— Lei —

  Miri didn’t cry out when the guandao hit her—but she didn’t get up, either.

  I watched her go down hard, a sharp crack echoing through the courtyard as she hit the sand, arm bent wrong beneath her and collarbone broken. Xo didn’t move. Neither did Liu. For a moment, everything held still.

  Then Kiri stepped forward. He didn’t shout. He didn’t make a scene. He just moved—face tight, controlled, expression wrapped in that same self-important calm he wore like a family heirloom.

  Captain Shen blocked him with a single arm.

  “She’s bleeding.”

  “Then she learns.”

  Kiri didn’t flinch, but I could see the heat behind his eyes. A brother ready to burn something down, held back by orders and reputation.

  “Lei.” Shen said, without looking.

  “Sir ?”

  “You’re a healer, aren’t you? Practice.”

  She didn’t look at me, didn’t flinch when I touched her arm. Her face was pale with pain, pride cracking just around the edges.

  The break was clean. Painful, but not beyond mending. I centered my breath, let the Qi rise, soft and steady—like ripples across silk.

  When it was done, she didn’t thank me. I didn’t expect her to. She rose, jaw clenched. I helped her walk.

  I didn’t look at Kiri.

  But I could feel him watching.

  Shen gave me a twenty-minute break to recover my Qi. I drank slowly, seated in the shade of the barracks wall, eyes half-closed as I focused on my core.

  The Qi returned in waves—small, steady, like water drawn up through roots. I could still feel where I’d spent it earlier, the trace of strain in my wrists, the dull ache behind my eyes.

  It would pass. But the tension didn’t.

  Not with Kiri across the courtyard, pacing like a lion trying to decide whether it was beneath him to roar.

  I knew that walk.

  He’d had it since we were children—draped in silk and gold at formal gatherings, always the first to speak, the first to win, the first to make sure you knew it. Kiri Huang, heir to the Huang family line. Fire-blooded and paradoxically, light-attuned. As if the world thought that he didn’t shine enough. That he wasn’t talented enough. Or charismatic.

  Insufferable.

  He wasn’t cruel, not openly. He was worse—perfect. The kind of perfect that bent every room around him. And everyone played along. Even I did, once. I remember the banquets. The way our parents spoke of him. “Young Kiri will be a general before he’s twenty-five.” “You should spend more time with the Huang boy, Lei. He sets a fine example.”

  I hated him for that. Still do.

  Not because of anything he ever did. But because of what he stood for—the weight of legacy, of performance, of bloodlines held above truth.

  He never left that world that I ran away from.

  And now I have to fight beside someone who doesn’t even believe in it—Nozomi, who doesn’t know what it’s like to live under the eyes of people who measure you by the family name stitched into your collar. Sometimes, I envied her. Until she told me, what happened to her family. It was likely less than half the story, but I guessed the end. And she knows what it means to survive.

  Shen’s voice snapped through the heat.

  “Nozomi, Lei. You’re up.”

  I rose, slower than I meant to. My legs felt steady. My core, recharged. My mind... not quite.

  Across from us, Kiri stepped forward, posture crisp, chin lifted as if the world owed him a challenge worth his time. Jin followed silently, small and focused, her presence barely brushing the air. I don’t even recall her saying something even once. Didn’t catch her voice once in more than a month.

  Nozomi stood beside me. We exchanged a look, saying nothing. Just nodded once.

  I set my bow in my palm, fingers tight around the grip. Knuckles white.

  No arrows will miss today.

  The pit was quieter than it had been a moment before. Even the dust hung heavier in the air, like it knew the balance could tilt either way.

  The captain raised his hand.

  “Begin.”

  I moved first.

  No dramatic opening, no call to draw attention—just a clean step to the side, drawing an arrow with practiced calm. Kiri was already advancing, his sword flashing in the early sun as he closed toward Nozomi. Jin slipped left, circling me without a word.

