Training Day

As the sun continued to rise on the slayer compound, a voice roared across the compound P.A. System, "Aaaaaalright my slayers! Rest day is over and it's time for training. Get your asses down to the arena. Time for some fun!"

Flare Nacht stood barefoot in the center of the hologym's main arena, arriving before anyone else and excited to get back into action with his freshly healed body, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as the final figures solidified in light. One by one, hard-light constructs completed their boot-up cycles, projecting opponents molded after

old Ashen scans—barehanded, animalistic, and brutal.

Around him, the rest of the squad filtered in, yawning, stretching, clinking mugs of caffeine substitutes.. Today wasn't for rest—it was for release. For fire. For proving that they were still alive and still better than what waited beyond the walls.

Caim jogged in last, armored hoodie unzipped halfway, cheeks flushed. "Sorry! I—" He paused, eyes landing on Flare already standing ready. "Wait. How the hell are you moving?"

The chatter around the room quieted.

Claire turned, squinting. "He's right. You were crushed a couple days ago. We pulled you out of the rubble with a gaping wound and enough internal bleeding to drown a moose."

Maria narrowed her eyes. "You shouldn't even be wandering around. At best, you should be hobbling with a brace and full spectrum painkillers."

"I feel fine," Flare replied simply, rolling his shoulder in a perfect circle. No stiffness. No wince. "Better than fine."

"Don't be coy with me, big guy." her expression more concerned than irritated. "You woke up yesterday like your bones had been dipped in pain serum, and now you're out here shadowboxing a hologram without so much as a limp? You need to let someone scan you again."

Flare hesitated, flexing his hand. The strength was real—natural. He could feel every ligament and fiber reacting as if he'd never been wounded. As if something had restored him, not just healed him. Even old aches and pains were gone, not lessened but gone.

"I'll let you check me after this," he said. "But right now, we need this."

Marcos Lykaios stepped into the center

beside him, clapping once. "He's not wrong. We've been tense since the apartment complex incident. Training calms the nerves. Flare, forget the Ashen holograms, today, it's us. Also… we've got new pressure."

His gaze swept to Caim.

The redheaded twin straightened.

"You want extra training. Real training," Marcos said, voice going low. "You asked us to treat you like a rookie again. You sure about that?"

Caim didn't blink. "I hesitated. I failed to react fast enough. That bear Ashen could've turned me into paste."

"You didn't fail," Claire interjected gently. "You adapted."

"Not fast enough," Caim muttered. "I want to be ready next time. Not 'okay.' Not 'holding my own.' Ready."

Flare looked at Marcos. Marcos looked at him. The same unspoken decision passed between them.

"Alright," Flare said. "But you don't get a safe word."

Marcos cracked his knuckles. "And we're going to break you. That okay?"

Caim nodded once. "Do it."

"Then warm up first," Flare ordered with a smile. "Let's all get a little bruised."

The holo-tournament wasn't just a

tradition. It was a test of adaptability, creativity, and who could trash talk while ducking a heel kick.

The rules were simple: no armor, no weapons, no elemental tricks. Just you, your fists, and your footwork. Lose the match, sit the next round out. Win, keep going.

Maria was surprisingly nimble, tossing

Marek over her hip with a flourish that would've made a judo instructor proud.

Claire was feral precision, dodging with narrow margins and landing sharp palm strikes that knocked Caim off balance.

Even Kai, initially hesitant, found his rhythm—though every time he clashed with Flare or Marcos, the fanboy in him flared like a star going nova.

"You're both legends," he muttered, grinning through a bloody lip after Flare swept his leg and pinned him to the floor. "And now I can say I've had my lip busted by my heroes."

Marcos chuckled and offered a hand. "You'll get worse if you keep talking during combat."

"Noted."

One by one, rounds blurred into heat and laughter. Bonds reforged through bruises. Pain was shared, and so was the grin that came after someone got knocked on their ass and stood up laughing.

By the time the final round began—Flare vs. Marcos—the squad had gathered at the edge of the upper balcony, hollering and cheering like kids at a brawl behind a school building.

But even amid the sweat and joy, a current of unease still lingered.

Claire finally turned to Maria before the match began, "Seriously though… he healed too fast."

Maria crossed her arms, brow tight. "Yeah. And we still don't have an answer."

Kai overheard, leaning in. "Could it have been some… secret enhancement? Like something from his core reacted differently?"

"No," Maria said flatly. "I did his body scan before he was conscious. No new core resonance in his blood. No artificial stimulation."

Claire exhaled. "Then what?"

"I don't know," Maria admitted. "But something changed. And whatever it is… it's not medical."

The combat arena simmered with heat—not just from the overhead floodlights or the packed crowd of fellow Slayers leaning over the rails above—but from the charged silence that fell as Marcos stepped into the circle opposite Flare.

Flare stood across from Marcos, both men barefoot in the center of the ring, circling. They didn't speak.

They didn't have to.

