This unforeseen realization hit like an ax handle to the forehead. My whole mood and all inspiration instantly evaporated, leaving me with a single thought: "How did I manage to do this!?"

I'm focusing on the wrong things. Right, I need to calm down. The main question is: can I make it on time? Yes. If I dress quickly and avoid dawdling, I should be able to reach the stadium at the appointed hour without significant trouble.

Donning a motorcycle suit takes a while, so I opt for the clothing I've been wearing on my nocturnal library raids. As I pull it on, it crosses my mind that I should consider swapping my motorcycle gear for something more everyday-friendly. Perhaps lightweight military fatigues, like the Orpheidos raigs wore. Now that's a thought. They're affordable, conceal the body effectively, and are much more comfortable and lighter. I definitely should make this change, but not right now, of course.

I exit my apartment in the usual fashion - plunging through the floor, then several more floors down. But this time, I don't descend into the sewers. Instead, I navigate through the basement into the adjacent building and from there, out onto the street. It's a bit of a gamble for me, but showing up late for a meeting with my students without any warning would be a far worse outcome.

For me to instill in them a belief in themselves and the opportunities the Break presents, they need to trust me. I must foster as much trust as possible within these peculiar dynamics. I'm fairly certain being late would erode the necessary rapport. Yes, even with "Word" in my sheathe, I could concoct an excuse, but it's best not to let the situation get to that point.

By the time I reach the construction site of the stadium, I still have a minute and a half to spare. This is despite not taking a direct route, but one with several detours. It's a good thing my projection includes a clock, making timekeeping much simpler.

As I approach discreetly, I peek into the stadium bowl. My two temporary disciples are already on the field, engaged in conversation. After pondering for a few seconds, I decide to make a more dramatic entrance than before.

I ascend to the roof, take a short run-up, and then launch into the air, soaring like a swallow. I halt at the apex, perform a graceful flip in mid-air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that I've caught their attention - and I land with a spectacular roll, the kind usually reserved for superhero movies. Yes, it's a bit of a show-off move, but it's also visually striking. It's a cheap trick, but it's the kind of entrance I wanted to make.

Emerging from the roll only five meters from the Padawans, I rose and greeted them with a brief nod. They returned the respect with their own bows.

"Good morning, young men," I greeted them neutrally.

"Hello, Master," they responded in unison, as though they had rehearsed their reply.

"Before we commence training," I began, studying the pair with an intense gaze, "did you complete the task I assigned you?"

As it turned out, they had. They hadn't forgotten. For about a minute and a half, I listened to their disjointed account of how high or far they could leap in the Break. In terms of long jumps, both standing and running, Dobrynya surpassed his counterpart, a fact he wore with visible pride. It was discernible in his voice and posture when he spoke of his achievements. Baenre excelled only in high jumps. If we consider the raw figures of their measurements, the boys shouldn't have felt elated. I had attained far better results at their level. But their enthusiastic accounts led me to hold back from comparing their efforts with my own. Moreover, their demeanor hinted at several valuable revelations and an expanded comprehension of their abilities. As this was the main aim of their assignment, I could safely conclude it was accomplished successfully.

"Well done," I complimented them, "Now, I want to see your lap times today. Three, two, one!"

Familiar with my commands, they bolted immediately. Interestingly, their progress was noticeable: less needless sprinting and more jumps, enabling them to reach the roof in under ten seconds. Of course, even at their level and without Sliding, they could potentially hit the seven or even six-second mark, but the improvement from yesterday was remarkable.

And they ran confidently. They evidently believed in their capabilities. I noticed how they hurdled over unfinished sections, where previously they would have circled around, wasting precious time. Now, they attempted to chart the straightest course they deemed possible.

Incidentally, this oval canopy encompassing the stadium bowl serves as an ideal track. The constant alterations by the construction workers cause the roof's landscape to change daily, making it impossible to memorize the route for subsequent runs. It would be a shame not to exploit this opportunity.

Both of them shaved more than a minute off their previous best times on the first lap. Not extraordinary, but a commendable progression. Without betraying any hint of my satisfaction with their performance, I immediately dispatched the guys for a second and subsequent lap.

