The morning arrived like a thought — slow, inevitable, and at once entirely plain. A thin autumn wind threaded the pines, rubbing chill along the necks of those who lingered, and carried with it the faint, sharp scent of smoke and damp moss. Dawn light, pale and honest, poured between the branches and painted the clearing in stripes of cool gold. It told them, without drama, that it was time to go home.
By the cabin the men and children moved with the careful, automatic choreography of people who had lived for weeks on nothing but ritual and work. Tora and Kandaki had already folded their blankets and tied straps tight around bundles of clothes; Ozvold sat cross-legged on the porch with his violin case open, tuning a string with the same distracted care he used when he wanted to make noise without meaning it. Bernard arranged provisions into a battered rucksack, the motions sure and slow as though each item had to be laid in by hand to be believed. The small knots of rope and the way the cloth flapped when set just so bore the marks of someone who had done this before, and who would do it again.
Toki and Mr. Smith were not busy with luggage. They sat together on the old log that Toki had dragged across the clearing so many times these past months that its bark had become polished by the memory of his hands. The wood smelled faintly of resin and sweat. Toki's eyes rested on the children as if memorizing a picture he planned to keep. Smith, with the pipe still warm between his fingers, cut the silence with the sort of gentle precision a man who had taught for decades uses when testing the seams of a thought.
"The training camp ends today," Smith said "You and the children have been at it for two months. They've changed, Toki. So have you. Are you satisfied with what you built out of this time?"
Toki's gaze did not leave Tora as she bent to tuck a strap under her pack. Her braid swung like a pendulum, catching light, catching breath. Kandaki ran a finger along the edge of a wrapped loaf, tracing its crust as if measuring time in crumbs. Ozvold watched them with one lazy brow raised, as if he had only half-believed they would ever get here at all. Bernard, tightening the straps on his pack, caught Toki's look and returned it with a thin, cautious smile.
Toki answered slowly. His voice was lower than the morning wind, as if he were shaping each word by feeling it on his teeth before letting it out. "Tora is as fast as the wind now. That… strange running stance of hers — it's become an advantage. She's learned to let her body bend with the motion of the air, and that makes her harder to catch. Kandaki has become… tempered. He learned patience the way one learns a blade: by constant wearing, by striking until the edge files itself. He can break the rock now — not with wild force, but with counted blows. I'm proud of them both."
There was a pause during which Smith's fingers smudged a faint ring in the air where the pipe had been. The old man made a quiet sound like a chuckle that had half grieved.
"And you?" Smith said. The question hung, careful, like a test. "You say you are proud, but you sound… distant. Are you satisfied with your own progress?"
Toki's lips quirked, not a smile but something like an assessment. He looked away then — toward the path they would take, a pale line through the trees that led to the capital. For a moment his face was a mask, the kind men wear when they are deciding which sins to confess and which to keep. "I am not," he said at last. "They've taken more than I thought they could. They've taken so much I feared I would never teach them anything of worth. Yet… there is a thing I did not do. I have not beaten you at full capacity."
Smith barked a short laugh that shook with a kind of disbelief and a threaded fondness. He drew hard on his pipe and let the smoke unspool in a thin column that crisscrossed the morning air. "You are mad," he said plainly. "Truly mad. You made me devise daily trials I swore were impossible. And yet you conquered them for the children' s sake. You still worry that you did not best me in a duel? The man who would say no is an idiot, Toki — or a flatterer."
Toki's voice, when he answered, lost the casualness and wore instead the small, hard clarity of a man who has placed a wager with himself. "It is not about victory for its own sake," he said. "It is proof. If I cannot push past the limit I set myself, then the limit stays solid for everyone else. If I can break it here, I make its pieces safe to step on later."
"You will not be satisfied with anything less," Smith said, and there was a tiny edge to his voice now, sharpened by a memory of nights where he had taught with a tenderness that equaled cruelty. "You want to see me push back so you can measure what you think you are. You think a duel will give you a number where you can write 'done.'"