The air had a weight to it now. No more banter. No more casual elbow-nudging from the team. Everyone had gone quiet. Even Marek, usually too caffeinated to shut up,

leaned forward with his mouth shut and eyes sharp.

The circle was nothing but a marked boundary of pale blue holo-lines over the smooth obsidian floor. No weapons. No armor. Just bare hands. Muscle and experience. Trust and memory.

Marcos cracked his knuckles slowly.

Flare rotated his shoulders, expression unreadable.

Claire muttered near the edge of the crowd, "It's like watching a boulder try to fight a bullet train."

"I don't know which is which," Maria answered, eyes narrowed.

Marcos rolled his neck once. "You good, son?"

Flare's gaze met his. "Always."

Then the match began.

When Marcos charged, Flare met him halfway.

The force of their clash shook the holo-rings around them—pure muscle and intent colliding like meteorites.

And still, in the back of Flare's mind, the echo of that dream whispered:

"Sooner than you think… your story will end."

But today wasn't that day.

The first blow came from Marcos. A broad left hook, slow enough to track but strong enough that it would've flattened anyone else. Flare ducked it by inches and answered with a snapping elbow toward the ribs, but Marcos twisted with it and brought his forearm down like a falling tree.

Flare's block was two-handed. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor. Dust trembled from the lighting rigs above.

He was stronger. Marcos always had been. Decades of muscle wrapped in experience, and an aura of indomitable presence that made enemies second-guess their own existence. But Flare was faster. More precise. Sharper.

They danced.

Footwork silent. Breath measured. Punches thrown not for speed or flair, but for pain. Marcos swung low, feinting a sweep, and Flare went airborne in a backward roll, landing hard and immediately hopping up and pivoting into a spinning backfist.

It caught Marcos across the jaw.

He didn't flinch.

He grinned.

"Nice. That one actually hurt."

Flare didn't respond. He rarely did mid-fight. His body said everything.

The tempo shifted.

Marcos surged forward, a relentless press of knees and shoulder slams and attempted lariats, corralling Flare toward the edge of

the ring. Flare pivoted, narrowly avoiding a crushing grapple, and landed a trio of short jabs—one to the ribs, one to the throat, one to the solar plexus.

Marcos absorbed them. Slowed. Then roared.

He lunged like a freight train.

Flare had seconds—less—to react.

He didn't dodge. He stepped in.

A perfect counter.

The crowd gasped as Flare twisted low, grabbed Marcos' momentum, and flipped the larger man over his shoulder. The slam echoed like thunder, making the holo-barriers flicker under the kinetic backlash.

Marcos exhaled on the ground, winded but laughing.

"Goddamn, Flare."

Flare offered no gloating. Only a hand.

Marcos took it—and pulled Flare down with him.

They rolled, grappling now. Elbows. Knees. Ankles hooked. A brutal wrestling match of grunts and sweat, each trying to find a

weakness in the other's position.

But neither man had weaknesses.

Only history.

At one point, Marcos had taught Flare everything he knew. Back when Flare was angry. Hollow. Back when the young man thought vengeance could fill the void left by monsters.

Now, Flare fought like someone who had nothing left to prove—just someone who couldn't afford to lose.

Marcos flipped him, pinned him with one knee on his chest—but Flare bucked hard and kicked out. A heartbeat later, he was behind Marcos, slamming his palm into the captain's upper spine.

Marcos dropped, rolled, swept the legs.

Flare jumped. Spun mid-air.

Crack!

Both of them landed heavy strikes at the same time—Flare's foot to Marcos' collarbone, Marcos' fist to Flare's ribs.

They stumbled apart.

Blood on the mat.

Sweat beaded on Flares forehead, Flare wiped it away with the back of his wrist.

Marcos rubbed his shoulder, already bruising.

The final moments came in a blur.

Three feints. Two parries. One opening.

Flare dashed in low, body folding like a spring —and launched upward into a vertical knee aimed for the chin. Marcos tilted just in time, took the impact to his jawline instead of center mass.

He staggered. Caught himself.

But his foot was half over the ring's edge.

The holo-line blinked red.

Match over.

Silence.

Then roaring applause.

Marcos exhaled hard, laughing again. "You win."

Flare bowed slightly, chest heaving. "Good match, old man."

"I'll old man you right through a wall," Marcos

muttered, but it was affectionate

As Flare stepped forward and helped him upright again, Claire leapt over the railing with a victory whoop, followed by the rest of the team streaming into the ring.

Maria tossed a towel at Flare's chest. "Next time you slam him like that, do it before I bet on him."

"I'll keep that in mind," Flare said dryly.

Anira was with Jess at the edge of the ring,

grinning like a proud daughter who'd just seen her dad beat the school principal in a boxing match.

Marek pumped his fist. "I told you he'd win. Never bet against the main character!"

Kai stood quietly nearby, arms crossed. "That was… instructive."

Marcos rolled his shoulder again and looked at Flare. "You've grown."

Flare met his gaze. "Only because you gave me the ground to do it."

They didn't hug. They didn't need to.

Respect wasn't always loud.