The problem with improving was that eventually people expected you to do harder things.
I preferred the part where everyone congratulated me for walking.
Walking had been nice.
Nobody punched me while I walked.
Grant punched me while I was holding a sword.
I blocked.
Barely.
His padded glove struck the side of my blade, knocked it across my body, and before I could recover, his other hand hit me in the chest.
I stumbled backward.
“Again.” I reset.
Grant wasn’t using his batons.
That should’ve made this easier.
It didn’t.
I attacked.
Sword Mastery gave me the line immediately.
His left side was open.
Step.
Cut.
Rotate.
Recover.
Simple.
My first step was clean.
The second wasn’t.
Grant shifted.
My blade passed his shoulder.
His hand caught my wrist.
Suddenly I was looking at the ceiling.
I hit the mat.
Hard.
“Dead.” I stared upward.
“You don’t have a weapon.” “Neither does the ceiling.” “That’s not relevant.” “You keep ending up there.” I sat up.
My breathing was already heavier than I wanted.
We’d been training for eleven minutes.
Eleven.
Grant hadn’t even started sweating.
I stood.
“Again.” He sighed.
“You say that too much.” “You say dead too much.” “Stop dying.” “Stop cheating.” “How am I cheating?” “You’re grabbing me.” Grant stared at me.
“Do you think people aren’t allowed to touch swordsmen?” “They shouldn’t be.” “Again.” I raised the sword.
This time I waited.
Grant moved first.
His shoulder turned.
I knew the attack.
A straight punch.
I shifted outside it.
Perfect.
His other hand grabbed my shirt.
Less perfect.
He pulled.
My stance broke.
I tried to recover.
Knee to my thigh.
Not hard enough to injure.
Hard enough to make my leg stop cooperating.
Grant took the sword.
Then tapped the wooden blade against my forehead.
“Dead.” I closed my eyes.
“I hate this.” “Good.” “Why is everything good when you say it?” “Because complaining means you’re conscious.” He tossed the sword back.
I caught it.
“Again.” “No.” I blinked.
Grant walked toward the bench.
“We’re done.” “We just started.” “We’ve been going forty minutes.” I looked at the clock.
Forty-three.
That was concerning.
“Again.” Grant picked up his water.
“No.” “I can keep going.” “That’s not the question.” “It usually is.” “Which is part of your problem.” I frowned.
Grant drank.
Then pointed at the sword.
“Tell me what you’re doing wrong.” “You’re stronger than me.” “Yes.” “Faster.” “Yes.” “More experienced.” “Obviously.” “Modest.” “Extremely.” I sat on the bench across from him.
“My footwork still falls apart when you get inside sword range.” “Better.” “My grip tightens when I’m tired.” “Yep.” “I keep expecting the sword answer to solve the whole exchange.” Grant nodded.
There it was.
I looked down at the wooden sword.
That problem hadn’t disappeared.
I’d just gotten better at hiding it.
“When I’m at the right distance,” I said, “everything makes sense.” “Because your ability gives you answers.” “Yeah.” “And when I remove that distance?” I rotated the sword in my hand.
“Everything gets messy.” “Welcome to fighting.” I didn’t like fighting.
I liked swords.
Apparently those weren’t the same thing.
Grant leaned forward.
“You’ve improved fast.” That sounded suspiciously like encouragement.
“But?” “But you’re starting to confuse improvement with readiness.” There it was.
“I don’t think I’m ready.” “Part of you does.” “No.” “Skyline.” I looked at him.
“You watched me fight a Class Three last week.
You’ve been pushing harder ever since.” I didn’t answer.
Because that was true.
Grant continued.
“You saw things I did that most trainees wouldn’t have noticed.
Good.
You understood why I made some of those decisions.
Also good.” He tapped his temple.
“That doesn’t mean you can do them.” “I know.” “Do you?” I hated when he did that.
I looked away.
Through the observation glass, another training group worked across the facility.
Older than me.
One woman was sparring against two people at once.
She moved smoothly.
Not flashy.
Not impossibly fast.
Just experienced.
One opponent attacked.
She dealt with him without losing track of the other.
No hesitation.
No wasted movement.
She made it look easy.
I knew enough now to understand it wasn’t.
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.
Grant followed my gaze.
“Professionally?” “Yeah.” “Twenty-one years.” I looked at him.
“You’re old.” “Thank you.” “Twenty-one?” “Started response work at twenty-five.” I did the math.
