Jimmy shifted uncomfortably in the little alcove he’d found, the Manual of Blade Disciples heavy in his lap. The leather felt weirdly alive, like it was buzzing faintly under his fingertips, almost daring him to open it. He tapped the cover, trying to shake the odd feeling. “Alright, magic book. Show me something good.”

The moment he cracked it open, the air around him seemed to shift. A mist drifted up from the pages, curling around him until the snowy forest was gone. Jimmy blinked, his heart pounding as the world changed. When the fog cleared, he was standing on a rocky island floating in a sea of swirling gray clouds. The place felt old—ancient in a way that made his skin crawl.

Ahead, a man stood with his back to him, broad-shouldered and perfectly still. His presence radiated the kind of authority that made Jimmy’s stomach twist, like he’d just wandered into the principal’s office without a hall pass. The man turned slowly, his eyes sharp enough to cut stone.

“Another one,” the man said, his voice low and steady. “So, you think you’re ready to walk the path of the blade?”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah? I guess? Who are you, anyway?”

The man didn’t crack a smile. “I am Dorian, the first of the Blade Disciples. And if you want to survive this world, you’ll need more than guesswork. You’ll need to see.” He let the words hang there, like Jimmy was supposed to know what the hell that meant.

“See what?” Jimmy asked, glancing at his katana like it might have answers. “It’s a sword. You swing it. End of story, right?”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, and Jimmy immediately regretted speaking. “A blade is more than a tool,” Dorian said, his tone clipped and cold. “It’s an extension of will. Without understanding that, you’re just swinging aimlessly. To wield the blade, you must find your Core.”

Jimmy frowned. “Core? Like… my energy or something?”

“Something like that,” Dorian said, his face unreadable. “It’s the rhythm beneath the surface, the place where your resolve lives. If you can’t connect with it, you’re already lost.”

Jimmy let out a breath, steadying himself. He wasn’t entirely sure what Dorian meant, but if it was supposed to help him stop being a walking disaster, he’d give it a shot. “Alright. How do I… connect?”

“Close your eyes. Focus,” Dorian said. “Find the hum beneath your heartbeat. It’s there, waiting.”

Jimmy did as he was told, shutting his eyes tight and trying to block out the million thoughts racing through his head. He breathed in and out, slowly, like he was meditating or something. At first, there was just the sound of his pulse, thudding away in his ears. Then, faintly, he felt it—a warmth, soft and steady, spreading through his chest like the glow of a low fire.

For a moment, he thought he had it. But then the warmth shifted, dragging up old memories he hadn’t asked to revisit: Lena’s laugh echoing in their tiny kitchen back home, their parents’ cold, distant stares, and the hollow ache he’d buried under years of pretending everything was fine. The Core wasn’t just energy—it was him, messy and complicated and full of crap he didn’t want to deal with.

His stomach twisted, and he opened his eyes with a sharp breath, pulling himself out of it. Dorian was watching him, arms crossed.

“You stopped,” Dorian said, his voice sharp. “Why?”

Jimmy shook his head. “It was… too much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all that.”

“What you do,” Dorian said, stepping closer, “is stop running. If you can’t face yourself, how do you expect to face what’s out there?”

Jimmy wanted to argue, but Dorian didn’t give him the chance. The mist around them shifted again, and suddenly they were standing in a dense, quiet forest. Dorian reached up, plucking a single leaf from a branch and holding it out.

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“Cut this,” he said.

Jimmy blinked. “A leaf? Seriously?”

Dorian’s expression didn’t change. “If you can’t cut this, you’ll never cut what matters.”

Jimmy shrugged, drawing his katana. “Alright, whatever.” He swung the blade in a clean arc. It sliced through the air with a satisfying whoosh… but the leaf didn’t move. Not even a little. He stared at it, confused, and swung again. Same result.

“What the hell?” he muttered, gripping the hilt tighter. He tried harder, putting all his strength into the next swing. Nothing. The leaf sat there, perfectly still, as if mocking him.