They seem to grasp what I expect from them. They're making valiant efforts to showcase their potential.

"That's better," I commented tersely after the third lap, "Now, head to the top and replicate my jump from earlier."

I gestured with my hand, and they sprang upward like grasshoppers. Their movements, despite all their training, remained awkward and disjointed. It was not quite akin to footage of astronauts landing on the moon, but there was an indistinct similarity. However, I'm likely overstating the clumsiness of the young Knights.

Their initial leap was atrocious. I beckoned them, and they returned. I wanted them to experience this fleeting sensation that mimics a short flight, not just to conquer their fear of heights and falls. While the latter two objectives are paramount, addressing a wide spectrum of tasks with a single exercise is advantageous. I verbally clarified their mistakes, then ascended to the roof with them and demonstrated the jump.

When I was a child, I often dreamt of flying. It was a riveting experience that lingered with me even hours after waking up. So, the moment when you detach from the roof, propel forward, and momentarily hover at the highest point, it revives that seemingly lost sensation. And then there's the fall that momentarily stops your heart. You're aware there's no threat, but your heart still skips a beat. A somersault, touch, another somersault, and it's over. Thrilling...

"Repeat what I did!" I shouted upwards.

A brief run and the takeoff - these portions they manage quite well. Dobrynya even mimics a flying swallow, a spectacle made humorous by the axe in his right hand. However, Baenre struggles with the latter stages of the exercise. Moreover, even the broad-shouldered Knight is unable to nail the landing.

"Again!"

The third attempt was slightly better, if at all.

"That's enough," I halted the boys, "Practice this exercise in your spare time, but only jump from a low height, no more than five to ten meters."

Upon confirming their understanding, I issued the young men their next assignment - running on metal bars. The construction workers were occupied elsewhere on the site, leaving this section, which bore a resemblance to the back of a colossal hedgehog, undisturbed. I decided to utilize it while it was still available, for soon it would likely be blanketed in concrete.

For about five minutes, I silently observed their attempts. Then, for another minute, I struggled to restrain my frustration. What were they doing? I instructed them to run, yet they moved at a glacial pace. Or rather, they tiptoed as a cat would on a picket fence: cautiously testing with each step before progressing.

Oh, how I wished for a stick or a pole, akin to those depicted in Eastern films where masters drill the rudiments of martial arts into young minds. But that was wishful thinking. Even if I had such a stick, its impact would be minimal. Pain in the Break is considerably milder than in reality. Yet, this did nothing to quell my desire to prod them along with a stick.

However, I shouldn't allow myself to become irritated with the boys. They're not at fault here. They're trying their best. If they're falling short, the onus lies on the trainer who assigned a task they weren't fully prepared for.

I beckoned them away from the rebar, and I leaped ahead myself, proposing they observe "how it's supposed to be done." Initially, I sauntered casually, as though out for a stroll, pointedly neglecting to glance down at my feet. It was akin to walking on smooth asphalt. It isn't particularly challenging when you rely not only on your vision but also on your other senses. Moreover, I had somewhat familiarized myself with the placement of the bars. This could be viewed as a minor subterfuge, but it's even better this way; it makes the demonstration more effective. Then, I quickened my pace, transitioning from strides to leaps. This continued for about thirty seconds. Following that, my blades materialized in my hands, and I executed several combinations - theatrical, striking, and memorable.

Landing onto the field and observing the young men, who appeared to have forgotten how to breathe while watching me, I gestured them towards this impromptu training ground.

Blast it! This time, they're faring even worse. They're attempting to mimic my movements but are missing their steps, stumbling, and falling. This is no longer an exercise but a veritable circus of errors.

I'm a terrible instructor. Appalling. I should've thought through and planned the training process. That's what effective trainers do, but evidently, I don't fall into that category. I relied entirely on spontaneity and inspiration when a more systematic and cautious approach was required.

They're not ready to leap across sharp bars. Not at all. And could I have managed such a task if I hadn't spent several days training in the port, dancing atop the waves? No, I would've failed just as miserably! More accurately, I could've managed parts of it, but nowhere near as effectively as I had just demonstrated to them.