Toki didn't smile. "Numbers lie. They only tell what happens under a single light. I want the feel of it. I want to know whether I can still carry all of this — what I have taught them — when someone aims to break me. "
From the children's side of the clearing there came a small noise — a catch, an intake of breath. Tora's fingers tightened into her braid. Kandaki's jaw worked. Bernard rose, the spoon he had used for last night's stew still clutched; the muscles in his forearm tensed as if he might step between them. His voice, when he spoke, was rough with the shield of fear that formed for those who loved someone capable of reckless insistence.
"You don't have to do this," Bernard said. "Toki, you have taught them enough. Let the lesson breathe. We can leave now, safe."
Ozvold's mouth twitched, an expression that could have been a smile if it were less lazy. He shrugged, the motion idle, but his voice carried something like an accord that commanded stillness. "Let him go," he said softly. "There is more for them to see here than a gentle end. If Toki wishes to chase a shadow, let him. The children will learn what the chase costs. That is a lesson none of us should rob them of."
"You are strong enough now," Bernard said to Toki, but it was a wistful thing, like the last warm bread pulled before the pot comes to boil. But still… do not make a grave of your pride."
Toki bowed his head a fraction, a gesture that might have been respect or a shield. "I fight so that their swords might never be the straight line of fear they have seen in my past," he said. "If I go down, then at least they see how to stand after. If I rise, then the path I break will be one they can follow."
Smith's laugh then — not loud, but sharp and honest. "Fine. We will have a duel then." He reached down and, for a moment, moved with a speed that betrayed the body beneath the mind. It was an old man's quickness, not youthful but honed like a blade that knows how to find a joint. "But know this— I will not hold back out of pity. I will test every stitch of your rhythm. I will press where the wound teaches the most."
A strange, small smile crossed Smith's mouth — the kind a teacher makes when a pupil finally refuses an unearned mercy. He drew himself into a posture that was practiced and natural: a readiness that told of nights of shadow fights and the slow accumulation of craft. The children shifted together; Bernard stayed where he was but his eyes were no longer pleading. He had turned into a witness, as parents sometimes must, to let the child risk and learn.
Ozvold folded his violin into its case and held it to his chest like a shield that might also play a funeral march. The wind lifted, as if listening for the first beat of what would be a dangerous symphony. The clearing's light sharpened, throwing long, honest shadows across the ground, and for a moment the entire camp seemed balanced between two breaths: one of home, one of departure.
Toki's fingers flexed. He answered without words by stepping forward the fraction of a pace that begins a fight.
The moment came suddenly, like the meeting of two storms.
Toki and Smith closed the distance, their fists colliding in the air like two waves crashing against unyielding cliffs. The sound echoed through the clearing—sharp, explosive, a crack of thunder that sent a flock of crows scattering from the nearby trees. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath their weight, as if the forest recognized the violence about to unfold.
Smith's fists were as precise as ever, sharp and calculated, but now there was something new—something that made him falter for the first time. Toki slipped past the punches with fluid grace, his body weaving in and out of the old master's reach. Where once he had stumbled under the sheer speed and pressure, now he flowed like water, moving with such agility that Smith's blows struck only air.
Tch. He's faster than before, Smith thought, grinding his teeth. Not just faster… lighter. It's as though his body has learned to breathe in combat.
Toki's counterstrikes came sharp, measured, each one carrying not just strength but intent. His fists were heavier than they had been months ago—no longer just the flailing swings of a desperate student, but the hammer-blows of a man who had forged weight into meaning. Every strike sought not merely to hit, but to break, to remind Smith that this was not the same boy he had fought two months ago.
Smith thrust his arm forward, seeking to snare Toki by the wrist and lock him down, but Toki reacted with uncanny instinct. His left palm slipped under Smith's extended arm, his right pressing down atop it in perfect synchronicity. He clamped down, a pincer of flesh and bone.
The pain that shot through Smith's forearm was white-hot, searing, as though a bear had sunk its teeth into his flesh and refused to release. His brows knitted, his lips curled into a growl.
"Damn brat—!"
He wrenched himself back with a hop, twisting away before the bones could snap further. He staggered a step, cradling his arm against his side. Even as he pulled back, he felt the wrongness in the limb—the grinding ache of a fracture. Toki hadn't even used his full strength, and still…
Smith flexed his hand once, grimacing. The pain told him what his pride would not: the arm was broken.
