Thorne stood alone in the dim, cavernous warehouse, the familiar training ground where he had spilled more sweat and blood than he cared to count. The air held the stale, thick scent of old wood and faint traces of metallic tang—a testament to countless sessions spent sharpening his skills under Sid’s grueling instruction. Thin streams of moonlight spilled in from high windows, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched across the empty space, pooling into pockets of darkness.
Thorne took a deep, steadying breath, trying to center himself. Ever since his encounter with the elves, a coiled tension had taken root inside him, a nervous energy he couldn’t shake. Tonight, he hoped, would offer some release.
He began his usual preparations, methodically checking his weapons as he always did before training. His fingers moved quickly over his daggers, ensuring each one was securely fastened to his belt, then adjusted the straps on his wrist crossbow with practiced ease, loading it with a bolt.
His mind strayed as he worked—first to the unsettling encounter in the forest, then to Eliza and his friends, and finally to the brewing tension that seemed to pulse through the city itself. He clenched his jaw, forcing his focus back to the present, to the familiar task of preparing for combat.
Just as he finished, a sound reached him, faint but unmistakable—the soft tread of footsteps, multiple sets, approaching. Thorne’s muscles went taut, and his hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his daggers. He strained his ears, counting three distinct pairs of feet, each moving with a predatory precision that set his instincts on high alert. His pulse quickened as he scanned the shadows.
From the darkness, three figures emerged, led by a tall, imposing man Thorne had never seen before. The stranger exuded a quiet but dangerous authority, his movements smooth and controlled, like a coiled snake. Behind him, two others lurked, their faces obscured beneath black cowls, merging with the shadows as if they were born from them.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his daggers. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice low but unwavering, hiding the tension that rippled through him. This wasn’t an ordinary training session, and these weren’t people Sid would have introduced lightly. Every fiber of his being told him to be ready.
The lead man stopped a few paces away, an amused smirk curving his lips. "I’ll be handling your training tonight," he replied in a smooth, detached tone that felt chillingly casual, as though he were discussing an insignificant task rather than a direct confrontation.
Thorne’s jaw clenched. "Where’s Sid? What have you done with him?"
The man’s eyes gleamed with thinly veiled impatience, his smirk growing colder. "Sid is... otherwise occupied. But don’t worry," he continued with a hint of mockery, "his absence is temporary. Your focus," he added, letting the weight of his words settle, "is here. With me." He gestured to the empty floor. "Show me what you’ve learned."
The demand hung in the air, leaving Thorne feeling a mixture of anger and unease. This stranger’s confidence was unnerving, as if he already knew what Thorne was capable of and felt assured he could handle it with ease.
Before Thorne could even gather his thoughts, the man unsheathed a short sword, the gleaming blade cutting through the dim light like a silent threat. Thorne barely registered the shift before the man lunged at him, moving with a deadly grace that took Thorne by surprise. Instinct kicked in, years of Sid's brutal training coursing through his body as he dodged the initial strike, his daggers rising defensively.
The clash of steel rang out, echoing through the warehouse as they engaged in a fast, brutal rhythm. The man pressed forward, his attacks relentless, each strike flowing into the next with practiced ease, forcing Thorne on the defensive. Thorne's thoughts raced, each move calculated, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being toyed with. The man’s strikes were controlled, measured, as if he were testing him, prodding him to reveal weaknesses.
Thorne tried to focus, analyzing the man’s style, searching for patterns in his movements. But his opponent’s technique was flawless, seamless—a disturbing blend of grace and power. Every time Thorne spotted what seemed like an opening, the man deflected his strikes with effortless precision. Frustration bubbled beneath Thorne’s surface. He could sense the man’s confidence, almost feel the mocking satisfaction radiating from him, as if he already knew the outcome and was simply prolonging the inevitable.
When the man feinted left, then struck from the right, his blade sliced toward Thorne’s shoulder. Thorne twisted his body, narrowly evading the strike and responding with a quick slash aimed at the man’s midsection. The man sidestepped, his eyes never wavering, locked onto Thorne with a calculating intensity that sent a chill down his spine.