“Forty-six.” “We established this.” “You don’t look forty-six.” Grant paused.
“Was that a compliment?” “No.” “Damn.” I looked back through the glass.
Twenty-one years.
I’d been rebuilding for months.
Months.
The difference sounded obvious when I put it like that.
It didn’t feel obvious when Sword Mastery showed me exactly what to do.
That was the dangerous part.
My ability made expertise feel close.
My body kept proving it wasn’t.
Core training was worse.
I could produce controlled output now.
That sounded impressive until Dr.
Sato made me do it while moving.
“Again.” I breathed.
Found the warmth.
Guided it.
Took three steps.
The output collapsed.
Sato looked at the monitor.
“Again.” “I know.” “Then do it.” I tried.
This time I maintained the Core flow for five steps.
Then turned.
Spike.
The sensor screamed.
I released everything.
Sato looked at me.
“Why?” “I turned.” “I saw.” “My balance shifted.” “And?” “I compensated.” “With your Core.” “Apparently.” She reset the monitor.
“Again.” I groaned.
For weeks, I’d learned Core control while standing still.
Then sitting.
Then walking slowly.
I had gotten good at all three.
Now Sato had decided that was meaningless.
She wasn’t completely wrong.
Which made it worse.
“Core control under ideal conditions is useful,” she said.
“Combat isn’t an ideal condition.” “I wasn’t asking.” “You were thinking loudly.” I started again.
Warmth.
Control.
Walk.
Turn.
Spike.
“Again.” By the end of the session, my shirt was soaked through.
I’d done almost nothing physically.
Sato handed me water.
I drank half of it immediately.
“How bad?” “Bad.” “Thanks.” “For someone who’s only been consciously controlling their Core for a few months?” I waited.
“Normal.” I looked at her.
“Normal?” “Approximately.” “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “Don’t get used to it.” I drank again.
“What happens if I force more through?” “You get tired faster.” “Besides that.” “Your control gets worse.” “Besides that.” “Your output becomes unstable.” “Besides that.” Sato frowned.
“What answer are you looking for?” “I don’t know.
Stronger?” She laughed.
Actually laughed.
I stared at her.
“Wow.” “I’m sorry.” “No, you’re not.” “You’re asking whether pushing more energy through an inefficient system magically fixes the inefficiency.” “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid.” I capped the bottle.
“So I can’t just increase output.” “You can.” I waited.
“You’ll be bad at it.” I hated specialists.
Grant made the problem worse that afternoon.
He put me against another trainee.
Her name was Lena Ortiz.
Nineteen.
No ability I was allowed to know about.
No sword.
She carried a padded training staff.
I looked at Grant.
“What’s the objective?” “Touch her chest with your blade.” “That’s it?” “That’s it.” I looked at Ortiz.
She smiled.
“Don’t look so worried.” “I’m not.” “You should be.” I liked her less immediately.
Grant raised his hand.
“Begin.” Sword Mastery flooded the problem with answers.
Staff.
Longer reach.
Two-handed grip.
Right hand dominant.
Weight slightly forward.
Several approaches presented themselves.
Close distance after the first strike.
Deflect rather than block.
Attack hands.
Control centerline.
I moved.
Ortiz hit me in the shin.
Hard.
I backed off.
She smiled.
“Ow.” “Very heroic.” “Shut up.” I attacked again.
She thrust.
I parried.
Correct.
Stepped inside.
Correct.
She released one hand from the staff.
Unexpected.
Her palm hit my chest.
I stumbled.
Staff swept my ankle.
Floor.
“Point,” Grant said.
I looked up.
“That wasn’t the objective.” “For you.” I sat up.
Ortiz offered her hand.
I ignored it and stood.
“Again.” Second round lasted longer.
I started understanding her rhythm.
She liked high feints.
Her left hand shifted before thrusts.
Her rear foot turned slightly before sweeps.
Patterns.
Good.
I could work with patterns.
She attacked high.
Feint.
I didn’t react.
Her eyes changed.
Real thrust came low.
I redirected.
Stepped inside.
Sword toward chest.
She rotated the staff vertically.
Blocked.
I changed angle.
She stepped backward.
I followed.
Too aggressively.
Her staff hooked behind my knee.
I went down.
Again.
Third round.
I got close.
Very close.
Blade stopped two inches from her chest.
She twisted.
Staff hit my ribs first.
