The subconscious has a peculiar way of playing tricks on us. As I drifted off to sleep, I was irate, frustrated, and generally in a foul mood. Yet my dreams were filled with vivid and pleasant imagery, so I woke up feeling cheerful. A vestige of the storm of emotions from the night before remained — a mild anger that didn't consume me but rather pushed me into action.

Quickly washing up and brushing my teeth, I bypassed breakfast and dressed in casual attire: a T-shirt sporting an image of yet another giant robot, long shorts, a baseball cap, and sandals. An ordinary city stroll lay ahead, so I grabbed some money, attached my music player to my belt, and left the house.

The street greeted me with the familiar midday heat of August, exacerbated by an almost total absence of wind. Such weather sparked a silent disdain for Wilflaes in me. The air seemed unbreathable, and it felt as if my shoes were about to adhere to the hot asphalt. On foot, one could only move in short dashes from shadow to shadow. Women had it better with their sun umbrellas. I would have gladly used one, but it wasn't customary for men. Though I think this tradition is senseless because when it's this hot, umbrellas really do help!

I was fortunate that the tram I needed arrived promptly, else I would have roasted while waiting at the bus stop! When will autumn come, bringing at least a hint of cooler weather? Or better yet, winter! Although winter here doesn't differ significantly from summer in terms of temperature, it's marked primarily by rain, so I might even dislike the winter season more.

Six stops, a transfer, three more stops, and forty minutes later, I arrived at my destination. I chose a suitable bench in the shade, made myself comfortable, slipped on my headphones, and started observing under the pretense of reading a comic book.

My focus was on the same shop I had visited earlier in the night. Of course, any store would have sufficed for my experiment, but for the sake of maintaining experimental integrity, I returned here to minimize any discrepancies in the initial conditions.

The wait was longer than I had anticipated. Very few customers were in the store during this pre-lunch period, and the salesman, a young man in his early twenties, stood idly at the cash register. The current scenario wasn't conducive to my plans, but I was patient and was eventually rewarded after about a half-hour's wait.

A young and attractive mother entered the store, and the salesman immediately sprung into action. Rising from my bench, I crossed the street and made my way into the store.

Indeed, everything seemed to be falling into place. The salesman was enthusiastically explaining something to the woman, who was choosing a drawing album for her child. The guy was too engrossed in his challenging task: trying not to ogle at the customer's ample bust. The woman, seemingly flattered by the young man's attention, was taking her time choosing an album. The situation couldn't be more perfect!

Making my way to the designated rack, I picked up the same box of pencils I had attempted to take the previous night. I could clearly recall it, down to a slight crease at one corner of the package. I could have opted for another box, or any other product worth ten francs would have served the purpose. However, in an effort to replicate the initial conditions as closely as possible, I took the same one. Besides, I did need a new set of pencils.

I briskly walked over to the cash register, holding the box in one hand and a ten-franc note in the other.

"Hey!" I shouted to get the attention of the salesman who was engaged at the other end of the store.

He glanced at me as if I were an unwelcome distraction, struggling to shift his gaze from the attractive customer, who at that moment was bending down to get a better look at an album on the lowest shelf.

"I'll leave the money on the cash register, okay?" I had to raise my voice for him to hear me.

After a brief examination of the bill and the box, he gave an approving nod.

I left the ten francs on the cash register and calmly exited the store.

So...

"Purity" remains silent. To it, this episode seems nothing out of the ordinary. One final step remained in my experiment, but it's best to perform this phase away from prying eyes.

Once back home, I gripped the box of pencils and slipped into the Break. The box vanished from the material world along with me. And when I returned to reality, it reappeared in my hand. So, does this mean these blasted pencils are now undeniably mine? How does this differ from last night's scenario? I left the money in the same place and manner. Similarly, I did not receive a receipt. So, what's the significant distinction? The fact that the seller witnessed the purchase? Does a purchase need a witness for the Break to acknowledge it as "legitimate"? But that's absurd — what about items bought from vending machines?

Ah, my head! This is baffling!

It doesn't matter who or what established this limitation, or how it works. I just need to understand its parameters, nothing more... Regrettably, I'm still in the dark about it.

However, there's no need for an immediate solution, so there's no point in stressing excessively. I can devise additional tests and hopefully gain at least a rudimentary understanding of how this limitation operates.