“Is this all you have?” The man’s voice was calm, almost bored, yet it carried a mocking edge that made Thorne’s blood boil.
Thorne’s anger flared, but he fought to keep his focus. He wanted to unleash the full extent of his skills, the ones he had honed in secret, the ones that could turn this fight in his favor. But he couldn’t afford to reveal them now, not with the man watching his every move so closely. He couldn’t risk exposing his true capabilities—whatever reason Sid had for sending this man, he was certain it was a test.
He feinted with his right dagger, aiming a genuine attack with his left, but the man parried both blows effortlessly. Thorne gritted his teeth, frustration gnawing at him. This man wasn’t just fighting; he was dissecting Thorne’s every move, gauging him. He could see it in the man’s eyes, a glint of amusement that only deepened Thorne’s irritation.
He lunged again, using the speed and agility he’d spent years developing. But his strikes were met with a calm, almost lazy defense, each movement of the man’s blade precise and effective, draining Thorne’s stamina with every failed attempt. The truth was undeniable: this man wasn’t here just to spar. There was a contained power in him, a restrained violence, as though he could end this fight in a heartbeat if he wanted to.
Each clash of their blades sent a jolt through Thorne’s arms, his muscles straining against the mounting fatigue. His breath grew ragged, the strain of holding his ground against the man’s ceaseless attacks taking its toll. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the dust and grime of the warehouse floor.
The man lunged again, his blade a blur. Thorne’s instincts kicked in, and he blocked the strike just in time, though the impact sent him stumbling backward. Desperation clawed at his mind as he fought to recover, but the man was already moving, his sword flashing as he delivered another series of quick, brutal strikes. Thorne barely held his ground, his defense wavering, the realization creeping in that he couldn’t win this fight by brute force alone.
His thoughts scrambled for a strategy, anything that would turn the tide. He’d learned to endure Sid’s grueling, merciless training; he’d survived encounters with aether beasts and outwitted foes. But this was different. This man was a different level of danger, an opponent who wasn’t here to play games.
Thorne's mind raced, searching for a way out. He knew he had to end the fight soon, before his strength gave out. He took a deep breath, centering himself, and waited for the right moment.
When the man struck again, Thorne feinted left, then spun right, pouring every ounce of his speed into the movement and driving his dagger toward the man’s side. The blade found its mark, grazing the man’s ribs just enough to draw a thin line of blood. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The man hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits, a glint of irritation flickering in them. “Not bad,” he muttered, his voice holding an edge of disdain. “But I expected more from you.”
Thorne didn’t respond, his breath steady, his heart pounding in rhythm with the fight. He’d drawn blood, but his small victory seemed to unlock something in the stranger—a cold, merciless intensity. In an instant, the man’s entire demeanor shifted, his strikes becoming sharper, faster, like a blade honed to deadly precision. Thorne found himself barely able to keep up, his senses straining as each movement forced him further back. The reality hit him hard: this man was beyond anything he’d ever faced. Stronger, faster, and somehow even more dangerous than Sid. The revelation sent a ripple of dread through him.
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The man’s technique was nothing like Sid’s raw, street-forged ferocity. His movements were measured and elegant, his strikes swift and exact, as if each one had been planned moments before Thorne could even see it coming. Thorne was locked in a losing game of speed and skill, struggling to anticipate a single move in time to respond. It was as if the man could see the intentions in Thorne’s eyes before he even committed to an action, like he was reading his mind.
A flash of frustration surged within Thorne. He fought to recall every lesson Sid had drilled into him, every counter and tactic he had practiced until his muscles ached. He tried feints, parries, even quick slashes intended to break his opponent’s focus, but each attempt was absorbed, deflected, or sidestepped with the ease of swatting away an insect. Thorne’s daggers felt slow, clumsy, against the man’s blade, which moved with a fluidity that was as awe-inspiring as it was terrifying.
It was like fighting a storm—a precise, calculated force of nature. The stranger transitioned from one stance to another with an otherworldly grace, each attack seamlessly flowing into the next. Thorne felt a disorienting sense of being swept up, as though he were no longer a participant but a spectator watching himself lose. His opponent was relentless, exploiting the smallest lapse in Thorne’s guard, punishing him for even the slightest hesitation. It was dizzying, each attack timed to perfection, each blow designed to wear down his strength and break his defenses.