  I didn’t wait. I turned and loosed.

  The arrow flew in a smooth line, faster than thought—and struck Kiri just below the shoulder.

  I saw it land. Saw him stagger half a step, blade still mid-swing, his head snapping toward me.

  One point.

  “Told you.”

  He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just turned away and quickly fell back into stance.

  Nozomi was already there to meet him.

  Their blades met again and again, sharp claps of steel ringing across the courtyard. She fought like she danced—balanced, precise, never showing more effort than necessary. Kiri countered like a man raised in the formal styles—each movement efficient, elegant, controlled. It was like watching fire shape itself into swordplay.

  They traded one clean hit each.

  His caught her across the hip—just barely.

  Hers answered an instant later, slashing upward across his arm as he tried to retreat.

  Jin moved again.

  I turned, trying to track her, already drawing another arrow, but she cut through the distance like smoke—there, then gone—slipping straight into my blind spot. I twisted, dropped the bow, and reached for the short blade at my belt. I barely had time to bring it up.

  She was too fast.

  “Shit.”

  The first hit tapped my shoulder—light, but certain.

  I stepped back, trying to recover my stance, but she didn’t stop. The second strike caught my ribs clean, and I stumbled before I caught myself.

  “Match. Tiger Squad.”

  Nozomi was still standing firm, blade at the ready, her breathing steady but sharp. Kiri had slowed slightly—my arrow had rattled him—but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  I let out a long breath and lowered my sword.

  Jin stepped back, still silent, and nodded once in my direction. Respectful, maybe. Or just tired.

  Nozomi didn’t say anything. Just gave me a look. We hadn’t lost because of me. But we hadn’t won, either.

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  And Kiri?

  He didn’t smirk. He didn’t posture. He just gave me a look as he passed—measured, unreadable. But I saw the flicker in his eyes.

  They trained in silence the next morning.

  Miri wasn’t there. Still recovering.

  No one said her name, but the space she left behind lingered like the echo of a blade that hadn’t stopped ringing. Her bunk was neatly made. Her boots untouched. And in the courtyard, where she usually stretched with one foot perched on the railing, that corner stayed empty.

  Panda Squad didn’t speak about it. There was nothing to say.

  She’d overreached. Charged too fast. Paid for it.

  Xo didn’t flinch when the memory came back—he adjusted his grip, checked the balance of his guandao, and moved through the warm-up drills with the same even rhythm. Liu was quiet, but he always was. Lei glanced once at the row of water jugs and didn’t look again. Nozomi didn’t change a thing.

  But if the movements were the same, the weight behind them had shifted. They hit harder. Braced cleaner. Not to prove anything. Just because now, they knew. Knew what happened when you didn’t.

  Across the yard, the Tigers drilled in near-perfect unison.

  Except for Kiri.

  He was sharp, as always—too sharp. His pivots snapped like he was cutting cloth, not air. His strikes landed with too much force for a simple form. No one called him on it, but even Bao gave him a glance.

  Jin moved without speaking, same as always. But her eyes flicked toward Kiri’s back once. Just once.

  Instructor Shen called a break before noon. No speeches. Just a nod toward the shade, and the clatter of canteens being uncapped.

  They drank in silence.

  And this time, no one filled it.

  The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of bruises, repetition, and sweat-drenched discipline.

  Morning drills gave way to meditation. Sword forms in the dust turned into footwork exercises beneath the sun. And between them all, the squads moved like two moons in orbit—occasionally brushing, but never quite colliding.

  Shen and Huo demanded more with each passing session. More control. More power. More precision.

  The recruits learned to breathe through pain. To spot a feint in a half-blink. To react without thinking. To think even while reacting.

  And one morning, Captain Shen Kaizen changed the game.

  No pairings. No matches. He stood alone in the center of the ring, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable.

  “One at a time,” he said, nodding toward the assembled students. “You fight me.”