Dorian didn’t say a word, just stood there watching. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Jimmy kept trying—angle after angle, harder and faster, until sweat dripped down his face and his arms burned.

Finally, he let out a frustrated yell, pointing at the leaf. “This is impossible! It’s just a stupid leaf! Why won’t it cut?”

“Because you’re blind,” Dorian said, his voice as cold as ice. “You swing without seeing, without intent. You haven’t even begun to understand what a blade is.”

Jimmy’s chest heaved with frustration. “Then teach me!”

Dorian’s eyes hardened. “Draw your sword.”

Jimmy froze. “Wait, what?”

Dorian stepped forward, unsheathing his own blade. It gleamed in the dim light, sharp and deadly. “You want to learn? Fight me.”

Jimmy barely had time to react before Dorian was on him. The first strike came fast, the clash of steel rattling up his arms as he blocked. Dorian didn’t hold back, pressing forward with a series of brutal strikes that sent Jimmy stumbling backward. He swung wildly, trying to keep up, but Dorian evaded every attack with ease.

“You call this fighting?” Dorian barked, his blade slamming into Jimmy’s again. “You’re flailing like a child!”

Jimmy’s arms burned, his grip slipping as each blow pushed him further off balance. He was barely holding on, and Dorian wasn’t even breaking a sweat. The older man’s strikes were precise, deliberate, each one a reminder of how completely outmatched Jimmy was.

“You can’t see the leaf,” Dorian said, his voice cutting through the chaos, “and you can’t see me. You’re blind. Weak.”

Jimmy’s anger flared, and he swung with everything he had, but it wasn’t enough. Dorian’s blade slammed against his again, sending him sprawling to the ground. Before he could recover, the tip of Dorian’s sword hovered just above his throat.

“Understand this,” Dorian said, his voice low and sharp. “A blade isn’t about strength. It’s about resolve. Without it, you’ll fall every time.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything, his chest heaving as Dorian stepped back. The mist rose again, swallowing the forest, and when it cleared, Jimmy was back in his little alcove. The Manual sat in his lap, silent and heavy, like it was judging him too.

He’d failed. And now, he had to figure out how to move forward.

Jimmy slumped against the tree, the cold bark pressing into his back as he tried to steady his breath. The forest around him was still, the frost-covered ground biting through his clothes. The weight of failure sat heavy in his chest, tighter than anything Dorian’s blade had done to him. His fingers dug into the dirt at his sides, the sting of his loss still fresh.

And yet, it wasn’t just the fight that haunted him—it was what it dredged up.

Back home, it had always been the same: a cycle of dodging and deflecting. His parents’ sharp words, their constant disappointment, and the cold looks that said more than their half-hearted scoldings ever could. They didn’t have to tell him he wasn’t enough. He’d felt it every time they chose silence over affection, distance over warmth. And Lena, his sister, had tried. She really had. But even her humor and her teasing couldn’t fill the hole their parents had left behind.

He swallowed hard, blinking up at the pale sky visible through the trees. Loneliness wasn’t new—it had followed him for as long as he could remember, like a shadow he couldn’t outrun. That’s why he’d left in the first place, moving to Venlo, telling himself a change of scenery would fix everything. It hadn’t. He’d traded one kind of isolation for another, zoning out during his shifts at the gas station, avoiding eye contact, avoiding people.

Avoiding life.

He let out a hollow laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet. “Guess that’s my thing,” he muttered to no one. “Running away. Never facing anything head-on.” Dorian’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding: If you can’t face yourself, how do you expect to face what’s out there?

Jimmy tilted his head back against the tree, his breath misting in the cold air. The truth was, he didn’t know how to face himself. He didn’t even know where to start. But the Integration wasn’t giving him a choice. Out here, there was no running, no hiding behind routines or distractions. It was just him, the blade, and the brutal reality of surviving a world that demanded everything he had—and more.

“Fine,” he muttered, gripping the hilt of his katana like it was the only solid thing in his life. “You want me to face it? Let’s see what I’ve got.” The words sounded braver than he felt, but for now, they’d have to be enough.