Morning came cold and gray, the kind that made bones ache and breath fog in the air.

Bright woke before dawn, body still humming with the residual energy of the core absorption. Every movement felt different—sharper, more deliberate. His muscles responded with a precision that bordered on unnatural, as if the connection between thought and action had been shortened by half.

He sat up, flexing his hands. The calluses were thicker now, the skin tougher. When he pressed his thumb against the edge of his cot, he felt every splinter, every imperfection in the wood.

Enhanced.

That was the word for it.

He stood, testing his balance. Still off, but better than last night. His legs wanted to move faster than his brain expected, wanted to push harder than they should. He'd have to drill that out of himself—relearn every step, every stance, every shift of weight.

But first, the weapons.

He unwrapped them carefully.

The katana gleamed in the dim light—dark steel with a faint ripple pattern running along the blade. Balanced, deadly and simple.

The extending blade was stranger—coiled around its reinforced handle like a sleeping serpent. When he pressed the mechanism, it unspooled smoothly, locking at two meters with a soft *click*. The edge was razor-thin, flexible yet rigid enough to hold its shape.

Two weapons. Two purposes.

One fusion.

Bright closed his eyes, reaching for that familiar sensation—the one that had defined him since his talent first manifested. His Fusion ability wasn't flashy. It didn't summon fire or reshape stone. It simply… combined things. Merged them. Made them more than they were separately.

He placed both weapons on the cot, side by side.

Then he pressed his palms against them.

Heat surged through his hands—not painful, but intense. His soul force flowed outward, wrapping around the katana and the extending blade, probing their essence, understanding their form.

The katana was rigid, precise, designed for clean cuts and decisive strikes.

The extending blade was fluid, adaptable, designed for reach and unpredictability.

Opposites.

But opposites could complement.

Bright focused, pushing his will into the fusion. The weapons began to shimmer, edges blurring as his talent took hold. Metal flowed like water, reshaping, reconfiguring—

And then—

It *clicked.*

The light faded.

Bright opened his eyes.

The two weapons were gone.

In their place lay a single blade.

It looked like a katana at first glance—same length, same curved edge, same dark steel. But when Bright lifted it, he felt the difference immediately. The weight was wrong. Too light for solid steel.

He gripped the handle and channeled a thread of soul force into it.

The blade extended.

Not rigidly, but fluidly—the metal unspooling like a whip, stretching to two meters, then three, then four before he cut the flow. The edge remained sharp, the blade flexible yet strong enough to cut.

He swung it experimentally.

The extended blade whistled through the air, carving a wide arc. When he retracted it with another pulse of soul force, it snapped back into katana form instantly—*click*—solid and ready.

Bright stared at the weapon in his hand.

Perfect.

He tested it again—extend, retract, extend, retract—feeling the rhythm, learning the timing. The transitions were smooth, almost instantaneous. In katana form, he had precision and speed. Extended, he had reach and control.

Two weapons. One tool.

He smiled.

-----

The training yard was empty when Bright arrived, the sun just beginning to crest the eastern wall. Good. He needed space. Needed silence.

He moved to the center of the yard, blade in hand, and began.

First, the basics.

Katana form—he flowed through standard katas,taught by Hailen, testing the balance, the weight distribution. The blade responded beautifully, every cut clean, every thrust precise. His enhanced body made the movements faster, sharper, but the fundamentals remained the same.

Then, the extension.

He channeled soul force into the blade and *released.*

The metal unspooled—*whoosh*—extending to full length in a heartbeat. He swung wide, the blade carving through the air in a broad arc. The reach was incredible—nearly four meters when fully extended, enough to strike targets well beyond normal sword range.

But the control was tricky.

The extended blade was flexible, which meant it didn't move in straight lines. It flowed, bending and curving with momentum. If he wasn't careful, he'd lose precision, waste the strike entirely.

He practiced—extend, swing, retract. Extend, thrust, retract. Over and over, drilling the timing into muscle memory.

After an hour, he was drenched in sweat, but the movements were starting to feel natural.

He tested one more thing—mid-combat transitions.

He lunged forward in katana form, blade aimed at an imaginary opponent's chest. At the last second, he extended the blade, the metal shooting forward like a spear. The strike would catch anyone off guard—expecting a close-range attack, only to be impaled at distance.

Then he retracted immediately, spinning into a low slash, katana form again.

Fast. Unpredictable. Lethal.

Bright exhaled, lowering the blade.

It wasn't perfect yet. He'd need more practice, more real combat to truly master the weapon.

But it was a start.

"Fancy toy."

Bright turned.

Duncan stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, grinning. "You've been out here for two hours. I was starting to think you'd forgotten we had another match today."

Bright wiped sweat from his brow. "What time?"