I was so unenthusiastic about cooking dinner that I couldn't resist ordering a pizza. To take my mind off my perplexing thoughts, I turned on a TV series. Before I could finish even one episode, my meal was delivered. So, for the second consecutive day, I found myself lounging in bed in front of the screen. The thought of venturing out into the heat again held no appeal, and with the refreshing coolness of the air-conditioned apartment...

In Wilflaes, at this time of the year, sunset arrives quite early, with darkness enveloping the city by six-thirty in the evening. By then, the TV series I was watching had just ended, leaving a slight sense of melancholy behind. From the storyline and how the writers concluded the tale, it was evident there wouldn't be a sequel — all questions had been answered, and every character's narrative had been fully explored. It was somewhat disappointing; I would have loved to see the series continue, yet I understand that it's better to conclude at the right moment rather than prolonging it unnecessarily over several seasons, thereby diluting its appeal.

After brewing some hot tea and grabbing the remaining pizza, I settled down on the windowsill. As was customary, I watched the flurry of pedestrians scurrying home from work, while contemplating whether another trip to the library tonight would be worthwhile. The few hours of study I had conducted had clarified that Sire Campeador wasn't as renowned a historical figure as Alexander the Great, William the Conqueror, Julius Caesar, among others. Instead, he was a king of his era with the distinguishing trait of willingly ceding his throne to another family and joining a monastery.

Hold on. Could it be that the Maker "recognized" in me the reincarnation of a figure known from the other side? Is it possible that de Vivar left his imprint on history not as a ruler, but as a religious figure? Yes, his religious tenure was short-lived, spanning only seven years, but... He was a king who voluntarily abdicated power and founded a monastery. Could I have been looking in the wrong place? I need books on the history of the Catholic Church to verify this hypothesis. There were such books in the university library - I recall seeing an entire shelf dedicated to religious history.

I'm unsure if my supposition is correct, but it's worth investigating. I have developed a genuine fascination for the history of this world, so even if I don't uncover anything, the time will be well spent. Plus, my experiments are far from complete, and I already have an idea of what to examine next. However, for this phase, I'll need to set out much earlier and locate an appropriate spot.

This time, I opted for my motorcycle suit and, as the saying goes, dressed to the nines. When I slipped into the Break, the clock indicated it was half-past nine in the evening, the optimal time for my planned endeavor. A quick sprint at a pace close to my speed limit, several leaps from rooftop to rooftop, and I was there. The same small district in Wilflaes, notorious as a hub of illicit casinos, underground brothels, and bookmakers. I'm not sure why I selected this area - my planned task could have been executed by visiting any bank.

The test I had in mind was fairly straightforward: would I be able to swap my cash for someone else's, identical in denomination, and take it into the Break? If this experiment succeeded, it would eliminate any issues regarding handling banknotes obtained from the registration and eradication of the Breakthrough.

For reasons I couldn't entirely explain, I had assumed that locations with high alcohol consumption would have a significant amount of illicit cash in circulation, making my experiment easier than in a typical bank. After an hour of aimless wandering and observation, I regretted my decision. While there were numerous intoxicated patrons and an abundance of cash, finding an opportunity to subtly exchange the money such that "Purity" couldn't construe it as theft proved elusive.

Another option was to revisit the familiar safe of the Jackal clan, but that would consume half the night as the combination to the safe was altered daily. This meant waiting for the elderly accountant to arrive and stick around until he finished his business.

As I was about to postpone the experiment and head home to devise a proper plan, a disagreement sparked between a pair of bar patrons where I was seated, awaiting the right opportunity. One thing led to another, and a full-blown brawl ensued.

Having observed the escalating situation well in advance, I could have made an exit before the argument among the inebriated customers spiraled out of control. However, in recent days, I felt as though I had developed a better understanding of "Purity". Hence, I chose to stay put, risking getting entangled in the "adventure", because verifying my theories about the nature of the Wakizashi's properties seemed worth the gamble. Instead of watching the unfolding chaos, I focused on the sensations in my left palm.

"Purity" showed no reaction to the initial exchange of blows. Even the subsequent hits didn't provoke a response. It wasn't until a knife blade made an appearance in the melee that a cold sensation surged through my arm, prompting me to intervene. But before this chill could intensify into genuine pain, the crowd collectively turned on the knife-wielder and quickly subdued him, effectively ending the brawl. As soon as the knife was removed, "Purity" promptly settled down as well.

