The lights flickered on one by one across the training ground. Damp haze clung to cracked concrete and rusted rebar, turning every breath into visible mist. The space sat trapped between two abandoned blocks, faded white lines barely visible underfoot. This was no schoolyard. Once it trained soldiers. Now it trained boys the city planned to break.

  Keene stood at the edge, rolling his shoulders. His head still throbbed where bone had met bone earlier. The pain kept him sharp.

  Razan paced nearby, fists opening and closing like he was already fighting someone in his head.

  Marek knelt in the center. He arranged blunted rods and cracked shields with precise movements. His voice cut through the mist.

  “This isn’t about strength,” he said. “It’s about placement.”

  He picked up a training rod and held it out.

  “Vein doesn’t just reinforce bodies. It reinforces intent. You don’t pour power into the weapon.” He gripped the rod with both hands. “You place it *through* the weapon.”

  He demonstrated the wrong way first.

  Vein flooded his arms. He swung hard.

  The rod shattered on impact with a training post. Splinters exploded outward. Marek’s wrist jerked violently from the feedback.

  “Pouring creates resistance,” he said, voice steady despite the sting. “The power fights the tool. The tool fights back.”

  He picked up a second rod.

  This time his movements changed. Slower. Intentional. He breathed out, then drove the rod forward — not with brute force, but with surgical focus.

  The tip pierced clean through a thick concrete block. No explosion. No shatter. Just perfect penetration, like the stone had opened for it.

  “Placement aligns everything,” Marek continued. “The weapon becomes an extension of will. The power flows. Nothing fights back.”

  Razan snorted. “I don’t need a damn pipe.”

  Marek’s gaze stayed level. “You don’t need a lot of things. That doesn’t make you right.”

  The sound of boots approached through the haze.

  Uncle stepped into the flickering light, hands clasped behind his back. The air grew heavier. His presence alone silenced the group.

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  “You have until nightfall,” Uncle said. “No Vein use.”

  Razan opened his mouth.

  Uncle’s eyes flicked to him. “Not even you.”

  Razan closed it.

  Behind Uncle walked a single figure — tall, straight-backed, wearing Sector One insignia. His movements carried quiet arrogance. The kind that came from knowing the system had already chosen him.

  The elite student stopped beside the Officer, who had arrived silently moments earlier. He looked the five boys over like they were scrap metal.

  “So this is Sector Four,” he said, voice smooth with superiority.

  The Officer remained silent. Watching.

  The sparring began.

  Razan went first.

  His opponent — the Sector One elite — moved like he had all the time in the world. Razan charged in, fury burning hot. He absorbed two heavy hits to the ribs, grunting as the impacts drove the air from his lungs. Then he stepped in close and threw everything into a wild punch.

  The impact landed hard. But Razan’s own arm buckled from the recoil. Pain lanced through his elbow. He nearly dropped to one knee.

  The elite student smiled thinly. “Raw. Uncontrolled. You almost broke your own arm.”

  Razan spat blood and stood again, eyes blazing. He circled, feinted left, then exploded forward with a low tackle. The elite sidestepped, but Razan grabbed his leg and slammed him down. They hit the ground hard. Razan drove an elbow into the elite’s ribs before the man could recover. The elite gasped, rolled free, and delivered a sharp knee to Razan’s side. Pain flared, but Razan powered through, landing one final heavy punch that dropped his opponent.

  Razan stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. The elite stayed down.

  Marek watched carefully. So did Uncle.

  Next was Marek.

  His opponent moved differently — light on his feet, jumping in and out, trying to overwhelm with unpredictability. Marek didn’t rush. He studied. Counted steps. Waited. Then, when the rhythm revealed itself, Marek moved once — one clean pivot, one precise kick that snapped into the opponent’s balance point. The elite staggered. Marek followed with a controlled sweep, dropping him cleanly. No wasted motion. The elite tried to rise, but Marek placed a foot on his chest.

  “Enough,” Marek said quietly.

  The elite stayed down.

  Arin’s match came next.

  He looked like he might faint.

  The elite smirked and advanced fast. Arin dodged the first swing, tripped over his own feet, and scrambled upright again. Another strike came. Arin barely rolled away. The elite pressed harder, landing two quick hits that sent Arin stumbling back.

  “Come on, Arin!” Razan shouted. “You got this!”

  Arin’s eyes flicked to his friends. He nodded, then charged with everything he had — reckless, all-in. The elite sidestepped easily and swung. Arin ducked at the last second, grabbed the elite’s arm, and used the momentum to spin him off-balance. The elite stumbled. Arin didn’t hesitate. He planted his feet and delivered one desperate, full-force kick straight to the chest.

  The elite flew backward and crashed out of the ring.

  Arin froze, shocked.

  Then he laughed — loud, bright, disbelieving.

  “I DID IT!”

  Razan roared and rushed forward, hoisting Arin onto his shoulders like he’d just won the war. “That’s my idiot! Did you see that kick? Pure chaos!”

  Lsael clapped wildly, jumping up and down. “Legendary! I’m telling everyone you took down Sector One royalty with a lucky foot!”

  Marek allowed himself a small smile. “Not lucky. Well-timed. You adapted.”

  Arin grinned from his perch, cheeks flushed. “I thought I was done for! My heart was in my throat the whole time!”

  Razan spun him once for good measure. “You’re buying the stale chips tonight, winner’s privilege!”

  The group’s laughter filled the training ground for a long moment — loud, relieved, the kind of celebration that pushed back against the weight of everything waiting outside.

  Lsael stepped up last, too eager. He rushed in.

  Uncle moved.

  His hand flashed out. The strike landed on the side of Lsael’s head with a deep, resonant *thump* — not loud, but heavy. A vibration that traveled through bone and stopped Lsael’s heart for one terrifying beat.

  Lsael staggered back, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. The power gap felt massive. Like standing next to something ancient and absolute.

  “You’re staying,” Uncle said. “You lost focus.”

  Razan bristled. “That’s—”

  “Final.”

  As night deepened, Razan stared at the tallest abandoned building cutting through the fog.

  “I want to see it from the top,” he said.

  Marek stiffened. “No.”

  “It’s just a building.”

  “It’s not empty.”

  Razan grinned. “Neither are we.”

  They left anyway.

  ---

  **Elsewhere**

  Rain washed the alley, but not enough.

  Six long stains darkened the ground.

  No bodies.

  No signs of struggle.

  Just blood.

  The officer knelt, fingers brushing the stone.

  Too precise.

  He straightened, eyes lifting toward the tallest abandoned building.

  “Not Panther,” he murmured.

  Something else was hunting.

  And it didn’t leave anyone behind.

  ---

  End of Chapter 6