Desperation clawed at him, and in a final, reckless attempt to tip the balance, Thorne launched into an advanced combination Sid had forced him to master. He dropped low, aiming for the man’s legs, then spun upward in a high thrust targeting his chest. It was one of his best moves—a sequence that had turned the tide in his favor more than once.
But the man evaded the low slash with a step that seemed almost too easy, then deflected the high thrust with a flick of his wrist, sending Thorne stumbling back. The stranger didn’t even look rattled. He cocked his head slightly, a trace of boredom slipping into his gaze.
“You’ve got spirit,” he remarked, his voice calm and unbothered, almost as if he were addressing a child. “But spirit alone won’t save you.”
Thorne’s heart twisted with frustration. How many opponents had he faced before this? He had survived Sid’s brutal training, outmaneuvered Sid’s informants, fought wild aether beasts, even taken down gravediggers. And yet here he was, feeling like a novice all over again, his hard-earned skills reduced to futile swings and clumsy dodges. This man wasn’t even tapping into any visible skills or aether manipulation—he was relying solely on raw talent and experience, as if he knew that would be more than enough.
The stranger’s swordsmanship was flawless, each strike a perfectly executed lesson in discipline and control. He seemed to glide around Thorne, his movements sharp and mesmerizing, a symphony of speed and precision. Thorne barely had a moment to react as a barrage of strikes rained down, each blow forcing him to give ground, each parry leaving his arms vibrating from the impact.
And then it hit him, the crushing realization: this man wasn’t just testing him. He was teaching him a brutal lesson—showing Thorne how much further he still had to go, how outmatched he was against a true master of combat.
Thorne felt the sting of the man’s blade slice shallow lines across his arm, then his leg, each one marking a point of weakness the man exploited with an effortless precision that left Thorne gasping for breath. The wounds were minor, yet they felt like insults etched into his skin, reminders of his opponent’s total dominance. With each pass of the man’s blade, the truth of Thorne’s limitations crashed down on him, fueling a deep, mounting frustration.
"You’re good, but not good enough," the man taunted, his tone dismissive, his gaze never wavering. Thorne’s teeth clenched as he absorbed the words. He could feel the sting of them as sharply as any blow. He had trained relentlessly, suffered through Sid’s brutal lessons, and yet here he was, feeling as if he were fighting his very first fight all over again.
His mind raced, strategizing, scrambling for a way to keep pace with this opponent without resorting to his aether skills. The risk was too high. Aether manipulation would reveal too much, and he couldn’t afford that—not here, not now. But without it, he was fighting a battle he couldn’t win. Every move he made, every feint, every counter was parried with almost negligent ease. He was left with the unmistakable sense of being toyed with, like a child shadowing a master.
The man’s strikes grew fiercer, each one driving Thorne back, his strength and precision ramping up as though he wanted to test Thorne’s limits. Thorne’s arms were trembling now, his muscles on fire from the strain, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. The stranger was relentless, pushing him onto the defensive, until Thorne could barely manage to deflect even the most basic blows. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, each beat hammering home the realization of just how outmatched he was.
Another slash came close, grazing his side and drawing a thin line of blood. Despite the intensity of the attack, Thorne began to sense something strange. The man was perfectly capable of landing a killing blow, yet each strike was deliberately softened, each cut superficial. He wasn’t trying to kill him. The man was watching him, assessing him. Testing him.
"You’re holding back," the man said, his eyes glinting with a sharp, curious light. “Why?”
Thorne clenched his jaw, refusing to respond. The truth was a dangerous secret, one he couldn’t afford to reveal to this stranger who could turn his abilities against him or—worse—discover his origins. Yet the more he fought, the more difficult it was becoming to hide his natural strength, speed, and endurance, all of which hinted at something beyond ordinary human abilities. Each second under the man’s unyielding scrutiny felt like another step toward exposure, and the tension wound around Thorne’s chest like a vice.