Hmm...

This gives me food for thought.

With that realization, I exited the bar and made my way home. It was high time I acknowledged that my experiments necessitated more detailed planning than just "go and do it". Moreover, it would be prudent to avoid such neighborhoods unless absolutely necessary since "adventures in the name of Purity" were easily stumbled upon here. I had known this all along but had let my guard down and overlooked this aspect. The fact that I was no longer at risk of being burned at the stake by the Inquisition didn't eliminate other dangers inherent to this world. I had to keep this in mind... On the other hand, having acquired the "Shock Sword" ability at the second level, many "adventures" posed little threat to me. Consider, for instance, the bar fight participant who pulled out the knife — if the other patrons hadn't neutralized him so swiftly, I could have effortlessly knocked him out without leaving the Break. To an external observer, it would simply appear as if the man had fainted from excessive alcohol consumption.

Night had just begun to fall; it wasn't even eleven o'clock yet, so I leisurely made my way home. I ambled slowly, peering into every closed shop, checking if anyone had carelessly left the cash register open with even a single bill inside. I wasn't expecting such luck, but human negligence knows no bounds.

To my astonishment, as I neared my house, I came across an open cash register with a few bills inside. I recognized the shop — it was a family-owned green grocer where I shopped from time to time.

"I'm not going to steal anything," I reassured "Purity" before reaching for the money.

I found a five-franc note in my wallet. Check. I placed it in the register. Done. I picked up another bill of the exact same denomination and pocketed it. How are we doing, "Purity"? No complaints? Even better. It wasn't theft or even trade. I shifted into the Break, then back again. From the falling banknote, it was evident that the test had ended in failure. Having restored everything to its original place and ensuring I didn't forget my own money, I left the shop.

What went wrong this time?!

Why such a constraint?

Fine, I've made peace with the restrictions on other items, and I can somehow comprehend them. But in this case...

If the Break is the result of someone's deliberate intervention, I'd seek out this individual, rip their hands off, and shove them where the sun doesn't shine!

Back at my apartment, I removed the motorcycle suit and sat on the edge of the bed, helmet in hand. My frustration was so intense that I felt a strong urge to hurl the helmet against the wall. Of course, I knew the helmet wasn't to blame, but my rage sought a vent. And no, this wasn't the hormonal imbalance of a youthful body acting up; it was genuine, grown-up irritation stemming from my inability to understand these puzzling restrictions.

Feeling on the verge of losing my patience, potentially breaking something or even venturing into the nocturnal city seeking some form of adventure, I tossed the helmet onto the floor and seated myself at the computer desk. Given my current state, the library visit planned for tonight was off the table.

As soon as the operating system booted up, I clicked on the icon of the most intense shooter game installed on the computer. I donned my headphones, cranked the volume nearly to maximum, and embarked on a rampage, unleashing my wrath on the unsuspecting digital creatures. At first, I simply gunned them down, but that quickly grew tiresome, and soon I resorted to a chainsaw, which expedited my emotional recovery significantly. Eventually, even that became monotonous, and I began exploiting the game's interactive environmental elements. I tossed one enemy into a lava pit, caused a cave-in that buried a horde of foes, and trapped a boss in a cage before incinerating it via a fuel leak. By the time this too had become mundane, the clock displayed five minutes to three in the morning.

No, my anger and irritation hadn't vanished, but they'd dimmed and lost their edge, which was exactly what I needed. I powered down the computer and moved to the bed, sprawling out star-shaped across the mattress.

My anger was illogical. There's no sense in being angry at something unchangeable or incomprehensible. I shouldn't curse the "absurd rules of the Break" but rather, myself. And no, not for my experiments and tests — those were necessary — but for venturing into the city's criminal district. Now, with a clearer mind, I recognized how foolish that move was. Not entirely "foolish," but certainly not sensible either. Yes, my abilities have considerably expanded since my first days in this world. Yes, I've gained more knowledge and understanding. Yes, I'm no longer under the threat of the Inquisition's prosecution. So what? Do all these "yeses" justify any reckless actions?

