Scenes like the one in Rene's hall always break the rhythm of life. It goes on, sure, but it's like a mental stumble, like stubbing your pinky toe on a doorframe. Not serious, but damn it hurts and throws you off. Although, the 'not serious' part is debatable. I wasn't hurt, but that cadet probably just wrecked his life...

And there I was, thinking about him, instead of focusing on my next session with Kate, Piper, and Cinar.

I even showed up late, which immediately earned me a wave of indignation from Kate. She interrupted her warm-up with Cinar just to give me a full minute of brain-drilling.

A full minute — only because I didn't let it go on any longer.

"I'm two minutes late," I said. "You've been chewing me out for half that. Maybe we should just get started? Might be more productive."

Kate puffed up, clearly trying to show Piper what a strict mentor she was, and now she looked undercut.

"Go," she muttered. "But we're not done talking."

The warm-up began as usual — posture, awareness, control. Piper was teaching me to feel the impulse of the point, direction, inertia, force. Still, it was mostly review, not anything new, and she got bored quickly. She suggested we crank things up a bit.

"They're having all the fun over there," she said, nodding toward Kate and Cinar.

My sparring partner was swinging his oversized pick like a ceiling fan. I'd have been tired already.

"Let's go," I agreed.

Piper tossed the first spike lazily. I dodged it instinctively — a little late, but just enough to let it pass, making it seem almost harmless.

Then came the second. Then the third. Faster now, sharper angles. I dodged the second, stepped back to avoid the third, but one clipped my shoulder. A weak hit, but it stung, lighting up my deltoid with pain.

"Don't wait for the last second," Piper said. "I won't always pull them off you."

I nodded, trying to focus. For the next five throws, I had enough precision and reaction to stay ahead. Not as clean as Arnaud, though.

And that was it. The second I thought of him, I started collecting bruises. Ribs. Forearms. My side. Only Piper's light corrections, subtle tweaks to the trajectories, kept me from real injury. Sure, the spikes were plastic, and the tips were dulled, but it was still very hard plastic. And it was being thrown by a girl at the third stage of cultivation.

After a seven-shot volley that completely emptied her bandolier and landed three out of four, Piper shook her head.

"You're here in body, but not in mind. Something happen, or did you just wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Last time you were way more focused."

I waved her off. It felt like that thing with Marek — until I got over the nerves, everything fell apart.

The next spike caught me full in the forehead with the blunt end, knocked me flat, and came in so fast I didn't even register it before impact.

"Better talk," Piper said somewhere between a suggestion and a threat.

I stood up and brushed the sand off.

"A cadet collapsed in Rene's hall. Seizure. Convulsions, blue lips, barely breathing, eyes rolled back. Still fresh in my head — can't shake it."

"Cause?" Piper asked.

"They're saying banned enhancers."

Piper nodded and called out, "Cinar! Come over here."

He gave his oversized pick two more swings to kill the momentum, slung it over his shoulder, and walked over.

Kate took interest too.

"What's going on?"

"Let Cinar hear it too," Piper said. "It'll do him good."

So I told them what happened — Arnaud's training, his flawless technique, then the sudden failure, the fall, the chaos, the seizure, the medics arriving. And how Rene nearly yelled himself hoarse chewing us out over someone else's stupidity.

"It's not just enhancers," Piper added after I fell silent. "At least most of them — they're basically drugs. At first, they boost your nervous impulses. Then they start to eat your brain. That's it. Game over. The body stops responding to signals. Cultivation becomes impossible."

Cinar squinted.

"And how exactly is that useful to me?"

"Because lucky bastards like you," she said, shooting him a look, then glanced at me, assessing, "and you too, you're the first ones who reach for shortcuts once the luck runs out and you hit real resistance."

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Cinar and I winced at the same time, both disagreeing, but neither of us said it out loud.

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Go on, make those faces. Just remember how you feel right now. Maybe one day it'll come back to you and stop you from doing something stupid. I've seen your type before — smirking, full of themselves, and then burning their brains out."

Judging by the way Kate nodded, there was truth in what Piper said.

"Alright!" Piper clapped her hands. "Since training's clearly not working for you today," she added with a wink in my direction, "maybe a spar will help?" She turned to Cinar with a grin. "Perfect time to beat the crap out of him."

Cinar gave me a long look and shook his head.

"I'd rather beat the crap out of him when he's at his best."

I raised a brow, unimpressed.

"Confident, are we..."

Cinar shrugged.

"I've done my homework. I've got a plan and good odds."

Suddenly, he was annoying.

Or maybe it was just nerves. But something about how confidently he said it, like the fight was already decided, rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn't let that slide.

"Oh yeah? Then let's see this big plan of yours!"

"Jake," Kate began, "if you don't feel ready —"

"Shhh," Piper cut in. "Can't you see the boys are already wound up? Don't ruin it."

Cinar ran off to slap the safety cap on his weapon's spike — that same obnoxious bright-green ball. Meanwhile, my head was spinning with just one thought: What the hell is he planning?