Despite my inner turmoil, I couldn't let my uncertainty show, so I continued to scrutinize their struggle, occasionally offering commentary on particularly commendable efforts.

Watching them, it dawned on me: I needed to take the boys to the sea and teach them to run on waves. That would provide a foundation upon which everything else could be built. I could leave all the leaping, somersaulting, and racing to their individual practice. It seemed like the right move if I wanted to impart them with a skill they could enhance later - especially when the responsibility of teaching at the university falls to me.

"Enough," I beckoned the boys away from the rebar.

They hung their heads low, shielded their eyes, and wore looks of disappointment because they knew they'd utterly failed the exercise.

"Let's proceed with another test."

I approached a concrete slab standing upright. It wasn't particularly thick, merely the width of a palm, and measured five by two meters. A perfect test subject, one could say.

"You know you can do this," I said as my palm sunk into the concrete. "And even this." I took a step and moved through the slab, experiencing the customary resistance.

They nod in understanding. Of course, they're aware.

"Baenre, you're first. Go."

The young man struggles to pass through the obstacle. Moreover, it's a distinctly unpleasant experience, not painful per se, but it feels unnatural and somewhat foreign. I find it much easier, but observing the youngster, I comprehend how much of an ordeal it is for other raigs.

"Dobrynya. Your turn!"

The broad-shouldered Knight initiated much quicker than his companion but then mirrored his pace and completed the passage with great difficulty. Should I have them repeat it? On one hand, I'm not a sadist, but on the other, they need to understand that these methods are accessible to them and shouldn't be discarded just because they're uncomfortable.

"Too slow!" I growl and traverse the concrete slab back and forth.

This is blatant deception. Even if they train all day, they won't match my speed in this exercise. But to beginners, a trainer must appear to be an insurmountable ideal. Hence, I unabashedly exploit my advantage. Moreover, I'm aware that practice quickens the passage and helps accustom one to unpleasant sensations.

"Baenre. Proceed!"

Having guided the young men through the slab two more times while also demonstrating myself to dispel any notion that I was simply tormenting them, I concluded the exercise.

I steal a quick, inconspicuous glance at the watches. Oh, how time slips away. Forty minutes have elapsed since we began training. It feels as though we've barely done anything, yet we're already running short on time...

"Circular route on the roof. One!"

As they take off running, I quietly hum a modified version of a song from Winnie the Pooh to myself:

"But time is a very odd subject... Anything either exists or it doesn't. And time (I can't fathom the mystery!)... Time - if it exists, it's gone in an instant!"[1]

My making them run again isn't whimsical or simply to keep them occupied. I'm trying to track progress from today's exercises. And I do notice it - it's minor but significant. Even if my methodology is somewhat clumsy, my training clearly benefits the boys.

"Enough," I called the pair over. "Who's first up today?" I asked while "Purity" took its place in my left palm.

They understood my question, and with an excited cheer, Dobrynya dashed forward...

For the next ten minutes, I sparred with them in turns and together, not once allowing them to land a hit. This provided a beneficial opportunity for me to test my morning inspiration in practice. The boys put in their best effort, especially when they teamed up. I even noticed a few combined attacks that they had prepared independently. Naturally, all their attempts were thwarted by my snow-white blade. Yes, they have much farther to go compared to my progress with the captain of the "Ghost Dane." However, every journey begins with the first step, and they've taken theirs.

"That's it for today," I announce as they catch their breath, with "Purity" already on my belt. "Come over here. About your request for me to be your sensei." They tense up, holding their breath. "I have to decline," I swiftly continue, not allowing them to interject. "Teaching is a vocation. You must dedicate yourself wholly to the task. Regrettably, I'm not in a position to do so. I have my own responsibilities and tasks." Dobrynya nods in understanding while Baenre remains as still as a statue. "Furthermore, September is approaching, and you'll be engulfed by your studies... I can't accept your trust and become your sensei. But given the time and opportunity, I'd be glad to coach you."

I seem to have accomplished my goal. Both of them smile, then bow deeply and respectfully.

