Chapter 29: Chapter 29: Sparring for Dummies
Selene didn’t so much lead me through Central as decide where my feet wanted to go and then let me pretend I’d chosen it. Past the lobby’s hush, past a pair of guards who stopped being bored when they clocked her, we climbed a stair that smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline and came out on a mezzanine of glass and hum.
Below us sat a sunken ring—thirty meters across, round as a coin, light trapped under its skin. Runes stitched the rail and purred like a cat with opinions. Two med stations flanked the far gate, healers waiting with the weary patience of people who only get called when something cracks. Benches ringed the pit: trainees, examiners, a couple of suits, and a scatter of veterans whose posture saluted gravity out of habit.
Selene pressed her palm to the rail. The glass shaded darker, recognizing command."No kill. Keeper runes at sixty percent. Regeneration damped while you’re on the sand," she said. "If you blink, everyone here learns your middle name."
"I don’t have one."
"You do if you vanish." She gave me that half-smile that always looked like it had teeth.
Lightning Step stayed caged. The knives didn’t. Fangpiercer at my right, Gloamthorn left—balanced weight, twin heartbeats. Fogbite stayed in Inventory; the last thing I needed was a Tyrant signature pinging every scanner in the building.
I glanced at her. "So this is, what, another pop quiz?"
"Evaluation," she said. "Central wants to see if you’re a fluke or a weapon. They’ve got questions your file can’t answer."
"Let me guess—someone important’s watching."
"Several someones," she said. "Including the one who decides whether you walk out of here as an anomaly or a classified asset."
"Sounds relaxing."
"Don’t worry," she said dryly. "It’s just a spar. You get to fight an S-rank for free. Most people pay good money for that kind of humiliation."
"Can I return it if it kills me?"
"Depends on how good your warranty is."
She leaned on the rail, eyes following me down. "You’re not here to win, Cross. You’re here to make them believe you belong in a room with killers. Don’t overplay it."
"Right. Look competent, not terrifying. Got it."
"Try to keep your blood inside this time," she said. "And for the love of paperwork, don’t glow or something crazy."
"That’s asking a lot."
"Do your best," she said, and for half a heartbeat, it almost sounded like she meant be careful.
I walked down. The floor was packed grit over a thin rune-mesh—springy, alive. It sighed once under my boots and then forgot me. Metal, sweat, chalk, oil: same perfume every arena wore. Arcadia loved building altars for violence and calling them training facilities.
A gate groaned open opposite. A towering figure ducked through.
S-rank wasn’t about size. It was about density. He carried it like a thunderhead—broad, scarred, calm. Short dark hair, coat reinforced but worn, a wrapped railblade slung across his back like a grudge.
"Kade Varro," someone whispered, reverent. Stone-weaver, veteran, The kind of hunter who showed up for rookies because boredom killed slower than monsters.
He met Selene’s eyes, got a nod, then studied me like I was a tool he wanted to know the balance of.
"Ethan Cross," he said. His voice was gravel rolled smooth. "They say you’re quick."
"Rumors," I said. "I specialize in disappointment."
"Good." He smiled without warmth. His fingers brushed the railblade’s hilt; air thickened around my boots. The floor decided I weighed twenty percent more than last step.
[Anchor Field Detected — Mass Differential +18 %]
The booth chimed three notes—the Guild’s idea of ceremony.
[Exhibition Live][Safety Suite Active (60%)][Regeneration Suppressed][Yield = End]
Perfect. No regeneration, sixty percent safeties. A fair fight, if you hated yourself.I flexed my hands once. The familiar hum of Absolute Regeneration sat there, sulking—like a bodyguard locked outside the club."Great," I muttered under my breath. "Manual mode it is."Kade rolled one shoulder, calm as stone. I exhaled slow. The first minute of any fight is ninety percent lying about how scared you are.