We met roughly in the centre of the hall, about ten metres apart. That distance worked in my favour. If he'd been a typical Point, he'd try to keep it wide, make me chase him. But he wasn't. His weapon changed the whole dynamic. That pick meant he was the one who needed to close the gap.

Cinar turned slightly sideways, holding the oversized weapon in both hands, spike down like a scythe blade. He didn't rush, waiting for the signal.

The girls were clearly enjoying themselves at our expense. We'd already played out the full dramatic stare-down, and still no 'Begin!'

"I'm going in," I warned, gave him a heartbeat, then launched into a Chain Punch — right-left-right. A burst of silver projections tore from my fists, aimed at his torso and thighs. Though, with my aim being what it was, they scattered all over the place.

In response, Cinar spun up his pick.

It looked like a windmill in a storm — the heavy pick, bright green safety cap on the spike, swept wide arcs with surprising speed. My projections crashed into the spinning haft like flies into fan blades. Cinar pivoted his torso, shifted sideways, and pushed forward, shielding himself behind the whirlwind.

Clever. But Kate and I had talked about this exact tactic.

I sped up as much as I could, throwing precision out the window, as long as the blasts went in the right general direction. Just like that time Kate forced me to fall back by bombarding my shield with lightning bolts and blocking my line of sight. This was the same idea — flood his vision. And then came the Hooks.

Both arms, one after the other, snapped into Chain Punch again. The projections clawed in from either side. Cinar reacted, turning the fan left to intercept the first one. But he'd forgotten just how different the Hook was.

It hit harder, detonating with enough force to throw off his pick's spin. He couldn't bring it back right fast enough.

Still, he wasn't about to take a projection to the face. He collapsed the haft to one-handed length and dove into a roll.

Rolling on sand is no joke, let me tell you. I'd only mastered it thanks to Kate and Adam. Cinar, though? Clearly hadn't had that kind of practice. He pulled off one full roll, but when he tried to get up, the sand slipped under him, and he landed flat on his arse.

I didn't waste the opening — Chain Punch and four Hooks in quick succession.

Cinar was a hair too slow. One punch hit him square in the head, he barely flinched, and the others missed. He blocked the first Hook with his pick's spike, then flattened himself on the sand to let the rest pass overhead.

I twisted my stance and launched one on instinct, angling the next Hook in a downward arc, but he rolled again, not like a wheel this time, more like a sausage. My projection exploded into a spray of sand where he'd just been.

In a desperate attempt to avoid getting finished on the ground, he flung the pick at me from a lying position, like some mutant mix of a giant tomahawk and a boomerang.

Now I had to dodge — and with the size of that thing, sidestepping wasn't going to cut it. I went for the same kind of roll he'd done earlier and landed clean, straight onto my feet.

Just in time to see Cinar up again, arm extended in my direction.

I barely had time to feel pleased that he'd tossed his weapon, when my back screamed with danger, like a needle stabbed down my spine.

I threw myself into another roll, a split-second before the wooden boomerang shot through the space I'd been standing in, and snapped perfectly back into Cinar's hand.

"Fucking telekinetics!" I swore.

He wasn't pure Wood — he was Point too! Just because he hadn't shown any ability didn't mean he didn't have one!

Piper burst out laughing at my reaction.

"Knock it off, Mustafa. Drag this out any longer and he'll put you on your back," she grinned. "He's already burned through one of your aces."

Cinar spun his weapon a few times and gave a nod.

No way. He was out of tricks. Now I was going to tear him apart.

I rained blows down on him, alternating Chain Punches with Hooks. Then I gave in to impulse and twisted in the opposite direction, launching a Hook in a rising arc, like an uppercut. I was sure there had to be a proper technique for that move somewhere. I just didn't know it. So I improvised.

The blast was strong — Cinar's pick lifted into the air, but he'd already adapted to my rhythm. It didn't throw him off. The fan kept spinning.

His legs were exposed, so I fired a barrage of Chain Punches at them. Of course, they all missed. Cinar dropped the spinning shield-pick back into position.

Damn it! I really needed to work on my aim.

Since he was shielding against Chain Punches, I switched to Hooks again, trying to hit him from the sides.

Cinar slammed the pick into the sand, killing all its momentum. The rubber cap gave a ridiculous squeak. But the Hooks missed — he ducked low, almost flat against the ground like a sprinter in the blocks. Except his hands weren't on the floor — they were gripping the haft of the weapon, which suddenly straightened its pick-like spike, extending it forward into a spear.

That bright rubber tip was pointed straight at me.

Before I could decide whether to spray him with Chain Punches or catch him with a Hook, he surged forward like a cannonball.

Seven metres between us — and I didn't even get my shield up. The rubber tip smashed into my chest, knocking the wind clean out of me. Darkness flashed at the edges of my vision, and when it cleared, I was flat on the sand. Cinar stood over me, pick back in its usual form, the padded end pressed to my chest.

I shoved it off and coughed hard, finally getting air back in my lungs.

Somewhere behind the coughing and groans, Piper was cheering on her mentee.

"What the hell was that?" I asked once I could speak.

"Just a standard Lunge. Basic Point movement technique," Cinar replied, then gave me a grin. "One–one."

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