“Point.” “That was simultaneous.” “It wasn’t,” Grant said.
“It basically was.” “It wasn’t,” Ortiz said.
“Nobody asked you.” She grinned.
Fourth round.
I lost.
Fifth.
Lost.
Sixth.
Lost.
On the seventh, I finally touched her.
Barely.
The wooden blade tapped the front of her protective vest.
I smiled.
Then her staff cracked against the side of my helmet.
I fell.
Grant looked down at me.
“Technically, you got the point.” I pulled off the helmet.
“Why do I feel like you’re about to ruin this?” “Because afterward you let her hit you in the head.” “I got the point.” “In training.” “Yes.” “In a real fight?” I looked at Ortiz.
She rested the staff over one shoulder.
“Concussion.” Grant nodded.
“Or worse.” My smile disappeared.
Right.
Winning the exercise wasn’t the same as surviving the exchange.
Again.
By the twelfth round, my arms felt heavy.
Sword Mastery hadn’t gotten worse.
That was almost insulting.
The answers stayed perfect.
My execution deteriorated.
Feet slower.
Grip tighter.
Breathing worse.
Ortiz noticed.
Of course she did.
She started pressuring me.
Not giving me time.
The clean solutions disappeared because I couldn’t physically create them.
She hit my thigh.
Shoulder.
Forearm.
Chest.
Grant finally called it.
I bent over with my hands on my knees.
Ortiz wasn’t fresh.
But she was standing straighter than I was.
“How long have you trained?” I asked.
“Staff?” “Yeah.” “Eight years.” I stared at her.
She smiled.
“Feel better?” “No.” “Good.” She walked away.
I looked at Grant.
“You planned that.” “Obviously.” “Why her?” “Because you needed to lose.” “I lose to you constantly.” “You’ve decided I’m supposed to beat you.” I straightened slowly.
“So?” “So losing to me doesn’t bother you anymore.” He nodded toward Ortiz.
“That did.” Unfortunately, he was right.
I hated that too.
The next morning, my entire body hurt.
Not injured.
Just sore.
I stood in front of the mirror and lifted my arm.
Shoulder complained.
Thigh complained.
Ribs complained.
Everything had an opinion.
I looked healthier than when I’d woken up.
That was undeniable now.
My face wasn’t hollow.
My shoulders had filled out.
The body in the mirror looked seventeen.
Maybe that was the strangest part.
I was beginning to look like the age everyone said I was.
I touched the scarred patch of skin near my ribs where one of Ortiz’s strikes had left a bruise.
Then looked at myself.
“Kai.” Nothing dramatic happened.
I was getting used to that too.
I didn’t know how I felt about it.
Maybe I didn’t need to yet.
Progress slowed.
That surprised me more than anything.
At first, everything had improved quickly because everything had been terrible.
Running for twelve minutes became twenty.
Twenty became thirty.
One pull-up became ten.
Ten became twenty.
Balance returned.
Coordination returned.
Muscle returned.
Then the easy improvements ended.
My five-kilometer time stopped dropping.
Core control plateaued.
Grant still beat me.
Ortiz came back twice.
She beat me too.
I got closer.
That somehow made losing more annoying.
Sword Mastery remained exactly what it had been from the beginning.
Perfect knowledge.
Imperfect me.
Some days the gap felt smaller.
Other days it felt enormous.
I started understanding why.
The better I became, the more I could see what I still couldn’t do.
At fourteen, I’d thought being good with a sword meant knowing how to swing one.
After waking, I’d thought Sword Mastery meant knowing every answer.
Now I was beginning to understand that an answer you couldn’t physically perform wasn’t much of an answer at all.
Grant found me in the training room late one evening.
I was working on one movement.
Nothing impressive.
Advance.
Cut.
Recover.
Again.
Advance.
Cut.
Recover.
Again.
My shirt clung to my back.
Grant leaned against the doorway.
“How long?” “Not long.” “That’s a lie.” I reset.
Advance.
Cut.
My rear foot landed slightly too far outward.
Wrong.
Again.
Grant walked in.
“Stop.” “I almost have it.” “No, you almost had it twenty minutes ago.” I lowered the sword.
“What does that mean?” “You’re tired.” “I can still move.” “Badly.” I looked at my feet.
He was right.
“One more.” “No.” “Grant.” He held out his hand.
I didn’t give him the sword.
“You’re getting obsessive.” “I’ve always been obsessive.” “That’s not a defense.” I stared at the blade.