My main gripe was not that I'd visited a hazardous area but that I did so despite having numerous safer alternatives. The chat with the Maker had seemingly disturbed my equilibrium. Something shifted after that encounter, as if a burdensome weight had been lifted from my spirit. The primary fear that had haunted me from my first moments in this new world was dispelled. Perhaps this relief led to the ill-advised decision. Additionally, my engrossment in historical research might have played a part. Yes, it's certainly beneficial: the more I comprehend this world, the less likely I am to make a grave error without cause. But this fascination with history overshadowed too many other factors. I'd even ceased training, which was unacceptable. After all, what does my life hinge on? My swordsmanship skills! The Breakthroughs pose a far more significant threat than anything else, and I must never forget that.

However, berating myself all night wouldn't be productive either. With that in mind, I settled into a comfortable position and concentrated on my breathing, trying to relax my body to the utmost. As was typical for me, this didn't succeed on the first attempt. Thoughts continued to whir and bounce from one subject to another, instead of calming and flowing smoothly. This lasted for about an hour before sleep finally claimed me.

My sleep was restless, marked by occasional awakenings and fitful tosses and turns. When I finally woke up, I spent about five minutes untangling myself from the bedspread, which had managed to knot itself in various places.

The adage "morning is wiser than evening" holds true. Yesterday's issues that had seemed so pressing lost their acuteness, their vividness fading. Even if I can't elucidate the restrictions of the Break, so what? I don't even understand what this Break truly is. And yet, does that hinder me from utilizing it? No. Can I alter the properties of this ghostly reflection of reality? That's a no as well. So what's there to be irate about? Is there any benefit to my irritation? I need to accept this as a fact and keep it in mind. That's all. This matter is closed.

However, it would certainly be beneficial to continue exploring the properties of the Break and the peculiarities of my swords. Moreover, I do have a few hypotheses regarding these.

A refreshing contrast shower, followed by a hot cup of strong green tea, significantly invigorated me. The clock read a quarter to seven, yet I felt well-rested and brimming with energy. Ah, the perks of youth!

I resolved not to repeat the errors of the past few days. No rushing around. I would start with a gentle warm-up, focusing on flexibility as that was my body's primary issue. After that, a hearty breakfast. I entertained the idea of whipping up a diet smoothie, but I realized that I wasn't quite that dedicated to a healthy lifestyle yet.

Post-breakfast, I brewed another cup of tea and settled in front of the computer. I checked the city news first, scanning just the headlines. It's important to stay informed about the pulse of the city you live in. Then, I visited the BKDW website, unfortunately limited to the publicly accessible sections from my computer. I skimmed through the page dedicated to me, but I didn't see any point in wading through the endless heap of comments and speculations. Still, it was intriguing to see the theories people were weaving about me! Though, it would have been better to avoid reading them. Human imagination is boundless, and some of the absurd assumptions made me want to close my eyes and bang my head against the wall. I navigated to the Masks of Novilter's portal next. This independent raig team had today posted a map depicting Breakthroughs in Lemuria from the beginning until now. I wondered if these guys were truly independent or just portraying themselves as such. Where were they obtaining such comprehensive information? Especially concerning other countries on the continent. I downloaded the map and examined it in detail. If it was accurate, there was a noticeable and rather intriguing trend: Breakthroughs occurred more frequently in cities. And the more densely populated the area, the higher the likelihood of a reality rupture. This piqued my interest in reading the comments under the map, but I decided to postpone that. I needed to ruminate on this myself first, before considering theories others had already put forward.

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In essence, this observation was nothing new. However, having all the data collected in one place clearly illustrated the pattern that everyone interested in this topic had already surmised. However, there was one significant clarification. While Breakthroughs tended to occur in cities, they were curiously absent from central, crowded areas, instead appearing towards the outskirts of urban settlements. Of course, there were exceptions, but the pattern was quite distinct. As for the reasoning behind this, I didn't have any theories. I went through the comments, and they proposed several interesting hypotheses, but none seemed convincing enough.

Should I attempt to contact someone from the "Masks"? Indeed, interacting with someone from that team could prove intriguing. But how could I locate them? Roaming around the city, banking on a chance encounter? That didn't seem like the best strategy. Leave a message on their website from an anonymous computer? That might work, but it would also reveal my interest in them. On one hand, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with this. On the other hand, it would be preferable to initiate negotiations from a position of strength. I decided to set this matter aside for the time being; it could wait.

