The training yard smelled of sweat and steel, warmed beneath the mid-morning sun. Rows of wooden dummies stood like sentries, blades and staves stacked along the walls. Sirius had arrived early as usual, practice sword in hand, but someone was already waiting.
Zangan.
The martial artist stood at the center of the yard, his broad shoulders relaxed, his scarred arms folded across his chest. He wore no armor, only a sleeveless tunic and worn trousers tied with a sash. His presence carried the weight of countless battles, unshaken even by the hum of magitek wards thrumming faintly around the yard.
"Today," Zangan said as Sirius approached, "you won't use your eyes."
Sirius blinked. "What?"
Zangan tossed him a length of black cloth. Sirius caught it, staring down.
"Blindfold," Zangan explained. "Tie it on. Sight makes boys lazy. You chase what you see, but your body doesn't learn. With this, you'll stop looking—and start feeling."
Sirius hesitated. He'd sparred under Cor's unforgiving drills, endured bruises and exhaustion, but this was different. To fight blind? It seemed impossible.
Still, he tied the cloth around his head. The world vanished into darkness. The sound of his own breathing filled his ears, shallow and uneven.
"Relax," Zangan's voice said, calm but firm. "You're not helpless. You're alive. Start listening."
Something whistled through the air. Sirius flinched sideways just as a wooden staff cracked against his ribs. Pain flared sharp and immediate. He gasped, stumbling.
"Too slow," Zangan said. "Again."
---
The next minutes were a storm of pain. Strikes rained from every angle—his thigh, his shoulder, his shins. Once, a sweep knocked him flat, breath driven out of his chest. He rolled, coughing, the blindfold wet with sweat.
"Don't chase shadows," Zangan said, staff tapping the ground beside his head. "Listen."
Sirius forced himself up, chest burning. His hands trembled on the practice sword. Instinct screamed to tear off the cloth, but he clenched his jaw instead.
"Don't falter," he muttered under his breath. "Breathe. Focus."
The words steadied him. He slowed his breathing. The world dulled—then sharpened.
This time, when Zangan struck, Sirius caught the faint whistle of wood cutting air. He twisted, raising his sword. The impact jarred his arms, but for the first time, he met the blow head-on.
Clack.
A small grin tugged his lips beneath the blindfold.
"Better," Zangan said. "Again."
---
The spar stretched on. Sirius was struck a dozen more times, each pain burning across his skin. Frustration built hot in his chest. He growled with each miss, breath ragged, arms trembling.
At last he snapped, swinging wide and wild. Zangan's staff knocked the blade from his hands in an instant. The sword clattered away, useless.
"Anger blinds you worse than cloth," Zangan said. His voice was firm, but not cruel. "You cannot rage your way into instinct."
Sirius retrieved the sword with trembling hands. His chest rose and fell like a drum.
He whispered again, louder this time: "Don't falter. Breathe. Focus."
Adaptive Resonance pulsed in him, subtle and insistent. His body adjusted. His hands loosened, grip more flexible. His steps grew lighter.
The next strike came low. He felt the shift of air at his ankle and leapt, awkward but clear. His landing was rough, staggered—but he was still standing.
Zangan's laughter rumbled, genuine. "That's it. The body knows before the mind, if you let it."
---
Hours dragged on. The strikes didn't stop. Sirius' body learned pain first, then rhythm. By midday his ribs were bruised, his arms swollen, sweat soaking through his shirt. But his dodges sharpened. His parries grew tighter. His counters no longer flailed, but struck with intent.
At one point, he and Zangan locked weapons. Sirius' muscles screamed, his grip shook—but his footing held. The cloth blinded him, yet his instincts held him steady.
"Good," Zangan said, pressing harder. "You're starting to hear your own body."
---
Finally, Zangan lowered his staff. "Enough."
Sirius yanked the blindfold off. Sunlight stabbed his eyes, too bright after hours of darkness. He blinked rapidly, panting hard, bruises aching across his body.
"You lasted longer than most," Zangan said, setting his staff aside. "Few boys your age can. But you…" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're different."
Sirius flexed his sore hands around the sword. "Different how?"
"You don't give up," Zangan said simply. "Most flail, then collapse. You get beaten down, and you get back up. Every mistake you make becomes the last time you make it. That makes you dangerous."
Sirius frowned, sweat dripping down his temple. "Dangerous?"
Zangan's mouth curved faintly. "For your enemies."
---
They sat beneath the warded wall, the shade a small mercy. Sirius drank deeply from a waterskin, every swallow stinging his dry throat. His ribs throbbed, but the pain was earned.
"What's the point of all this?" he asked finally, voice hoarse. "Why fight blind when I'll never have to?"
Zangan's gaze sharpened. "You think battle will always be fair? You think you'll always see your enemy? Darkness. Dust. Blood in your eyes. Blindness will come for you whether you choose it or not. Sight lies. Instinct does not."
The words hit Sirius harder than the staff. He remembered the daemon in Leide, the night air thick with terror, the way his panic had nearly killed him. Sight had failed him then. Instinct had saved him.
He lowered his eyes, gripping the sword tighter. "I want to try again."
Zangan chuckled, rising with a stretch. "Tomorrow. Today, you've bled enough."
---
Sirius lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His body ached, every bruise a dull throb, but his mind refused to rest.
He replayed the spar again and again—the whistle of the staff, the feel of air brushing his skin, the snap of wood against wood.
He thought of Cor's creed: Protect unseen. Bleed without witness.
And of Zangan's words: Sight lies. Instinct saves.
Between them, a truth sharpened in his heart.
He would not be a boy who flailed. He would not be ruled by panic, or fear, or sight alone.
He would be more. More than eyes could see. More than strength alone could carry.
He would become instinct.