The days bled together.
Training. Reflection. Repetition.
Julian moved through it all like clockwork — not rushing, not burning, just building.
Morning runs through drizzle-soaked streets.
Afternoons with the mentor system, refining balance, refining the body.
Evenings watching match replays until movement became instinct.
The rhythm of discipline had replaced the rhythm of chaos.
He woke and slept by the same pulse — breath, stride, silence. The city outside changed, but within him, the current stayed still and sharp.
The hum of distant trains, the smell of wet asphalt, the soft glow of dawn filtering through fog — all became part of his meditation.
Each day, his mind returned briefly to the boots resting in his locker — The Ashenstride, dormant now, but humming faintly with a life of its own.
He hadn't used them since Bremen. He didn't need to.
He was learning to make himself the weapon again.