  A silence fell that no one wanted to be the first to break.

  Huo, leaning on his staff, gave a half-smile. “The goal’s not to win kids.”

  Shen stepped forward, slow and casual, like he had all the time in the world.

  “You don’t get points today. You just try not to lose.”

  One by one, they stepped in.

  Kiri went first—proud, poised, determined. He lasted ten seconds. Two strikes. One sweep to the ankle, a tap to the temple. Bao managed slightly longer, absorbing blows with his thick frame but unable to land a single one. Even Xo, fast and grounded, fell within a dozen heartbeats. His guandao struck air and nothing more but the sand.

  And then came Nozomi.

  She simply moved. Fluid. Controlled. Eyes never leaving Shen. She lasted nearly a full minute. At one point, her blade came within inches of his side.

  It didn’t connect.

  But he moved. Half an inch, maybe less.

  That alone was enough to draw glances between recruits.

  When she finally hit the sand, there was no embarrassment on her face. Only something colder. More focused.

  “Adaptable,” he said. “That’s worth more than strength.”

  The training continued.

  And for the first time since they arrived, the line between Pandas and Tigers began to soften by the unspoken understanding that they were still very far from the top.

  The courtyard was bathed in the kind of evening light that made even stone look warm. The day's heat lingered on the walls of the compound, but the worst of it had passed. The air smelled faintly of rice, stewed mushrooms, and crushed herbs from the healer’s garden.

  The Panda Squad sat in their usual corner of the mess hall—away from the louder clusters of recruits. Nozomi rested her elbows on the table, one boot propped against the bench. Lei sat across from her, rubbing at his shoulder where Shen had clipped him earlier that day. Xo leaned back slightly, bowl in hand, chewing in contemplative silence.

  Liu arrived last, two bowls in hand—one for him, one he slid toward Lei, without a word.

  “Thanks,” Lei said, taking it with a nod. “I think that’s the first time my ribs don’t hurt during dinner.”

  “Give it a few hours,” Xo muttered, half amused. “Your pride might still be bruised.”

  Nozomi let out a quiet laugh. “Captain Shen fights like a storm with eyes. Fast, but always watching.”

  “He didn’t even try,” Lei added, half-grimacing. “Didn’t draw a blade. Just made us chase shadows.”

  “He stepped on my foot,” Xo said, glancing down at his boot. “Didn’t even know you could lose a spar that way.”

  Nozomi tilted her head at him. “Did you fall?”

  “No.”

  Lei raised an eyebrow. “You flinched though.”

  Xo grunted.

  That earned a smirk from Nozomi.

  They ate for a while in quiet satisfaction. The rhythm of shared exhaustion was starting to feel… normal. Familiar. Good, even.

  Then Lei broke the silence, his voice softer now.

  “Liu,” he said, “you haven’t said much today.”

  “I rarely do,” Liu replied between bites.

  “Yeah, but…” Lei leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “What was it like? Before this. Back home.”

  Liu blinked at him, then looked down at his bowl.

  “Quiet.”

  A pause.

  “That’s it?” Nozomi asked, half-smiling.

  Liu shrugged. “Peaceful. I lived near the edge of the woods outside Jiebing. My family runs a forge. I worked there after the school hours—helped shape plowheads and carving knives. Sometimes swords, when orders came in. But not often.”

  “You had cultivators in the family, right?” Lei asked. “I remember you mentioned something… about your grandfather?”

  Liu nodded slowly. “One. Long ago. But it didn’t really mean anything. We were just smiths. Good ones, but nothing special. I used to watch the sky more than the forge. Made up stories. Wondered what the world looked like beyond the river bends.”

  Xo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So this,” he said, motioning to the stone walls, the bowls of food, the weapons leaning by the door, “is all new.”

  “All of it,” Liu said, nodding. “First time leaving the village, for real. First time fighting anything bigger than a stubborn pig.”