But one thing that definitely demanded immediate resolution was finding a new training location. I had no desire to return to the port, as my training spot there had been compromised. Of course, I could practice certain elements at home, and others, like "Sliding," during my nightly outings. But that wasn't sufficient, and I needed a space where I could fully exercise my abilities. In theory, any city park would do, but they were usually crowded, and more importantly, teeming with children during the summer season — I didn't want to accidentally injure anyone with a "Sword Throw" if I made a mistake. Perhaps I should consider a simpler option and select a spot outside the city, rather than restricting myself to urban areas? A forest, perhaps... No, that wouldn't be very suitable; using the "Sword Throw" there would prove challenging. Maybe an agricultural field? That seems more fitting, though the surface is too flat. Nevertheless, it's a reasonably good option.

As I sat in my usual spot on the windowsill, deep in thought, my gaze drifted over the street, neighboring houses, and passersby. I spotted two mothers who, as per their daily routine, were out for a stroll with their prams, engaging in an animated conversation. There was another familiar figure — a gray-haired man who made his rounds to the local shops each morning. He rarely bought much but spent a considerable amount of time chatting with the shopkeepers. Then there was the young man jogging down the alleyway, as punctual as a clock. He was the shapeshifter lad who had refused to join a clan because of his ailing mother. I found him intriguing, a standout in his surroundings. If I were mentally the same age as Izao, I would undoubtedly attempt to befriend him. But in my current predicament, I hardly have time for friends, let alone myself! The solitude is increasingly grating, but as a man in his forties, I doubt I would find much in common with such a youngster; he's still in school. Granted, he could potentially serve as a source of information about shapeshifters, but I can't bring myself to exploit the boy. He's already got enough on his plate.

As the shapeshifter boy rounded a bend and disappeared from sight, my focus shifted to the road. Traffic jams were a rare sight in my neighborhood, but this morning proved an exception. Several heavy trucks loaded with construction materials, escorted by a police car, obstructed both lanes. This was odd, as this street, to my knowledge, restricted vehicles weighing over five tons. Ah, then I remembered the upcoming repair work on the ring road that I'd read about in the city news. These trucks were presumably en route to a massive construction site on the city's southern outskirts where a new stadium was being erected, a project that had been ongoing for three years. The stadium had become a local point of contention, regularly making headlines in corruption and embezzlement stories. Until the road repairs were complete, it seemed likely that this normally quiet street would become a frequent host to traffic jams.

The stadium, or rather, its construction site, suddenly came to mind. Indeed, it was a bustling place filled with builders, engineers, inspectors, laborers, and drivers, but they would be oblivious to my presence in the Break. A construction project of this magnitude would also offer plenty of open space. It seemed ideal for training. There would be room for practicing the "Throw" and many obstacles suitable for "Sliding."

Determined to investigate this location, I hopped off the windowsill and began gathering the pieces of my motorcycle suit that were strewn about the floor from the previous night.

Once I was dressed, I turned off the computer and slipped into the Break. As was customary, I navigated straight through the ceilings to the basement, and then through the underground utilities to an exit point nearly a block away from my house.

At times, I likened my lifestyle to that of a fox, a thought that stirred feelings of unease within me. Such tension could be sustained for weeks, perhaps even months, but eventually, the strain could take a toll on my sanity without me even realizing it. On the other hand, if I did not take these precautions, I could find myself in a far worse predicament — and much sooner at that... Yes...

The colossal construction project that was causing this morning's traffic congestion on my street was supposed to have been completed a year ago, according to the original schedule. However, "something went wrong." Initially, everyone pointed fingers at inadequate site preparation, which resulted in multiple pilings sinking into the ground. Then the shifting groundwater was used as an excuse. Subsequently, a series of contractor bankruptcies surfaced. About three months ago, the House on the Hill lost patience with the chaotic proceedings, and the duke personally took over the construction. This led to a noticeable revival of the stalled project, and the plans were promptly revised and updated as needed. They even vowed to finish the basic work by year-end. From a distance, the stadium bowl appeared nearly complete. Most of the ongoing work was happening inside and on the surrounding premises.

Traveling to the stadium by public transport would take at least half an hour, assuming good fortune and no traffic delays. But, in my projected state, it only took seven minutes, even when factoring in the occasional direction changes that had become a habit.