The man’s sword slashed through the air, forcing Thorne to block, deflect, twist, dodge. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes as he kept his movements sharp, desperate to conceal his growing exhaustion. But the man was studying him, and the intensity in his gaze suggested he was slowly piecing together a puzzle. Thorne could feel it in the way the man’s attacks shifted, in the way his eyes lit up with that disconcerting mixture of interest and calculation.
Another flurry of blows drove Thorne backward, the relentless strikes leaving him cornered, his breaths turning to desperate gasps. He could feel his grip slipping. He could feel his secret inching closer to exposure with every move he made.
The man arched an eyebrow, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “Impressive,” he remarked, almost conversationally, his tone unnervingly calm. "You’ve lasted longer than I expected. Quite the endurance—and a surprising tolerance for pain."
Thorne’s frustration mounted. Even holding back his aether abilities, his enhanced attributes were still too obvious. His core was a secret he had buried deep, but his training and the strength it gave him were harder to conceal, and he could see the man beginning to connect the dots. Every second felt like a countdown to discovery.
The man pressed the attack, his blade a blinding streak in the dim light, each stroke a calculated test, each maneuver another piece to a puzzle Thorne didn’t want him to solve. Every parry, every retreat chipped away at Thorne’s defenses, and he knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. His body ached with the effort, his muscles screaming for relief.
But then a chilling realization struck him. The man was too close. He was too close to the truth, and Thorne wasn’t ready for that confrontation, not yet. He couldn’t risk it. With reluctance gnawing at him, Thorne made a decision. He would end the fight himself. He would lose, feign defeat, and keep his secret hidden for another day.
Thorne staggered, letting his movements become visibly sluggish, his attacks growing sloppy and uncoordinated. He leaned into the act of fatigue, allowing his hands to slip as if from pure exhaustion. The mysterious man took the bait, his attacks coming with even greater intensity, his eyes fixed on Thorne with calculating precision. Thorne let his guard drop, taking hit after hit as shallow cuts laced his arms and shoulders. Each sting grounded him, a reminder that he was in control of this deception, that this apparent weakness was his choice.
The man moved forward, his expression sharpened with intent. Thorne made one last feeble swing, an obvious, half-hearted attempt that the man parried with insulting ease. With a swift motion, the man disarmed him, Thorne’s dagger clattering to the floor as he was shoved backward, landing hard on the ground. He lay there, his chest heaving, each breath laced with the throbbing ache of bruised ribs and scraped skin. His limbs felt like lead, a mixture of genuine fatigue and strategic surrender. He’d protected his secret, for now. But at what cost?
The man towered over him, sword at the ready but making no move to strike. Instead, he studied Thorne, his gaze cool and assessing, as though he were weighing every detail of the fight, every falter and slip. After a long pause, he inclined his head, his tone tinged with a begrudging respect. "You’re not bad," he murmured. "But don’t fool yourself—you’ve got a long way to go."
Thorne met his eyes but didn’t reply, his breaths still coming in ragged gasps. He forced himself to stay silent, biting back questions that threatened to surface. Who was this man? What did he want? And where in the world was Sid?
The man looked over his shoulder, giving a quick nod to the two hooded figures lurking in the shadows. Before Thorne could react, he felt a rough hand clamp down over his mouth, pressing a cloth saturated with a pungent, acrid scent against his face. The sharp, chemical odor filled his lungs, burning as he gasped, the scent thick and dizzying. He flailed, instinctively reaching up to tear the cloth away, but his arms felt leaden, weighed down by fatigue and a rising sense of dread.
Thorne’s vision began to swim, dark edges creeping into his sight as his strength ebbed, his limbs growing heavy and sluggish. He struggled, fighting against the creeping darkness, but the world around him blurred, his body betraying him. A wave of helplessness crashed over him, prickling his skin as he tried to keep his mind sharp. Yet, with every second, the acrid scent clouded his thoughts, dragging him under, layer by layer.
His resistance faded to weak, futile attempts, his vision slipping in and out of focus. Panic clawed at him, but it was quickly drowned by the relentless, overpowering pull of drowsiness. As the final vestiges of consciousness began to slip, one thought burned in his mind:
Where the hell was Sid?