"Noon. Against some independent squad calling themselves the 'Iron Tide.' Supposed to be tough."

"They all are," Bright muttered.

Duncan walked closer, studying the blade in Bright's hand. "That's new. What happened to your standard-issue?"

"Upgraded." Bright channeled soul force, extending the blade to full length.

Duncan's eyebrows shot up. "Holy shit."

"That's… actually brilliant." Duncan grinned. "The nobles are going to hate you."

"Good," Bright said simply.

-----

Elsewhere in Outpost Vester, in a cramped barracks on the western side, Silas sat on a cot, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.

Around him, the rest of Sergeant Tyven's squad moved about—preparing gear, checking wounds, talking in low voices. The atmosphere was tense, but not panicked. They'd survived grim hollow. They'd survived the evacuation . They'd survive this too.

Probably.

Silas glanced across the room at Tyven, who stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the training yard below. The sergeant was older than most of the squad—late-twenties, maybe—with the kind of tired eyes that came from seeing too much death too young.

He was competent. Reliable. But weak.

At least, compared to the other initiates in Vester.

Tyven had reached initiate rank through sheer stubbornness and survival instinct, not raw talent or powerful cores. He fought smart, not strong. And in the Trials, where strength mattered more than cleverness…

Well.

That's where Silas came in.

He wasn't joining Tyven's squad out of loyalty. He wasn't even joining because he liked the man—though he didn't dislike him either.

He was joining because Tyven was a backdrop.

A stage.

A way to shine.

When you stood next to someone stronger, you looked weak by comparison. But when you stood next to someone weaker, someone who people expected to fail…

You looked like a hero.

Silas had learned that lesson early. Power wasn't just about cores or talent. It was about perception. About making people see what you wanted them to see, his field of expertise.

And if he could carry Tyven's squad—if he could be the one who turned their fights around, who pulled off the impossible wins—then people would notice.

Nobles would notice.

Sponsors would notice.

And that was the only way out of this place.

"Silas."

He looked up.

Bessia stood in front of him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You've been quiet."

"I'm always quiet," Silas replied, still sharpening his blade.

"No, you're always scheming.There's a difference."

Silas smirked. "Scheming is just thinking ahead."

Bessia sighed, sitting down beside him. "You know Tyven isn't stupid, right? He knows why you joined."

"Does he?"

"He's not blind. None of us are." She leaned back, studying him. "But he accepted you anyway. Because he needs fighters. Because we all do."

Silas didn't answer.

Bessia continued, voice softer now. "Just… don't let him down. Whatever your reasons are, we're all in this together."

Silas met her gaze.

Then nodded.

"I won't."

-----

Later that morning, Tyven gathered the squad for a briefing.

Six members total:

Tyven, the leader, with his Steady, tactical, and experienced mind.

Bessia with her self-healing talent. An invaluable chess piece in extended fights. Calm under pressure.

Silas, the illusion specialist, fast, slippery, and a very opportunistic fighter.

Kael, a fledgling who'd fought alongside Tyven during the evacuation. A solid fighter with no special talent, but still reliable in a scrap.

kora, another fledgling. A scout-type, was fast on her feet and good with throwing knives.

Garren, Tyven's long-time associate. Initiate-rank, same as Tyven. He had a common lesser strength ability core, was aggressive but still, confident, loyal.

Garren was the strongest fighter in the squad, and he knew it. He stood with arms crossed, leaning against the wall, a cocky grin on his face.

"So," Garren said, "when do we fight?"

Tyven checked a roster board. "Tomorrow. Against a squad called the 'Bone Reapers.' Noble-backed. Sponsored by House Draven."

Kael grimaced. "Great. Another rich squad."

"They're not unbeatable," Tyven said calmly. "Nobles throw money at equipment and training, but money doesn't buy instinct. Or adaptability."

"Or desperation," Silas added quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

Silas shrugged. "Desperation makes people dangerous. And we're all desperate here, aren't we?"

A beat of silence.

Then Garren laughed. "Damn right we are."

Tyven nodded. "We fight smart. We fight together. And we don't give them an inch."

He looked at each of them in turn—Bessia, Silas, Kael, Mira, Garren.

"We're not the strongest squad in Vester. But we're survivors. And that counts for something."

Bessia smiled. "Damn right it does."

-----

That afternoon, Bright stood at the edge of the arena again, watching another fight unfold below.

This time, it was Tyven's squad.

They moved cautiously, deliberately, staying in tight formation. Tyven called out commands, directing the flow of battle. Garren anchored the front, muscles bulging around his fists. Bessia stayed back, with her bow in tow. Silas flickered in and out of sight, illusions confusing the enemy.

They weren't flashy.

But they were effective.

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