“The answer is right there.” “I know.” “I know exactly how the movement should feel.” “I know.” “And I can’t do it.” “Not consistently.” “That’s worse.” Grant sighed.
“Skyline.” I looked at him.
“You’re trying to skip time.” That hit harder than I expected.
I said nothing.
Grant continued.
“You lost years.
I get it.” No.
He didn’t.
But I let him speak.
“You woke up and everyone else had kept moving.
Now you’re trying to make up the difference as fast as possible.” My grip tightened.
“Benny.” The name appeared in my head before I could stop it.
Frank.
Emi.
Threya.
All of them.
Three and a half years.
Training.
Growing.
Living.
I had been awake for every second of it.
Unable to move.
Grant didn’t know that part.
Not really.
He knew the report.
That wasn’t the same thing.
“Time doesn’t care that you missed some,” he said.
I looked at him sharply.
“That’s supposed to help?” “No.” “Good.” “It’s supposed to be true.” I hated him a little for that.
He held out his hand again.
This time I gave him the sword.
Grant placed it on the rack.
“You cannot train three and a half years in three months.” “I know.” “Do you?” There it was again.
I sat against the wall.
Grant sat beside me.
For a while neither of us said anything.
Eventually I asked, “How long until I’m good?” “At what?” “Fighting.” “Terrible question.” “Why?” “Because there’s always someone better.” “That’s encouraging.” “You want a number?” “Yes.” “Five years.” I looked at him.
He shrugged.
“Could be three.
Could be ten.
Depends what you mean by good.” “That’s useless.” “Exactly.” I leaned my head against the wall.
Grant looked toward the sword rack.
“You want something useful?” “Please.” “You’re better than you were yesterday.” I groaned.
“That’s awful.” “And tomorrow you’ll probably be a little better than today.” “Are you secretly eighty?” “Forty-six.” “You sound eighty.” “Go to bed.” The next week, Grant beat me in eleven seconds.
Not sparring.
A scenario.
I had a sword.
He had nothing.
I thought that gave me the advantage.
He threw a chair at me.
I cut it.
Technically beautiful.
Terrible decision.
The broken chair blocked my vision.
Grant tackled me.
Floor.
“Dead.” I lay there.
“You threw furniture.” “Yes.” “That’s stupid.” “It worked.” Again.
This time I moved around the chair.
Grant kicked it into my legs.
Floor.
“Dead.” Again.
I backed away.
He didn’t throw the chair.
Instead, he ran.
I prepared for him.
He ran past me.
Straight toward the civilian dummy.
I turned.
Too late.
Grant tapped its head.
“Dead.” I stared.
“What was I supposed to do?” “Protect the civilian.” “You attacked me.” “No.
I threw a chair.” “At me.” “Then you decided the fight was about you.” I looked at the dummy.
Damn it.
Again.
We repeated the scenario six times.
Grant changed something every time.
Door.
Smoke.
Second civilian.
Narrow hallway.
No sword at the beginning.
Injured arm.
By the end, I’d failed five.
Succeeded once.
Barely.
I sat on the floor.
Grant checked his notes.
“Twenty percent.” “Don’t calculate it.” “Sixteen point six, technically.” “I hate you.” “Good news.” “What?” “Last month you would’ve failed all six.” I looked up.
He meant it.
That was the irritating thing.
I was improving.
Just not dramatically.
No sudden transformation.
No moment where everything clicked and I became someone else.
I was still me.
Just slightly harder to kill.
Apparently that counted.
My Core didn’t suddenly become powerful either.
Sato made sure of that.
I could maintain a low flow while jogging now.
Usually.
I could reinforce a movement for a second or two.
Sometimes.
Trying to combine that with Sword Mastery made everything harder.
The first time I attempted Core reinforcement during a full-speed cut, I put too much into my lead leg.
My foot moved faster than the rest of me.
I fell spectacularly.
Sato watched from behind the monitor.
Grant watched from across the room.
Neither helped.
I sat on the floor.
“Anybody?” “No,” Grant said.
“Medical opinion?” I asked.
Sato looked at the screen.
“That was very funny.” I lay back down.
Eventually we tried again.
Less Core.
Slower.
My movement improved.
Barely.
Again.
Again.
Again.
One successful cut.
Then two failures.
Then another success.
That became the pattern.
Progress wasn’t a staircase.
