.
I didn’t know yet how much that difference was going to matter.