The construction site welcomed me with an orchestra of noise: profanities, loud orders, roaring engines, yelling forklift drivers, and the clanging of construction equipment. Before I approached the stadium bowl, I made several concentric circles, surveying the area. The sports complex was being built on what used to be an abandoned industrial zone. The site had been cleared, and the construction had begun, with the architectural plans indicating that the entire adjacent territory would be converted into a park. At present, most of the equipment was employed in shaping this future park. Eight gigantic tower cranes, intended for the installation of the stadium roof, stood idle during these morning hours around the perimeter of the site. As I drew nearer to the future sports arena, the flurry of activity seemed to dwindle.

Upon close inspection, even unfinished, the stadium was incredibly awe-inspiring. It was more than just massive... it was utterly overpowering, making me feel like a miniscule ant at the entrance to a colossal giant's abode. Yet, what should I have expected from an arena? According to the plans, it was designed to accommodate almost seventy thousand spectators and would host the World Championship of a game similar to rugby. Here, this type of team sport was referred to as rugbyling, the most popular sport spectacle in Lemuria and across the western hemisphere. In Europe, rugbyling was only slightly less popular than the unfamiliar to me game of trouran[1]: an odd blend of skittles, baseball, and steeplechase.

Given that the interior of the future sports complex held little interest for me, I chose to remain in the shade and leapt onto the roof in a few bounds. The work there was still incomplete. At this stage of construction, the massive canopies, intended to shelter the stands from winter rains and the blazing summer sun, were nothing more than a chaotic maze of rebar, power blocks, and steel beams to the casual observer. Inspecting this structure up close, I realized that there could be no better place to practice balance and jumps. The only downside: this roof was conspicuously visible, and there was a high likelihood of being accidentally spotted by a Knight patrolling near the construction site.

However, upon closer inspection, the roof seemed to slope inward towards the future playing field. I moved closer. Perfect. While standing upright on this "slope," nothing was visible except the stadium itself.

As I had anticipated, there were fewer workers within the bowl than outside. Only a couple of crews were busy finalizing the wide stairs, and another was bustling at the very bottom, measuring and marking something.

It appeared that I had stumbled upon the perfect training site.

While exploring, I made sure to remain hidden in the shadows. However, the more I observed, the more confident I became. Among the workers, engineers, and the occasional inspectors dressed in expensive suits, not a single individual exhibited even the slightest sensum abilities. Although I understood that the probability of encountering a Maker here was nearly zero, after my encounter with Tu Chong, I had become overly cautious and had developed a heightened sensitivity to any Gifted individual.

I was about to leap down to the upper tier of the future stands when an odd noise made me reconsider and cling to one of the beams.

"U-E-E!! I'll never get used to this!" a voice echoed from behind the wall, and then I saw a pair of shadows leap high over the stadium roof.

Projections.

Two.

Unknown.

Male.

Raigs...

The first figure appeared to have walked straight out of Vasnetsov's[2] paintings: a tall, broad-shouldered stature, garbed in double-weave chain mail, extending down to his knees and reinforced with square steel plates on the chest. His head was shielded by a pointed pot helmet, with a small chain mail net serving as a visor, leaving only the eyes exposed. His legs were encased in high boots, and his hands were securely covered with thick, tanned leather gloves, reaching almost to his elbows. In his right hand, he effortlessly swung an enormous axe, or rather a lighter version of a bardiche[3]. The blade of this weapon was pristine, showing no signs of rust.

The second figure, while also quite tall, was leaner and bore a striking resemblance to a Swiss mercenary from the Middle Ages. He was dressed in simple yet sturdy and highly functional infantry armor, with yellow-red fabric accents on the elbows and knees serving as the only decorative elements. His barbute helmet not only concealed his face but also offered reliable protection. If he were wielding a halberd, one might mistake him for an authentic warrior of that geographical region and historical era. However, in lieu of a polearm, he carried a sheath containing an ordinary bastard sword at his belt.

"I can't get used to it either," the armored man responded to his companion's outcry.

I did not recognize either of them. I hadn't seen them during the Breakthrough. They didn't even seem to be in the BKDW database. They had definitely not appeared in the catalogue of known Knights.

I decided to take a closer look.

