Kyren couldn't feel his legs.
That was the first thing he noticed as he lay flat on the floor of the warehouse Chiyo had claimed as their training space. His breath came in gasps, and every muscle in his body throbbed like it was caught mid-scream.
The second thing he noticed was that Chiyo hadn't even broken a sweat.
She stood over him with her arms crossed, her short staff still resting on one shoulder. She looked almost disappointed.
"You lasted seven minutes today," she said.
Kyren coughed. "That's... up from four yesterday."
"I'm rounding down," she replied.
The warehouse was cold, cracked concrete overgrown with rust and weeds. It smelled like rain, burnt rubber, and bad decisions. The perfect place to train, according to Chiyo.
"You need to stop forcing your movements," she said as she walked around him. "The Laughing Devil Style isn't brute strength. It's rhythm, recoil, redirection."
"Like dancing?"
"Like dancing while bleeding."
Kyren finally sat up. The glyphs on his arms were glowing faintly again—less like fire now, more like embers waiting for wind.
"Can we talk about how the spear keeps laughing when I mess up?"
"That's a good sign," Chiyo said.
Kyren raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"It means it hasn't given up on you yet."
They took a break on the roof after the third set. Rain slicked the edge of the shingles, but neither of them seemed to care. Kyren sat cross-legged, his body aching, his breath fogging in the cool morning air.
Chiyo leaned against a support beam, silent for a while. Then she rolled up her sleeve and pointed to a scar on her forearm.
"First time I used my style," she said, "I got that from my own weapon."
Kyren blinked. "It hit you?"
"No. I hit myself. I hesitated."
He watched her. "How old were you?"
"Twelve."
"That seems young."
"People start bleeding early around here."
That night, Kyren didn't sleep so much as drop into a black void lined with red static.
He stood in an endless hallway made of mirrors. Every reflection showed a version of himself—older, younger, stronger, bloodied. Some laughed. Some wept. One just stared at him, eyes hollow.
The spear appeared in his hand, humming.
Then a voice behind him said, "Do you know the name of the first one?"
Kyren turned.
A figure sat cross-legged in the dark, their body made of fractured light and charcoal. They wore no face, only a glyph that pulsed with the same rhythm as his arms.
"They broke," the figure said.
"Why?" Kyren asked.
"They thought the laugh was a weapon. Not a warning."
Kyren jolted awake, his back soaked in sweat. The spear leaned against the corner, glowing faintly. His arms were warm—alive in a way that made his heart thud harder than usual.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
Jamo was already awake, fiddling with a cracked holo-tab.
"Dream again?" he asked without looking up.
"Yeah."
"Did you see the mirror place?"
Kyren paused. "How did you know about that?"
Jamo looked at him. "Because you talk in your sleep. Also, your arms glowed through your blanket."
Kyren sighed. "It's getting worse."
"Or better," Jamo offered. "Depending on how much you like burning from the inside."
Chiyo didn't hold back the next day.
"Your opponent won't wait for you to warm up," she said as she swept his feet out from under him for the third time in five minutes.
Kyren grunted as he hit the floor.
"Again," she said.
He rose.
Swung.
Blocked.
Twisted.
The spear jerked in his hands, guiding the motion.
Technique Two: Reversal Step
Trigger: Consecutive counterpressure + evasive slip
He didn't understand the words, but his body moved anyway.
He dodged a kick, rolled left, then slammed the butt of the spear against Chiyo's ankle.
She stumbled.
Her eyes widened.
Kyren's chest rose and fell.
"I... I did that?"
"You did," she said. "And if you do it again, I might stop calling you useless."
Later that evening, Kyren sat on the roof again with the spear across his lap.
"You in there?" he asked quietly.
"Always."
"Why me?"
"You laughed. When you should've cried. When you should've broken. The rhythm heard it."
"That's... comforting."
"I can be more comforting. Want to hear the probability you'll survive the next assassin?"
Kyren shook his head. "I'd rather eat glass."
"Less crunchy."
Someone knocked that night.
Chiyo moved to the door first, blade in hand.
The person on the other side didn't flinch. He was tall, dark-skinned, wore a leather coat stitched with speaker wire and old translator tags.
"Name's Kevan," he said. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here to place a bet."
Kyren frowned. "On what?"
"On whether you'll survive the next week. Some of us in the ruins are building a book on you."
Jamo blinked. "There's a betting pool?"
"There's three," Kevan said. "You're trending."
Kyren sighed. "What do you want?"
Kevan smiled. "Just to see how far a mistake can go before it becomes a miracle."
Then he left.
It rained again that night.
Kyren and Chiyo sat under the overhang, watching droplets fall from the roof.
"You think he's right?" Kyren asked.
"About what?"
"Me being a mistake."
Chiyo looked at him. "You're not a mistake, Kyren."
He stared at the rain. "Then what am I?"
She touched his arm.
"A warning," she said softly. "To everyone who thought they could control power without paying for it."
He didn't speak.
But somewhere beneath the surface of his skin, the spear hummed in agreement.