Nine days had passed since his awakening.
Nine days of relentless training, of being pushed to his absolute limit.
And today was the last. The final lesson before goodbye.
Tarrin barely stayed on his feet, his body battered and bruised from yet another sparring match. Blood dripped from his split lip, his muscles screamed in protest, and exhaustion gnawed at his bones. He looked like he'd crawled out of hell—and then got thrown right back in.
Harry didn't let up. He moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior, fast and methodical, like a Scarbrane closing in for the kill. Tarrin tried to dodge—too slow.
A fist slammed into his gut.
The impact stole his breath, sent him stumbling back, barely staying upright.
"Say them," Harry's voice cut through the haze.
Tarrin clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to groan. The rules again? This lunatic.
He swallowed the protest. Knew better than to voice it.
Tarrin spat blood onto the pavement, forcing air into his lungs. His body felt like it had been run through a grinder, but he forced himself to focus. Harry wouldn't wait for him to catch his breath.
"Rule number one," Tarrin gritted out, eyes scanning the area. "Always check your surroundings."
His gaze flickered past Harry—then he saw it. A jagged hole in the pavement just behind him.
A trap.
Harry lunged. Tarrin twisted, throwing himself to the side just as a fist whistled past his ribs. If he had dodged backward like instinct demanded, he would've stepped straight into the pit.
"Good," Harry muttered, his stance resetting like nothing had happened. "Next."
Tarrin swallowed, keeping his guard up. "Rule two—if something stinks, its probably shit."
Harry's footwork shifted, just barely. A hesitation, a slight lag in his movement—an opening. Or was it?
Tarrin held back, flashing a grin instead of striking.
Harry gave nothing away. "Three."
"Pain means I'm still breathing," Tarrin recited, wincing as his ribs flared up in protest. Every nerve screamed for him to stop moving, to stop fighting—but pain was just another lesson. Another reminder.
"Keep going," Harry ordered, his leg already whipping up.
Tarrin ducked beneath the high kick, then lunged forward, throwing his weight behind a punch.
"First hit decides the fight."
His fist smashed into Harry's ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to make his mentor take a step back.
Tarrin didn't stay close. He moved, retreating toward a half-buried brick near the training ground's edge. Harry followed, unrelenting, his fist already pulling back for another strike—
But he stopped just short. His knuckles hovered inches from the brick Tarrin had placed between them.
Harry smirked.
"Smart," he admitted.
Tarrin's grin was sharp. "Weapons aren't just tools—they're a lifeline."
Harry nodded once. Then his leg shot out.
Tarrin barely registered the movement before his feet were swept from beneath him. He crashed to the ground, coughing.
His muscles begged him to stay down. His lungs burned. His body screamed that enough was enough.
But he forced himself up.
"Last rule," Tarrin muttered, forcing his body into motion. "Scarbanes aren't the only enemy."
He met Harry's next strike head-on, bracing his forearm against the impact. He shoved forward, knocking his mentor off balance—then drove a quick jab straight into his face.
Harry barely flinched, but he stepped back, rubbing his jaw.
Then, after a long silence, he smiled.
Harry rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. "Not bad for a hood rat," he admitted. "You're still weak, but I can see the difference. Your strength's improved—not by much, but it's there. Maybe your Awakening just needs more time to show itself."
His voice lacked its usual sharpness. Colder than most, sure, but not devoid of warmth. Still, despite his edge in skill, the slight hitch in his breath betrayed his exhaustion.
Tarrin, sprawled on the cracked pavement, sucked in air like a drowning man. Every muscle in his body screamed, but he managed a smirk.
"So what you're saying is... there's hope for me yet?"
Harry snorted. "You'll need more than hope where you're going."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things.
Harry broke it first. "That's it, then. Training's over." He paused, watching Tarrin struggle to sit up. "You'll report in today?"
Tarrin groaned, forcing himself upright. His body protested every movement. "Yeah," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Quick shower first. Then I'll say my goodbyes and go."
Harry gave a slow nod, eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than usual. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
A while later, Tarrin stood beneath the icy stream, letting the water numb the bruises Harry had left him with. His muscles ached, his ribs throbbed, but his mind was restless.