He didn’t swagger or posture—Kade Varro didn’t need to. He just stood there, one hand loose on the wrapped railblade like he was about to demonstrate physics. His aura pressed light but steady, gravity given a personality. I could feel it in the soles of my boots, a kind of quiet warning: don’t waste my time.
I moved first—not a lunge, just a half step to test range. The grit underfoot shifted, whispering. He didn’t react. No tell. No blink. The man was carved out of patience.
Then he moved, and the floor tried to kill me.
Not a shockwave, not visible magic or a skill—just weight. The grit beneath my boots decided to love him more than me, clinging, dragging. My balance tilted.
"Rude," I muttered. The band on my wrist warmed, eager and smug.
Count. One-two-three.
On three, he struck.
The rail came down in a diagonal arc, all economy, no waste. I ducked right and forward—past the edge, not away—and Fangpiercer cut a silver curve for his ribs. Sparks popped where steel kissed steel. The shock rode my arm to my shoulder, rang my teeth, and told me I’d picked the wrong hobby.
He pivoted clean, reset stance, no stumble. Pros never overextend. Pros let you do it.
We broke apart. His weapon hummed, tuned to a note I didn’t have the ear for.
"Your footwork is to easy to read," he said.
"Blade’s heavier than advertised," I answered.
We traded six more exchanges—each one a test disguised as mercy. He pressed from every angle but never rushed. A shoulder feint. A low cut that baited greed. A sweep that forced me to pivot on a bad heel. I nicked the leather near his hip once. He slammed two body checks into me that rattled my ribs and reminded me the safeties were doing charity work.
[Impact Absorbed — 19% Kinetic][Stamina Drain ↑ 8%]
Then the air changed. It wasn’t sound, it was pressure.
The grit around his boots lifted, forming a faint halo, little grains orbiting like planets. The arena’s hum deepened, resonant.
[Anchor Surge — Field Density +42%]
Everything in me got heavier except panic. My joints slowed, lungs dragging air like it was syrup.
He advanced. One step and the world leaned with him.
My boots protested, sinking a fraction into compacted grit that suddenly had feelings. I shortened my movements—small pivots, half-breath dodges. No wasted swings. Just stay inside the rhythm.
One-two-three.Breathe through it.
He came again—railblade sweeping in a short, brutal diagonal. I parried on instinct, steel scraping steel, the sound too clean to be natural. Sparks bloomed between us like camera flashes. Gloamthorn slipped from my left hand in a low rake, snagged cloth, drew only thread. Useless.
Kade exhaled through his nose. S-rank for noted.
He shifted his feet. Pressure spiked again.
I dropped low. Grit burst under my heel. The rail hissed over my shoulder, close enough to shear a few hairs off the jacket Mara gave to me. My counter came out of pure spite—Fangpiercer twisting for his ribs. He caught it with a subtle shift, turning my hit into a near miss. The keeper runes screamed blue around us, soaking damage like they’d been waiting for it.
[Safety Absorption — 27%]
[Regeneration Suppressed]
Cool. Love that for me.
Sweat slid down my back, stinging the cut from last week’s dungeon. Up in the mezzanine, Selene’s heels clicked once against the glass—maybe approval, maybe a warning.
Kade’s eyes met mine. Calm. Focused. The kind of stare that said he’d already mapped every mistake I was about to make.
He pressed forward, relentless as rain. I gave ground, but not too much. Backpedaling is how you become a body outline. I let him herd me, let the rhythm feel predictable, then baited a low horizontal swing and let my balance break wrong on purpose.
He bit. I corkscrewed under, grit spraying, Fangpiercer flicking sideways across his hip. The line was shallow but it glowed bright where the enchantment flared.
The benches went ooh in unison. Humans are simple.
Kade looked down at the scratch like it had said something clever. "Flinch judo," he murmured.
"Only art I can afford."
Then the world got dense.
He dropped his rail’s tip to the floor. The rune-light around his boots flared, bright and molten.
[Anchor Field — Full Lock Engaged]
The sand under me turned into cement. My boots welded to it. The pull caught my chest like a chain.
