Ashe dodged left. The blade still kissed his bruised cheek, a hot line of fire that sent pain lashing out across his face. For a heartbeat, the pain blew him apart: three sharp spikes from three directions, his thoughts shattering, instincts tugging him three different ways at once.

  One spike screamed louder than the others. He followed it.

  He shifted sideways, stepping in close, and flung his walking stick toward where he knew Amalia had to be. The air whistled as it left his hand, then thud: wood against steel, steel against armor, armor against flesh. The sound he’d been desperate for.

  Finally.

  His knees hit the ground. Both hands went up in surrender as his walking stick clattered away across the floor. For a moment, victory washed through him, warm and dizzying. He’d done it.

  By now his face was swollen, the skin around his eyes squashed together so tightly it felt like someone was pressing them in from both sides. He could hear his heartbeat pounding behind them. His head pulsed like a hive of angry bees; even breathing hurt, each inhale scraping his ribs raw. His limbs trembled with exhaustion. But he hadn’t given up—and this was his reward. One measly hit.

  He barely had time to enjoy it before a dull shock bloomed in his chest. With his hands raised and his mind elsewhere, he couldn’t react as a boot slammed into him, sending him sprawling onto his back in a burst of confused pain.

  “Too slow,” she said from somewhere above him.

  He tried to answer, but words snagged in his dry throat, caught between ragged breaths and a spinning world.

  “Not… fair.”

  In training, Ashe had always expected victory to be rewarded, not followed by another round of beatings. He’d expected his father to protest, to say something, to call it enough. But no words came. No sharp intake of breath, no chair scraping back. Axel just sat there, watching, studying.

  They had agreed Ashe wouldn’t enter another portal until they decided he was ready. Ashe had given his father that much, even though it was technically just part of the guild’s process. First came the trial run: an Introduction jump. The intro Jumper would assess their reactions, their temperament, their potential. Then, for the next month, no portals. Only training.

  It had only been two weeks, and Ashe was already sick of it—sick of feeling stuck, of not moving forward. In all that time he’d only landed a handful of hits on Amalia, and every one of them had cost him. His face had been pummeled, his limbs throbbed constantly, and unlike inside the portals, there was no convenient rush of healing light here. Just bandages, ice packs, and the occasional aspirin.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  -

  Axel’s eyes stayed on Ashe as he writhed on the floor, gasping for air. He had promised himself he wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t say anything. He clenched the plastic chair with both hands until his knuckles turned white and the urge to step in finally passed.

  This had two possible outcomes: either it would convince Ashe to give up on his portal aspirations, or, more likely, it would prepare him for what was coming.

  Axel could already see flashes of brilliance. Ashe’s ability to predict and to move was incredible. The only reason Amalia was winning was her speed; every time she struck, Ashe seemed to know where and how, but his slower body couldn’t react fast enough. This had to be part of why he’d survived.

  Ashe just saw the world sideways, that was all. Not wrong. And right now, the world needed that.

  He figured Ashe would be ready for F-rank portals soon, but only F-rank. He had promised them that much: start slow and work his way up.

  -

  Ashe rolled to his side with a groan and rose, readying himself once more despite the blood pooling from his lip and the thundering in his head. He would never get ready without a bit of reckless practice.

  But Amalia spoke before he could move. To Ashe’s surprise, her voice was strained, a faint air of exhaustion lacing her words, and her breaths were harder than normal. “Well done, we will pick this up in three days.”

  Ashe frowned. “Three days?”

  “Your dad is insistent that he watches the practice sessions, and he has no more vacation time. On top of that I have been neglecting my duties to help you, and we have a few portals that need clearing.”

  Ashe clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “Ok.” He turned and stepped backward toward the plastic chairs, only then realising how exhausted he was. His legs trembled beneath his weight with each step. The pain grew clearer, stronger with each moment as the adrenaline slowly receded. By the time he reached his father he was convinced he was going to pass out.

  A hand met his and lowered him into the chair. “Do you need a moment?” Axel said, his voice holding no emotion. By this point Ashe did not know if his father had become emotionless or had simply become better at hiding what he felt.

  As he sat there, catching his breath, footsteps approached across the mat. Light, even. Amalia. He recognised the way her weight barely touched the floor.

  “You keep noticing the sound first,” she said. “You turn toward it before you react. Instead of moving instantly, you give me time to change course without ever committing. Either react immediately, or wait until I am closer, when I am already stuck in my movement.”

  Ashe knew she was right, but he still did not completely trust his powers. They still felt strange, like someone else inside his head was watching the world through eyes he could not use.

  “But other than that, you are doing much better than any of the other recruits,” she added. “None of the others have even managed to hit me in sparring.”

  He knew it was meant to cheer him up, but pain and exhaustion scraped the comfort away like sandpaper over wood. He managed a small smile and nodded.

  His father spoke beside him.

  “I think we’d better get you home and fixed up. You might even look a little like my kid again after three days of rest.”

  Ashe choked out a dry laugh.

  He pushed himself up from the chair. Every fibre of his body screamed at him to sit back down, to stay still and let the pain fade, but his dad was right. He did not want more scarring or inflammation than necessary.

  He was reckless, not stupid.