Kaela found Hagar thirty minutes later, huddled near the public fountain, trying to siphon water from the basin with his cupped hands. The frantic energy that had propelled him away from the market was gone, replaced by a defeated lethargy.
She didn't approach him right away. She stood a dozen feet back, letting him struggle until he gave up, slumping against the cold stone base of the fountain.
"You're wasting your life," Kaela said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the street noise.
Hagar didn't open his eyes. "And you're wasting your time, talking to me. Go peddle your scrap."
Kaela walked forward and dropped the few coins she'd earned from the copper wiring into the basin near his head. The splash was sharp and cold.
"I don't care that you're a drunkard," she continued, crossing her arms. "I care that you lied. You know what this sword is. And you know what happened when you touched me."
Hagar sighed, a long, weary sound that belonged to a man twice his age. He slowly opened one eye, narrowed and cynical. "That piece of rust? It's a trick of the light and your own wishful thinking. Go home, girl."
"It's not," Kaela insisted, kneeling down. "When you adjusted my grip, the weight vanished. The hum came back. No one else has ever done that. Not the Knights, not the Academy recruiters who dismiss me because of my muddy veins."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You said I was choking the hilt. You talked about the 'flow' and the 'grain.' Those aren't beggar's words, Hagar. Those are the words of a Grandmaster."
The old man flinched, a spasm crossing his face. He quickly looked around, paranoid. "Shut your mouth, you reckless brat! You don't know what you're saying."
"I know enough," Kaela retorted, dropping her voice even lower. "I know that two years ago, the Grandmaster of the Second Company, Master Hagar, was stripped of his rank, his aura veins reportedly severed by a treacherous disciple, and he vanished from the records. Now, a beggar with the same name, the same haunted eyes, and the same impossible knowledge is throwing himself into the mud a mile from the Academy gates."
Hagar stared at her, his facade of inebriation utterly shattered. His eyes were clear now, the terrifying sharpness from the market back again, but mingled with a deep, bottomless pain.
"I won't tell anyone," Kaela promised, holding his gaze. "But I won't leave either. You know how to make this blade sing, Hagar. You know how to compensate for the strength I lack. You said I couldn't cut a cheese wheel? I'll learn how to cut steel with a butter knife if you teach me."
He laughed again, a harsh, dry sound. "Teach you what? I can't manifest an Aura flare brighter than a spark. My core is ruined. I can teach you how to fall down, how to drink cheap spirits, how to be forgotten. That's all I'm good for."
"No," Kaela shook her head firmly. "You can teach me the things they don't teach the nobles. The dirty tricks. The Formless Style."
Hagar looked away toward the gleaming towers of Aethelgard in the distance. "The Formless Style... It was never meant for the limelight. It was for survival. It's built on leverage, evasion, and finding the one, single flaw in an opponent's defense. It requires absolute focus, absolute control. And you, girl, have a raging temper."
"I have determination," Kaela countered. "I have no money, no lineage, and no Aura. I have nothing to lose, which means I'll fight dirtier than any noble Champion. If that's what the Formless Style requires, then I am its perfect vessel."
Hagar considered her for a long minute. He saw not a starving orphan, but a raging core of sheer, stubborn will—a will that resonated faintly with the relic she carried.
He sighed, defeated. The weight of his past was heavy, but the boredom of his present was heavier. Perhaps teaching would be a kind of penance.
"Alright, brat," Hagar finally muttered, pulling himself up onto the fountain ledge. He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Listen carefully. I will not teach you how to fight. Fighting is for fools who enjoy pain. I will teach you how to survive a fight. There's a world of difference."
He stared at the Rust-Eater wrapped at her hip. "First lesson: that sword is dead weight. If you rely on it to block, you'll be broken. If you rely on it for power, you'll drain what little energy you have. You must make your hands the weight, and the blade the extension."
He leaned in conspiratorially. "This is not about the fire inside you, Kaela. It is about the fire you steal from your enemy. Now, come with me. There's a dilapidated warehouse by the docks. We start at midnight. And if you're late, I'll be drunk, and the deal is off."
Kaela's lips stretched into the first genuine smile she'd worn all day. It was fierce and utterly determined.
"I'll be there, Master Hagar," she said, rising.
"Don't call me that," he snapped, then took the coins she'd left and stumbled off in search of the cheapest rice wine.
Kaela watched him go, then turned towards the setting sun. She still had to find coal for the Rookery, but the fear of failure had been replaced by a fierce, driving purpose. She adjusted the heavy, rusted blade at her side.
Midnight. The path of the Unbroken Blade had just begun.