"I've evaluated your capabilities," I consider their bows as a sign of agreement. "Meet me at the same time tomorrow, but the location will be different. The yacht club's pier, 'Night Waters.' It's south of the cargo port, a peaceful place that you can easily locate online. We'll commence your training there."

They exchange confused glances. Their eyes seem to question, "What were these past days then?" I don't let them dwell on this admittedly sensible thought, barking out in a commanding tone:

"Dismissed!"

Once the Padawans were out of sight, I brought out "Word" and, already in the Break, attempted to replicate the moves I had practiced at home. Over and over, circle after circle, combo after combo. Alas, the unexpected inspiration that overwhelmed me earlier in the morning had already faded. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't recreate it. As a result, all my current efforts were devoted to adapting what I had learned in the morning to the conditions of a spectral reality.

I yearned to do more, but altering my usual fighting style without inspiration was unwise. I tried, of course, but the outcome was ultimately inferior to my existing style. Therefore, I limited myself to refining what I had practiced in the apartment.

I trained for a little over an hour, and when several teams of workers started moving onto the field, I vacated the stadium bowl.

Having wandered through the city somewhat out of habit and, as usual, not noticing any signs of surveillance, I calmly returned home. It was only after I exited the Break and discarded my disguise that I realized how famished I was. I hadn't even had breakfast. I was so engrossed in the morning's activities that I entirely forgot about it.

Before I could grab a bite to eat, Melanie called. She inquired about trivial matters, listened to my formulaic responses, and then asked if I was preparing for my university trip. I assured her there was nothing to worry about and everything was under control. I understand her anxiety, but her unwarranted alarm was slightly irksome. I was worried she might impulsively fly back from France to visit her son at an inopportune moment. I asked about her work. She was busy preparing two new exhibitions simultaneously: "So much work, so much!" Well, that's good - as long as nothing extraordinary happens, I don't need to worry about her coming back.

Speaking of university, this call reminded me that I'll soon have to spend a few days visiting this bastion of knowledge. It's an orientation for future students, designed to prevent them from aimlessly wandering the vast campus, clueless about the "what," "where," and "what should I do and where should I go." If I had it my way, I'd forgo such a waste of time. Still, if I did, Melanie Vaillant would be quick to probe into what happened. Others might also raise unnecessary questions. Therefore, I have a few choices if I want to continue living this second life somewhat ordinarily. And I really want to. If possible, I'd send all these Breakthroughs, Breaks, and all things related to them to oblivion, and simply revel in my second chance. Regrettably, my choices in this matter are limited, to say the least.

A sudden thought struck me like a bolt of lightning, coursing from the top of my head down to my heels. I swiftly jumped up from the dining table and darted to the computer. Now, where's my email inbox? Ah, here it is. Emails from the university...

Oh, my flawed memory! My week-long trip to the university is already set for the following Monday! How could I ever let this slip from my mind? Entirely! Only five days remain... Damn... The situation...

I sat there for ten minutes, my gaze blankly fixed on the monitor.

Damn it.

All plans are disrupted. An entire week wasted.

I brewed some tea and perched on the windowsill. The usual spot, the usual throng of people below, the usual stream of cars on the street. All of it was soothing and helped calm my mind.

Why am I so anxious? Everything is fine, in fact. I've been feeling the fatigue of constant solitude. So, this is the perfect opportunity for socialization and integration into the local community. A bunch of boys and girls, all strangers to each other, in a new place – it really is the best situation you could ask for. Therefore, things are actually going well.

Just terrible timing.

Really terrible.

Fundamentally, everything can be resolved. Except one matter. What should I do with the Padawans? More specifically, the plan is clear - train them. But I have to ensure that my week-long absence doesn't hinder their progress.

I need to ensure... I need to ensure... Then get to work! Just do it.

With this thought, I gulped down the rest of my tea and settled at the table, grabbing a notebook and pencil. I had to devise a detailed training plan. Break it down point by point. Develop training schemes.

The sun had already started setting, and all I had achieved was one line in the final draft and a pile of discarded pages in the waste bin.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Several times, I thought I had a decent scheme, but as time passed, flaws were spotted, and the subsequent sheets were discarded. Everything hinged on the fact that I needed to monitor the guys' progress in wave walking in real time. This exercise and the awareness it brought propelled my understanding of the Break and the capabilities of projection more than anything else. I have a strong sense that I should start with this and not something else.