He didn’t swing this time—he pulled. The air, the floor, everything tilted toward him.
[Anchor Core Resonance: 100% Output][Mobility Penalty: +70%]
My whole body lurched forward without permission. Every instinct screamed Step, but Lightning Step was a grenade I couldn’t throw in a room full of scanners.
So I borrowed something older.
The hammer-beat the Watchers left in me—the rhythm of the forge. One-two-three—drop.
I let my hips collapse like a marionette with cut strings. The pull clawed the air I’d vacated and snapped empty space. I slid under his arm, Fangpiercer’s hilt driving hard into the knot of muscle above his knee.
Impact solid. Real pain. His leg buckled a fraction, stance hitching.
Gloamthorn came up fast for his exposed elbow—
—and the field spiked again.
The air slammed me sideways, spine-first into the floor. My ribs sang. My lungs wrote a letter of resignation.
He could pulse the anchor. Fantastic.
The rail’s wrapped spine kissed my side, not enough to break, just enough to remind me that dying was a luxury we weren’t allowed.
[Safety Suite Load 76% — Limit Warning]
My breath came ragged, but I still managed a smirk. "Overachiever."
He didn’t answer, just raised the rail for another lesson.
I rolled sideways, grit burning my forearms, and slashed at his wrist—a petty, desperate move that only made him grin. He blocked, effortless. My footing failed. Knees hit sand.
"Yield," he said. Not cruel. Just fact.
I could’ve stood. I could’ve cheated. Lightning Step hummed under my ribs like a switch begging to be flipped. But Selene hadn’t moved. That meant the politics were already written.
So I placed Gloamthorn down first, then Fangpiercer. Careful, ceremonial. "Yield," I said. And meant not today.
The runes cooled. The gravity thinned. Air came back tasting like copper.
Applause rippled—polite, relieved. The kind of clap people give when you don’t bleed on their paperwork.
Kade offered a hand. I took it. His grip was stone and sun-warm. He pulled me up like I weighed exactly what I should.
"You breathe when the room tells you not to," he said. "Keep that. It saves lives and ruins plans."
"I ruin a lot of plans," I said.
"You count," he added. "Don’t let anyone make you stop."
"Already tried," I said.
He didn’t ask who.
We bowed, quick and quiet. He thumped my shoulder—just enough to remind me of anatomy—and walked off to a knot of trainers dissecting our mistakes frame by frame.
Selene waited halfway up the stair, unreadable."That field hates you," she said.
"Gravity’s never liked my style."
"You hid the trick," she murmured.
"I’m a very normal man. My hobbies include breathing and irony."
She eyed me sidelong. "Don’t be cute for them. Save it for me."
"Working on it," I said, and immediately regretted honesty.
"Come on." She jerked her chin toward the upper levels. "You made the right kind of noise. The old man wants to hear it up close."
"Guildmaster?" I asked, though we both knew.
"Bring your knives," she said. "Leave your habits."
"My habits are the knives."
"Then try leaving one."
We took the back stairs—past glass booths where examiners replayed my stumble in slow motion, past a bulletin board covered in notices and bad cartoons. The hum of the arena faded behind us, replaced by the steadier pulse of the tower.
I caught one last look through the glass down to the sand. The runes were already healing the footprints, smoothing the floor flat, erasing evidence like it had never held a fight. Arcadia loved clean slates.
Selene’s steps stayed a half beat ahead of mine. "You did fine," she said finally.
"Fine as in pass, or fine as in didn’t explode?"
"Fine as in people will argue about it in the cafeteria."
"Then I’ve peaked."
She didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth threatened mutiny. "Try not to peak until the Guildmaster’s finished with you. He doesn’t like paperwork."
"Neither do I," I said.
"Good. You might live through this week, then."
We reached the hall outside his office—quiet, clean, door labeled Please Knock Like a Human.
Selene didn’t.
She opened it with two fingers and a smile sharp enough to count as a weapon.