The dojo smelled faintly of polished wood and old sweat, a testament to countless training sessions held over the years. Shirō adjusted her stance, gripping the shinai in her hands. Across from her, Rin cracked her knuckles, already looking irritated.
"I still don't understand why we're doing this," Rin muttered, rolling her shoulders. "You have Excalibur, you know."
Shirō sighed. "And? That doesn't mean I don't need to practice."
"You literally swing that thing around like a natural-born warrior. What exactly do you need practice for?"
Shirō frowned. "I don't know. Maybe so I don't get my ass kicked in close combat?"
Rin huffed, clearly unimpressed. "Fine, fine. Let's just get this over with." She picked up her own shinai, tapping the floor twice before raising it into position. "You're paying for dinner if I win."
"Yeah, yeah." Shirō took her stance.
Then Rin moved.
The strike was fast—faster than Shirō expected—but her body reacted instinctively. She twisted her wrist, parrying the attack, the sharp crack of wood-on-wood echoing in the empty dojo.
Rin grinned. "Not bad."
Shirō scowled. "I was trained, you know."
"I know," Rin said, already bringing her sword back for another strike. "It's just fun seeing you squirm."
This time, she feinted—a flick of the wrist, a change in trajectory—aiming for Shirō's ribs instead of her head. Shirō barely managed to twist out of the way, countering with a sharp thrust. Rin sidestepped it easily, bringing her shinai down toward Shirō's shoulder.
Too slow.
Shirō stepped into the attack, raising her shinai in a diagonal block. The force rattled her arms, but she held firm, twisting to push Rin's weapon away. The moment she created an opening, she lashed out—swift, precise—striking toward Rin's side.
But Rin was already moving. She ducked low, twisting to the side as the attack barely grazed her sleeve. Her foot shot out, catching Shirō's ankle just enough to make her stumble.
Shirō cursed, regaining her footing just in time to block another strike.
Rin smirked. "You fight like a reckless idiot."
Shirō growled. "You fight like a smug bastard."
"Thanks!"
Their weapons clashed again, the sound filling the dojo as they fell into a rhythm. Strikes and parries, dodges and counters—Shirō could feel the burn in her muscles, but she refused to let up. Rin was good, obviously. Her movements were sharp, calculated, and she used her agility to full advantage.
But Shirō was relentless. She pushed forward, forcing Rin on the defensive, her strikes growing sharper, faster. Her body moved on instinct, the years of training she barely acknowledged now coming to the surface.
And then, finally—
She saw an opening.
With one swift movement, Shirō knocked Rin's shinai aside and lunged forward, pressing the tip of her own weapon against Rin's stomach.
A pause.
Then—
"Ow," Rin groaned, stepping back. "Alright, alright, you win."
Shirō smirked. "So, you're paying for dinner?"
Rin scowled, rubbing her side. "Oh, shut up. That last strike was dirty."
"No, it was smart."
"Same thing."
Shirō grinned, resting the shinai on her shoulder. "Come on, admit it. I'm getting better."
Rin rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I guess I should be terrified of your almighty shinai skills."
Shirō snorted. "You should be. Next time, I'll use Excalibur."
Rin paled. "Oh, hell no. We're not wrecking another training ground."
Shirō just laughed.