Judging by their reserve of prana, they were both at the first level.

"Well, shall we jump?" the first one asked, moving towards the edge of the roof and peering down.

"Perhaps we should land on the stand first... and then on the field?" the voice of the second man was tinged with doubt.

"Oh, what could possibly happen to us?" With these words, the broad-shouldered man gestured expansively with his arms and leapt down. "Yo-yo-yo-yo-yo!!! It's more thrilling than any amusement ride!"

"Oh, damn you..." Slapping his glove against his helmet, the slender man clenched his fists, took a deep breath, and followed his companion.

For a projection, falling from a height is completely safe, even jumping from an airplane. So, such a leap, from nearly ninety meters, did not pose the slightest danger to either of them. But psychologically, taking a "leap into the void," despite understanding that there will be no repercussions, is still a daunting endeavor.

I too found it challenging in the beginning... It took me nearly a month to overcome my fear of heights, so I could perfectly empathize with the second man's reaction.

The pair of Knights landed softly on the future "rugby" field, positioning themselves away from the workers.

"I told you, it's cool!" The first man shouted, brandishing his massive ax over his head.

"Oh, why of all my acquaintances... it had to be you..." The voice of the second raig was laced with unmistakable disappointment, though I sensed it was more affected than genuine.

"Don't be like that!" The first man dismissed his friend's words. "Imagine if it had been wimpy Willy in my place."

"You certainly have a way with words," the second man replied without changing his tone.

"Shall we begin?"

"Go."

"It's mince time!!!" The broad-shouldered man hollered, and in two leaps, he had covered the distance between them, raining his ax down on his partner.

The blow was successfully parried by the blade of the bastard sword, not due to a skillful block, but rather because the strong, backhanded strike was entirely unrefined and predictable. The ax swung again, and once more, the clang of metal resonated in the air.

After the raigs exchanged three more blows, it became apparent they were not attempting to harm each other but were "training," according to their understanding of the term.

If I were in the material world, my face would have been covered in handprints from the number of facepalms I executed during the five minutes of observation.

What were they doing?!

Seriously, who trains like that...

Oh, my eyes!

Even I, the first time I picked up a stick, performed better...

I couldn't bear to watch.

This wasn't training. This was just thoughtless brandishing of weapons, from which there would be no gain, only detriment!

They just stood still, hitting each other.

That was their entire workout.

They just stood in place!

Raigs, whose primary advantage was speed, were pointlessly stomping around on the same patch of grass.

If they got used to this, their first Breakthrough would indeed be their last...

The thought had been a mistake. As soon as it crossed my mind, my left palm went cold.

"No...no...no..." I murmured through gritted teeth to "Purity."

The cold intensified.

"Do you really think that I..." This blasted thing genuinely believed I had to do something.

The chill turned into pain.

"I don't want to..."

I clenched my hand into a fist. It didn't help.

"No! Over and over, no!"

The pain subsided. The cold withdrew, replaced by a soothing, relaxing warmth.

Was this... a request?

"Purity" was asking me?!

I glanced down at these young fools, beating each other with their weapons as if they were brandishing logs.

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

You insistent devil, "Purity"...

I moved to the edge of the roof, attempting to remain unseen, then jumped off and quickly concealed myself in the internal passageways. A brief dash down the stairs. Yes, this looked like the exit onto the field I needed.

I stood in the shadows, only ten meters from the two Break Knights who were oblivious to their surroundings.

I surmised that they must be "brand new," initiated by the most recent Breakthrough in Wilflaes - the one involving robots.

Oh, up close, their routine looked even more abysmal.

Unable to tolerate it any longer, I stepped forward, feeling a warmth radiating from my hand.

"Well, who trains to die in such a pitiful way? You'll never get it right like that!" With these words, I crossed the boundary between shadow and light.

[1] AN: A loose transcription of "throw, run."

[2] TLN: A reference to this picture of the three most renowned Eastern Slavic "knights" https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d3/Viktor_Vasnetsov_-_%D0%91%D0%BE%D0%B3%D0%B0%D1%82%D1%8B%D1%80%D0%B8_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg

[3] TLN: A type of polearm with a long crescent ax blade https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8f/01_068_Book_illustrations_of_Historical_description_of_the_clothes_and_weapons_of_Russian_troops.jpg