It was apparently someone throwing rocks into a swamp and asking me to cross without getting wet.
A few days later, Grant took me back to the observation deck.
No monster this time.
The training floor below was empty.
He placed a tablet on the railing.
Footage from his Breakhorn fight played.
“You’ve watched this enough,” he said.
“I’ve watched it four times.” “Nine.” I looked at him.
“How do you know?” “System logs.” “That’s invasive.” “It’s government equipment.” “Still invasive.” Grant paused the video.
The Breakhorn was halfway through its first charge.
“What would you do here?” “Move.” “Where?” I pointed.
“Outside its right horn.
Cut beneath the jaw if the angle holds.” “Objective?” I stopped.
Grant smiled.
I hated that smile.
“Containment.” “Then?” I studied the image again.
Different question.
“Move left.
Keep its head away from evacuation.” “Good.” Next clip.
Grant on the ground after the divider.
“What here?” “Get up.” “Brilliant.” “You asked.” “Anything else?” “Don’t chase the counter.
Reestablish position.” “Good.” Next.
The opening at fourteen minutes.
“Kill opportunity.” “Yes.” “Do you take it?” “No.” “Why?” “Wrong objective.” Grant nodded.
Then shut off the tablet.
“Better.” I looked at the black screen.
“That’s it?” “That’s it.” “No sparring?” “Tomorrow.” “No conditioning?” “Already done.” “No Core?” “Sato banned you for the day.” “She can’t do that.” “She can.” I leaned against the railing.
Below us, the empty training street stretched beneath bright lights.
“Grant.” “Yeah?” “Do you think I could’ve survived down there?” He didn’t answer immediately.
That told me enough.
“Against the Breakhorn?” “Yeah.” “With me there?” “Alone.” “No.” Fast.
Certain.
I looked down.
“Not even maybe?” “Maybe you’d get lucky.” “That’s different.” “Very.” I appreciated that he didn’t soften it.
“How long would I last?” “Depends.” “Guess.” Grant studied me.
“Longer than when you woke up.” “Very funny.” “I’m serious.” He looked down at the training street.
“You’d see a lot.
Probably more than most people at your experience level.” That sounded good.
“But you’d try to act on too much of it.” Less good.
“You’d burn stamina.
Your Core control would degrade.
You’d trust your sword knowledge over your actual physical limits.
Eventually you’d be half a step too slow.” Grant tapped the railing.
“Against something like that, half a step is enough.” I imagined the Breakhorn’s horn.
Frank.
The beetle.
Blood.
“Okay.” Grant looked at me.
“Disappointed?” “A little.” “Good.” I glanced at him.
“There’s that word again.” He smiled.
“Means you’re not stupid enough to think you’re ready.” I looked back down.
Months ago, I would’ve hated hearing no.
Maybe I still did.
But there was something useful about knowing exactly where the wall was.
I didn’t need to break it today.
I needed to keep building until one day it wasn’t a wall anymore.
That night, I added a new page to my notebook.
I’d started keeping one again.
Not the old notebook.
That was somewhere in storage with the rest of Akio Kita’s things.
This one had KAI SKYLINE written on the inside cover.
I hadn’t written it.
Cross had.
I almost threw it away when she gave it to me.
I didn’t.
On the first page, I had monster notes.
Second, Core exercises.
Third, mistakes Grant kept exploiting.
There were many.
Tonight I turned to a blank page.
At the top, I wrote: THINGS I CAN’T DO YET Then I stopped.
That sounded depressing.
I added one word.
THINGS I CAN’T DO YET, BUT WILL Better.
I started writing.
Maintain Core under full movement.
Fight effectively without a sword.
Protect someone while fighting.
Manage stamina in prolonged combat.
Read multiple opponents.
Fight injured.
Use terrain deliberately instead of noticing afterward.
Stop chasing every opening.
Know when not to attack.
I hesitated.
Then added: Beat Ortiz.
Underlined it.
Twice.
Then: Beat Grant.
I stared at that one.
Added: Eventually.
That seemed reasonable.
I closed the notebook.
There was no sudden rush of power.
No breakthrough.
No mysterious new ability.
Tomorrow Grant would probably throw another chair at me.
Sato would make me walk in circles while controlling my Core.
Ortiz might hit me with a stick.
And I would probably lose more than I won.
For now, that was fine.
I didn’t need to become strong tomorrow.
I just needed tomorrow to make me a little harder to beat than I was today.