Camille had a long enough time to do whatever it was she had to do as far as she was concerned. After a while of contemplation, Camille eventually decided upon her stat distribution. Two in strength, and one in dexterity, she supposed it was a fitting balance, one that, although imperfect, was good enough, so to speak. Now sat atop her bed, Camille was in the perfect mood for questioning. Possibly because of her own imagination, or possibly because it was, in fact, the case, Camille also felt something within her change.

Am I just imagining things? Holding her head atop her fist, Camille reflected on her situation. Tracing the outline of her limbs and muscles, something about it seemed new to her. For despite the lack of any noticeable change in power or strength as of the moment, she could not help but shake the feeling that her muscular definition had become more evident. To verify her suspicions, she flexed the bicep on her right arm.

Oh, not bad. Pleased, Camille found out that her eyes did not deceive her. Pronounced ever so slightly and yet significant all the while, Camille feasted her eyes on her arm. While she had lost much of her former strength and glory due to years of atrophy and wasting away in her room, some of it had now returned. And being the woman that she was, Camille did not mind in the slightest. Muscle, as long as it was complemented by other attributes, could be quite pleasant in both aesthetic and power alike. Sure enough of this fact, Camille then verified the muscular integrity of her leg.

Heheh, not bad either.

Firm and strong as she expected, Camille held an equal sigh of relief and gratification in her head. Truly, things were perfect. So long as the strength was evenly distributed throughout her body, everything would be fine. While not one to obsess over appearances, Camille decided that she would rather not have arms with the thickness of a gorilla and legs the width of sticks. Aesthetic was important, and coming out looking like an abomination from the depths of some underground research lab, was not an aesthetic she adored. Speaking of the aesthetics she did enjoy is a matter for another time.

Moving on from strength, Camille did her best to examine the impact of dexterity. And by best, it really just meant her sitting in contemplation for quite a long time. Dexterity, on the other hand, proved much more difficult to measure. Besides the obvious increase in speed also came the question of other variables. After all, in many games, dexterity also comprised expertise in matters of fine motor skills, flexibility, and even reaction time. At the same time, though, if dexterity also impacted flexibility and vice versa, then would it suggest that a gymnast could have higher dexterity then Camille?

Nah, that ain't right. Certainly, that made no sense. No amount of normal training would get a gymnast to be as fast as her for one, and at the same time, getting higher increases in dexterity just because she was flexible didn't make sense either. Adding a new mental point to her long list of theories regarding her ability, the prospect that her hypothesis was real became gradually more possible.

Hm. Well, that's fun. Satisfied that her theory was pretty much confirmed, she then moved on to the other pressing matter at hand. A big question that had been at the back of her mind for the past few days.

That question being, who she would fight today. After all, she wasn't the type to miss a quest, and there wasn't exactly all the time left to mull it over. No matter how much she delayed it, the inevitability of her having to fight an opponent now weighed on her.

With a curious expression, Camille's eyes started meaninglessly at the clock, counting the precise number of hours she had left.

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Then, it came to her. Like a wave that has finally breached the shore and enveloped a castle of sand in its wake, Camille was washed over with enlightenment.

How the hell did I not realize? Now that she thought about it, Camille reprimanded herself for not realizing sooner.

With a scheming smile on her face, Camille knew what had to be done. Having put on her jacket, she then took the keys off her desk.

Without a word or so much as an afterthought, Camille then left the building.

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The frosty sky drooped upon the Earth a thin blanket of white. Covering the forsaken city in a blanket of purity, it painted a harsh contrast against that which stood and rooted itself to the earth. Nudged between a vast stretch of empty space where buildings once existed and was now replaced by debris was a gathering. A gathering of old, young and twisted blood, they came there for one purpose, and one purpose alone.

A purpose found only in fighting.

Atop that blanket of snow, trudged Camille. Hands in her pockets, her green eyes scanned the horizon from underneath the cover of her red hood.

Feeling as if she doesn't belong here, her mind contemplated itself. Come to think of it, how long has it been? Even before her untimely retirement, there was still a gap of a year at the minimum where she didn't attend these gatherings. And, not only that, but it had been several since she had gotten into a real fight.

Chuckling, Camille considered how stupid this must be. To go and enter a fight ring only a few days after getting back into fighting, and with a training bag nonetheless? It was suicide, truly, there were no other words for it. But, the reason behind her coming here was not out of ignorance.

Far from it. Deep down, Camille knew what exactly would lie ahead, and just how much she risked.

Controlling her laughter, Camille did her best to shrug off any sense of anxiety. There was no reason to be intimidated by those she thought to be scum.

Fear will only inhibit the extent of your potential... The words of her late teacher on loop, it repeated itself over and over and over in the front of her mind. To the extent where it became all she could think about, it had become a way for her to distract herself from what she saw. Physical, mental, and on a level that can only be described as 'potent' was the display of violence before her. Drenched in head to toe from sweat, and with blood on their knuckles were two existing fighters.

Two men, one old and the other young stand against each other. Sharing life through blows and blood, they gauge each of their respective opponents. Encircled by a large iron fence taller then most men, the space of the arena was several times that of a boxing ring. Just the right amount of space for physical expression, while constrained enough to prevent endless running, it was one of the many choices of battlegrounds for the inhabitants of this city.

For poor and shoddy as it may be, it was their poor and shoddy arena.

Camille, who had found a space through the somewhat dense crowd of several dozen people, diverted her eyes to the battleground. Furrowing her brows, she figured that the battle had come to a temporary ceasefire. Whether out of mutual lack of stamina, or some other variable, she would never know.

What was important to note however, was that the old man was far less hurt then the young one, and that he held a smile on his face.

And that, paired with this smile, was a repeated opening and closing of his lips, that made it seem like he was talking. So, while Camille was unable to verify what he was saying from the sheer amount of noise around, she did guess that it might've been some friendly gesture of sorts. Confirming her suspicion, the old man then gave out his hand.

As a way to start the fight once more with, it wasn't half bad. If, it worked, that is.

The moment his hand reached out, was the moment it was slapped away. Pushed away with the palm of his left arm, the young man then recedes.

Then, without even a word, the battle commenced once again.