It took me several days to become comfortable on the waves. How long will it take them?

My mind is so foggy that it refuses to form coherent thoughts. But no, I can't give up. If I've decided to take on a task, I must see it through, not look for reasons not to do it.

Finally, in the evening, after consuming more than five mugs of potent green tea, which boasts a higher caffeine content than the finest coffee, I drafted a rudimentary self-study plan for the Padawans. Then, feeling more exhausted than after running a marathon, I fell asleep without even having dinner.

I was plagued by nonsensical dreams all night. At first, the boatswain attacked me, but as soon as his jian broke through my defense, I pulled out a notebook from my chest and told him his technique wasn't recorded in the plan, so his strike was null and void. Then, the captain of the ghost ship used his bony hand to draw diagrams in the sand, supposedly elucidating the principles of his fencing school. The problem was, he was sketching out hockey plays. I was delirious throughout the night.

The ringing of the alarm clock, rescuing me from this surreal nonsense, felt like a godsend. I didn't linger in bed but immediately sprang up, started the kettle, and headed for the shower. Alternating between cold and hot water, I rinsed away the remnants of sleep. I can't say I was completely refreshed, but after five minutes, I felt fully awake, and the memories of the dream faded into obscurity.

Sipping strong green tea, I skimmed through the news on my computer. Nothing caught my interest, except for the ongoing discussions about the Breakthrough in Orpheidos. I glossed over this news, but it was mostly pseudo-analysis, conjecture, and baseless speculation. Then, as per usual, I visited the BKDW and Masks websites, but nothing there excited me either.

Finishing the last drop of tea, I cleared the center of the apartment and took my stance, clutching the mop handle in my hands.

Circle, circle, step.

Strike, block, deflect.

Step, circle, strike.

Combo, block, recoil...

I reinforced what I had learned yesterday and tried to rekindle that spark of inspiration. It's a pity that such a state cannot be summoned at will. It didn't happen this time, but practicing what I learned yesterday was a significant achievement in itself. I trained without obsessing, occasionally glancing at my watch. It might seem easy to prance around the apartment with a stick in your hands, but when you pour your heart into it, thirty minutes can pass, and you'll be drenched in sweat. And nearing the end of the hour, your arms can barely lift even such a light object as a stick. After completing this peculiar exercise, I slipped into the Break, recuperated, and then hopped back into the shower, if only for a minute, to wash off the sweat.

Unlike yesterday, I wasn't in a rush, and I decided to wear my motorcycle suit. As I put it on, I made a mental note, not for the first time this week, to buy something more comfortable, like camouflage attire. Seriously, by the time you've donned this outfit, you've already begun to curse it.

The "Night Waters" yacht club was situated to the west of the cargo port, nestled behind a sandy spit. I once considered this place as an alternative training "venue," but eventually opted for the port. It was a beautiful spot. A serene cove where a swift, turbulent stream flowed into. Many sailboats and yachts created entirely different wave patterns compared to motorboats or large ships. Moreover, the area was private, and the club served as an exclusive retreat for affluent clients. Consequently, in the morning hours, there were hardly any people around except for die-hard yachting enthusiasts and vacationers.

This place was not well-known to ordinary Wilflaes residents: office clerks, builders, laborers... However, online, if you knew the name, it was easy to locate the club. Therefore, I wasn't overly concerned that the boys would get lost.

Just as I had anticipated, the young men quickly located the bay. Much to my delight, they emerged onto the pier not from the city side but from behind the wooded hills to the west. In other words, the boys understood the importance of concealment and avoiding direct routes. This was excellent, as it meant fewer lectures I'd need to deliver. Moreover, I didn't want to emphasize this point, as my words might be misconstrued as opposing BKDW and their government collaboration. That wasn't true; I merely didn't want that cooperation for myself. But, if the boys chose that path, I would even support them.

The training... The wave walking...