  “That explains the way you handle your swords,” Nozomi said, gently. “You move like someone who taught himself.”

  “I did,” Liu replied. “We had one old manual. I copied the pages into a journal. Tried them out behind the house.”

  Lei chuckled, and even Xo’s lip twitched.

  “You taught yourself with a journal,” Nozomi said. “That’s adaptability. Shen would approve.”

  “That’s it, huh?” Lei questioned. “No mentors, no secret scrolls?”

  Liu smiled faintly, a rare thing. “Just time. And imagination.”

  There was a brief silence, not awkward—just still. The kind that settles between people who’ve finally started to see one another clearly.

  “You miss it?” Nozomi asked, softer now.

  Liu didn’t answer immediately. He looked toward the fading orange sky beyond the mess hall’s open window.

  “I do,” he said. “But I think I was always meant to leave. I just never knew why. Maybe that was because I loved cultivator stories when I was a kid. Being the hero and save the day.”

  No one replied right away. But something in the silence shifted—understanding, like a soft thread beginning to weave between them.

  And when Xo finally spoke, it wasn’t to change the subject.

  It was just to say: “You lasted longer than I thought you would today.”

  Liu looked over at him.

  “So did you.”

  Nozomi chuckled under her breath. “Still didn’t touch the captain.”

  They finished their meals slowly after that, silence falling in soft waves as bowls were scraped clean and spoons set aside. The firelight from the mess hall hearth flickered across the stone floor, casting long shadows behind them. Outside, someone rang the bell for night watch. The courtyard beyond had settled into the hush of evening drills ending.

  Lei glanced over at Liu.

  “Did you ever send a letter? Back home?”

  Liu nodded, wiping his hands on the cloth beside his tray. “A few days ago. Just to let them know I’m alive. Nothing dramatic.”

  Lei smiled faintly. “I guess we’re supposed to do that.”

  He looked down at his empty bowl, then added, “I wrote one too.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, absently rotating the bowl with his fingers.

  “I didn’t say where I got placed,” he said finally. “Didn’t mention the Strike Force. Just wrote about the city. The harbor. The food.”

  Liu leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “You didn’t want them to know?”

  “No,” Lei said. Then, after a beat, “Yes. I don’t know.”

  He let out a soft breath. “My father probably found out anyway. He has people. Half the reason I didn’t write more was to let him stew in the silence. Imagine him reading it and feeling insulted. That’s the fantasy, anyway.”

  “And the other part?” Liu asked gently.

  Lei’s voice dipped low, almost casual.

  “The part where I wanted him to be proud?”

  He shrugged, but the movement lacked conviction.

  “He won’t be. Not for this. Not for anything I do that isn’t exactly what he planned.”

  A longer pause passed between them.

  Liu’s tone softened further. “Your mother?”

  “Dead,” Lei said, simply. “Years ago. When I was young. I don’t really remember her face. Just her voice. The way she used to hum when she thought no one was listening.”

  He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I have a sister. She’s still at home. She... she believed in all of it. The legacy, the teachings, the Shui name. Sometimes I think I stayed as long as I did because of her. She didn’t ask for any of this. And I left anyway.”

  Liu didn’t offer comfort. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just nodded, eyes steady.

  “You’ll write her again?”

  Lei looked over, surprised by the question. Then, after a pause, he said:

  “Yeah. I think I will.”

  Nozomi hadn’t said anything in a while, but she hadn’t left either. She sat there, arms folded on the table, watching the two of them speak like it was something rare.

  Maybe it was, she thought.

  Xo stood with a quiet grunt and stretched his back. “If I don’t sleep soon,” he muttered, “my legs will file for desertion.”

  Liu smirked. “That’s not how it works.”

  Xo was already walking away. “Tell that to my knees.”

  Lei stood a moment later, glancing toward the dorms.

  He looked at Liu once more.

  “Thanks,” he said. It wasn’t clear for what—but Liu nodded anyway.