Across the clearing, Toki straightened his stance, golden eyes steady. His breath steamed faintly in the crisp morning air.
He's broken already, Smith thought, his heart pounding in his chest. This boy… this damned boy has crossed the line. If I don't fight him with everything, he'll defeat me. Me.
Smith inhaled, dragging the smoke of his lingering pipe deep into his lungs before spitting it out in a sharp exhale. He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears.
No time for hesitation.
In a flash he surged forward, blurring into Toki's guard with a speed that caught the young man off guard. Smith's fists, scarred and iron-hard from decades of battle, came alive in a furious storm.
A barrage—relentless, merciless. The same assault that had flattened Toki countless times before, that had left him coughing blood and gasping for air, that had made him collapse under the weight of failure.
But this time… there was no collapse.
Each strike landed not on soft flesh, but on resistance. Toki's arms rose, his stance firm, his body no longer buckling but holding, redirecting. He mirrored the rhythm he had studied for weeks, imitating the very defense Smith had once made him despair over.
"The Iron Gate…" Bernard whispered under his breath from the sidelines, his voice hushed with awe. "He's copying Smith's own technique."
It was not perfect. It lacked the decades of refinement, the seamless solidity of the original. But it was solid enough—stone against storm. Smith's fists, for once, failed to break through.
Toki's body burned with effort, muscles screaming under the strain, but he did not yield. He bared his teeth, eyes shining with defiance.
I won't crumble. Not again. This wall won't fall.
Smith snarled and switched tactics. With a sudden pivot, he seized Toki by the shoulder, twisting, and in a feat of brute force hurled him bodily overhead.
But Toki was ready. His fingers dug into Smith's shoulders even as he was lifted, his legs snapping up and over. In midair, he brought his heel crashing down against Smith's skull. The impact sent a dull ring through the clearing, Smith's vision swimming for an instant as his balance faltered.
In that brief stagger, Toki slipped behind him, his hands snaking around Smith's waist.
"Got you."
The grip was monstrous, crushing. Smith felt the pressure clamp around his pelvis, bone groaning as though the boy's arms were a vice designed to snap steel. His breath caught in his throat, panic flashing through him.
"—Tch!"
Before he could break free, Toki heaved. With a roar, he arched backward, suplexing Smith with brutal force, slamming the older man's head and shoulders into the hard earth. The ground shook with the impact, dirt and leaves exploding into the air.
For a moment, silence. Smith lay sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving, body battered. He forced himself up slowly, staggering, pain screaming through his broken arm and battered spine. His legs trembled, his breath came ragged, and yet his eyes never left Toki.
The boy stood tall, only a few scratches marking his body, chest rising and falling with steady rhythm.
Bernard and Ozvold watched in stunned silence. The children, wide-eyed, clutched their bags tighter but could not look away.
Smith spat blood into the dirt, his voice low, rumbling like thunder.
"…Toki."
The boy tilted his head, waiting.
"Try… to survive this."
Smith's pupils dilated, doubling, a predatory gleam flooding his expression. His face hardened, unreadable, almost inhuman.
Bernard's breath caught. His voice cut through the still morning air, sharp with urgency:
"Toki! Watch out! He's entered his Apex Instinct!"
But the warning came too late.
Smith vanished—no, moved faster than the eye could follow. In less than a heartbeat, the distance between them was gone. His fist drove forward with terrifying precision, smashing into Toki's chest.
The world went white with pain.
Toki's body was hurled backward like a ragdoll, crashing across the dirt and tumbling several meters before skidding to a halt. His vision swam, lungs burning as though set aflame. A strangled cough wracked him, blood spraying from his lips, trickling from his nose. His chest ached with every breath, ribs threatening to shatter under the pressure.
He forced himself onto his hands and knees, trembling, fighting to rise. His golden eyes locked on Smith once more, defiance burning through the haze of agony.
"…So this… is your hidden card," Toki rasped, spitting crimson onto the ground. "This is what you were holding back…"
He staggered fully upright, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His body screamed at him to stay down, to yield. But his heart thundered with something greater.
A slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
"…Good."
His voice was low, resolute.
"Then this fight has only just begun."