If it weren't for the properties of the projection, I would have gone hoarse from cursing and shouting. Everything was considerably more complex than expected, and the boys were as clumsy as cows on ice. They failed to grasp the fundamental principles, no matter how ardently I tried to convey them. No, it's not that the students were unintelligent. It was I who had overburdened them with a task that was currently beyond their reach. And as a coach, it seems, I was woefully inadequate.

Thankfully, in Novilter, teachers are regarded with great respect. European and Eastern traditions curiously intertwine in this country. Here, educators are viewed as second parents, commanding absolute authority. If they instruct something, it is done. If you don't understand, if you struggle, there's no complaining or arguing; the teacher knows best. If he speaks and gives orders, he's more knowledgeable about your current needs than you are. Hence, the boys fell, stumbled, and endured but persevered like oxen without uttering a word. And finally, their hard work bore fruit! Just as I was beginning to feel this was futile and needed to halt the exercise, they started to get the hang of it — first Baenre, then Dobrynya.

I concluded the training session with a duel, one against two, on the sea's surface. Suffice to say, they spent a fair amount of time airborne. But, it seemed that through this rigorous exercise, they understood why they endured so much hardship and engaged in something they initially didn't grasp.

I assigned them a task to practice until the next day. And just before allowing them to rest, I gave them an additional assignment.

"Purchase two phones each, complete with disposable SIM cards. Don't get them through official channels; look for unregistered devices. Afterward, hide them in different locations across the city, ensuring that you can easily access them. Keep them switched off initially. These will serve as our emergency communication devices. If I'm absent for an extended period, periodically switch on the phones and check for messages or tasks. Don't acquire the phones from the same place. Upon receiving a message from me, if there's any, destroy the phone and vacate the area as soon as possible. Tomorrow, I will provide you with my number for this connection. Of course, memorize this number and don't write it down anywhere."

"Understood!" I anticipated that this task might raise questions, but Baenre, to my surprise, appeared thrilled.

Indeed, the young man was quick to weigh the possibilities and immediately appreciated the merits of this approach. While other schemes were conceivable, this was the most direct and reliable.

"Dismissed!"

It was a bit of a goofy farewell, but somehow, I'd grown accustomed to using this particular word when concluding the Padawans' training sessions.

As soon as I let the boys leave, a practical thought occurred to me: "How will they afford the phones?" If I correctly understood their social standing, they're likely university students. I doubt they have significant financial means. I hope they won't get into trouble. They should have enough wisdom to avoid dubious activities, and if the situation gets complicated, they ought to consult me.

Upon returning home, I had a hearty breakfast and dedicated myself once again to my own training. Other matters, like investigating the life of Sire Campeador, conducting further historical research, and so on, now held much less priority. I trained until I dropped from exhaustion, recuperated in the Break, and trained yet again. It wasn't because it was the most pressing matter but because I was utterly engrossed in the process. It was an incredible sensation, akin to being on the verge of conquering a peak you never even dreamed of.

The day whizzed by as though it had never occurred.

Late in the evening, I realized I, too, needed to buy a "gray" phone. So, I quickly got ready and dashed to the closest informal market on the city outskirts, known for selling used electronics. This market bore a striking resemblance to one I had visited in St. Petersburg in the early 2000s. However, there were fewer shady and suspicious individuals here, unsurprisingly so since this location was overseen by one of the were-raccoon clans.

When I first discovered these clans existed, I laughed for a long time, struggling to convince myself of their reality. But then, I learned about their operations, closely tied to purchasing stolen goods and subsequent reselling, and the laughter ceased. They were a cunning and ruthless clan that you're better off not crossing paths with.

Given I didn't require a state-of-the-art phone, with autonomy and battery capacity being my primary selection criteria, I opted for an older, inexpensive model. It was easy on the wallet, and the selection was vast, meaning there was little chance someone could trace me back through this transaction from an unregistered vendor sans a receipt. It was similarly effortless to procure an unregistered, prepaid SIM card from the same place. The only notable detail was that I felt exceedingly nervous throughout the process. Considering this wasn't the safest neighborhood and it was late in the evening, I was well aware that "Purity" was always on standby, ready to plunge me into any kind of chaos.

Having left the market and boarded a tram, I was just beginning to unwind when a chilling sensation gripped my hand. What was happening? The tram was nearly full, there were no conflicts, and I didn't hear any raised voices.

"Purity," what do you want?!

My hand seemed to be drawn towards the right. I surveyed the surroundings, but nothing seemed amiss! Normal commuters: an old woman engrossed in a book, a father playing a word game with his ten-year-old daughter. Everything was in order! However, the iciness in my hand only intensified.

Completely baffled, I covertly inspected the passengers once more. An idyllic scene!

"Purity," be more explicit!

Next stop - a standard residential area. Roughly a third of the passengers alighted. And then, I felt a strong pull. I had to grip my left hand tightly with my right to resist the force.

One day, I will overpower you!

Holding onto this thought, I had to jump off the tram as the pull from "Purity" adamantly demanded it. Where? What? Why? I won't make any progress like this. The pain from my resistance only worsens.

Alright, "Purity." You guide me!

It was akin to playing a game of hot and cold. I trailed the crowd, attempting to maintain a distance and avoid drawing attention. When someone veered off towards their building, I followed suit. If the coldness in my hand intensified, accompanied by pain, I backtracked and continued trailing the main group.

Five minutes later, only seven of the initial two dozen who had disembarked at the bus stop were ahead of me. Finally, a pair of men piqued my interest. They appeared to be ordinary laborers, but their hushed conversations and sideways glances suggested they were apprehensive about something.

A father-daughter duo, who had been seated next to me on the tram, veered off towards their home. I decided to ignore them and follow the men instead. But before I could take ten steps, a sharp pain wracked my arm so intensely that I couldn't suppress a groan.

What?!

I stood still, cradling my throbbing hand.

What do you want, you confounded sword?! Are you implying that I should follow the father and daughter?

The pain somewhat subsided.

So where are they? I can't see... Oh, it seems the front door is closing.

Alright. I get it. I'm following them! I'm on it! Stop! The pain is so excruciating that I can barely think!

The urge to run, catch up, and figure out what was wrong was strong, but I refrained from such an imprudent action. Suppose I manage to catch up, then what? Apologize and ask if they're okay? Mention that my sword is acting peculiar, and oh, by the way, I'm a raig despite my youthful appearance...

The door. The passageway. Deserted.

Seems like a pleasant entryway. Clean, tidy, and devoid of any graffiti on the walls. A standard hallway, a typical residential high-rise building. No one on the stairs. Both elevators are ascending, one stopping at the fifth floor, the other at the seventh.

"Sto-o-o-o-p..." I whimpered.

The pain was so intense that my vision was spinning.

Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!

I didn't care if anyone noticed my transition, even though I didn't spot any cameras or witnesses.

I gripped "Purity" and attempted to snap it over my knee, to no avail.

"If you want me to do something, then stop! You're killing me! A corpse isn't capable of anything!!!"

It settled down! It finally sank into this obtuse blade! Yes, the pain lingered, but it was now bearable.

"So, I need to find this father-daughter pair?"

It felt warmer.

"Fine! But because of your antics, we lost precious time while I was here writhing in pain."

It grew colder, and the pain intensified.

Can't handle criticism, can you? Well, I couldn't care less.

Wait! I shouldn't be angry! The wakizashi wouldn't act so oddly without a grave reason. So what's going to happen? I pondered, bounding up the stairs two at a time. And what does all this imply? Swords can't predict the future! Or can they? No, that's ridiculous.

What did I overlook?

Right, the fifth floor. Damn, this is a studio development building. There are eighteen apartments on this floor!

"I'll traverse all the apartments through the walls. I promise not to infringe upon or disturb anyone's privacy!" I cautioned "Purity," just in case, "blowing on the cold water." It didn't seem to care about such "violations" before, but who knows?

I moved through the wall into the first apartment on the floor. Empty. Through to the second, where a lone woman sat in front of the TV, a beer bottle in hand. Onward. Through to another empty apartment. I continued my search, apartment by apartment. Some were inhabited: two guys engrossed in a video game, a man working on documents, a couple nestled together listening to music, a mother helping her child with homework, a married couple having dinner, a student engrossed in his computer, another student eating while engrossed in a textbook, a couple engaged in a heated argument, a man surfing the internet, a young man engrossed in a manga. But many were empty.

A full circle and no sign of the father and daughter.

I rushed to the seventh floor, vaulting straight up through the staircase. I moved swiftly, but this act of passing through walls was draining and time-consuming. Blast it! The seventh floor mirrored the fifth with its eighteen apartments. Through to the first, empty...

I finally found them in the sixteenth studio apartment.

A gagged girl tied to a bed and a man who'd wiped off his makeup, grinning disgustingly enough to make me want to carve that smile off his face with my sword. I recognized him now. He was the scumbag from the request "Board" of the BKDW forum, a child predator.

You know what, "Purity"... Thank you.

The urge to slay the detestable creature right there was overwhelming, especially since the wakizashi seemed to encourage, even demand, such a decision.

"No. The girl has seen enough for one day!" I snarled at "Purity." "Death is the last thing I want her to witness! No, I've made up my mind!"

"And now we're going to pla..."

The monster of a man didn't finish his sentence before "Shock Sword" rendered him unconscious. His body teetered, then collapsed to the floor.

Silently.

The girl's eyes... She was so terrified.

Logically, I should escape and alert the authorities. But I couldn't just leave her there. I could cover my face with a towel, probably scaring her even more... Yes...

No, all this "security" can go to hell! Am I a man, or am I another monster?

Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!

"Hello." I mustered the warmest smile I could manage. "Don't be afraid. I am a Break Knight. You're safe now."

Phew... Thank heavens for tales of knights! All traces of fear vanished from the girl's eyes.

"You're safe. Don't worry. I'm going to find some scissors and untie you."

The key was to keep talking: calmly, slowly, continuously. I donned gloves.

"It's all over. The bad man won't bother you again. He's still alive." Ah, the scissors. "But he's out cold. I put a spell on him. Don't be scared. These are just scissors. I'm going to remove your gag now, but could you please promise not to scream?" She nodded, and I gently removed the gag and freed her from her ropes. "What's your name?"

"Yuki..."

"Well done, Yuki! You're so brave. Good job! Really good job!" I may be repeating myself, but it doesn't matter.

Now, where's the phone? Ah, there's the landline.

"Are your hands numb, Yuki?"

"No." I don't get child psychology. She doesn't seem afraid of me at all.

I dialed the emergency number and handed her the receiver.

"This is the police, Yuki. Tell them you've been attacked."

She begins to speak.

"The bad man, he... he..."

I put a finger to my lips. She understands and stops her rushed explanation.

"They're asking where I am."

"Brickworkers Avenue, thirty, building two, apartment one hundred and twenty-four."

She repeats the address obediently into the phone.

"They said they're on their way."

"Amazing," I nod at her and hang up the phone. "If they ask who saved you... describe a young man in a black motorcycle suit, with a helmet and a dark visor. Can you do that, Yuki?"

"A secret?" She asks, winking at me.

She doesn't seem to grasp what could've happened to her fully. But perhaps that's for the best.

"A big one. You won't give me away, will you?"

"No!" Her eyes sparkle. "I won't tell anyone."

The sound of sirens echoes in the distance.

"I'm going to disappear now, but I'll still be here. I'll be in the Break, close by. Don't be afraid of anything, Yuki. Your Knight will protect you. And don't worry about him." I gesture towards the unconscious man. "He won't hurt anyone anymore."

"Okay. You'll really be there?"

"Yes, Yuki, I promise!" I smile at her.

"What's your name?"

"Maestro."

"Okay, I won't betray you to anyone, Knight Maestro!!!"

Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!

The police response is swift here - two patrol cars have already arrived. They'll be up here in a couple of minutes.

I head towards the door...

And nearly collide with a sword that leaps out of the doorway like a venomous snake. I narrowly dodge it. Judging by the length and curvature of the blade, it's a nodachi. Surely, I can't be that unlucky, can I?

Turns out I can be. Following the sword, its wielder steps through the door.

Maya Grim...

[1] TLN: https://youtu.be/e5WxxvjR9c4?t=15 the original one is about honey, obviously.