Nine days. That was all it took for Harry to drill more about war into him than he'd learned in his entire life.
Footwork, survival instincts, the weight of a blade—those were things he could grasp. But some lessons sat heavier.
I've seen a Scarbane over a hundred meters tall.
Harry's words replayed in his head, each time sending a fresh wave of unease through him. How the hell was he supposed to fight something like that? How did anyone?
With a sigh, he shut off the water and stepped out of the run-down stall.
The cracked tiles, the flickering light overhead—this place hadn't changed. It smelled the same, felt the same. It was a relic of a different time.
A time when things were simpler. When he didn't have to think about death.
Tarrin stepped into the main room—the only room, really. Once, it had been enough.
A cramped little box where warmth and laughter made up for the lack of space. Now, despite its size, it felt hollow.
He moved with purpose, packing what little he owned into a worn duffle bag. Halfway through, he let out a bitter chuckle. 'I just paid rent, and now I'm leaving.'
Zipping it shut, he pulled on his signature coat, the fabric familiar against his skin. Then, just as he reached for the door, he hesitated. Turning on his heel, he crossed the room and crouched by the kitchen cabinet.
"Larry, you here?" He knocked twice, then opened the cabinet. Silence.
With a sigh, he was about to stand when a faint rustling reached him. A second later, a small white rat poked its head out of a hole in the back, letting out a tiny squeak.
Tarrin grinned. "Oh, there you are, little bastard." He pulled a stale chunk of bread from his pocket and held it out. "Been waiting for me, huh?"
Larry grabbed the offering with both paws, nibbling greedily.
"You know, I'll be gone for a while," Tarrin said, leaning against the counter. "So do me a favor—don't let this place turn into a dump while I'm away."
The rat didn't acknowledge him, too busy stuffing its face.
Tarrin exhaled slowly, his smile faltering. "We... might not see each other again," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "So... goodbye, old friend."
Larry didn't react, just kept chewing.
With one last look, Tarrin shut the cabinet, slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, and walked out the door.
The walk to the Kades' apartment was quiet, the distant hum of the city the only sound keeping him company.
Tarrin moved through the streets, hands in his pockets, head low.
Every step felt like a farewell—to the cracked sidewalks, the flickering neon signs, the corner store where old man Yarik used to chase him off for loitering.
I'll crawl out of that hellhole and come back stronger. I have to.
Minutes later, he arrived. He pulled out his phone, shooting Simon a quick message.
[Outside. Come down.]
A few minutes passed before the door creaked open. Simon stepped out, slightly out of breath, his hair a mess.
"I heard you're leaving today," he said, voice rough from sprinting down the stairs.
Tarrin forced a grin. "Yeah, that's the plan, bro."
Simon didn't smile back.
They headed upstairs together, the stairwell dim and musty, the kind of place that always smelled faintly of damp concrete and stale smoke.
Tarrin adjusted the strap of his duffle bag, the weight digging into his shoulder.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't have to. The air between them felt heavy, as if they both knew this wasn't just another casual visit.
This was a goodbye.
They reached the door and exchanged a glance. No words, just a nod. A silent agreement—they were about to face the storm together.
After slipping off their shoes, they stepped inside. The familiar warmth of home wrapped around them, the quiet hum of the apartment welcoming them back.
The living room was alive with the soft murmur of conversation, but the moment Helga and Mira saw them, the noise died. Even Mira, usually oblivious to tension, sensed it. She sat up straighter, her wide eyes flicking between them.
Helga broke the silence first. "So this is it?" Her voice was steady, too steady. "You're leaving today, huh?"
Mira perked up at the words, her small hands tightening around the hem of her sweater. "You're leaving? Already?"
Tarrin barely had time to react before she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. He hesitated, then returned the hug, his smile faint, forced.
"It's okay, little one. I'll be back before you know it." The words felt hollow, even to him. A lie wrapped in comfort.
Something in his chest twisted. He saw Mira as the little sister he never had, and now he was leaving. He wouldn't be here to see her grow, to teach her, to protect her.
Mira pulled back, her expression darkening. "I'm not little."
Tarrin smirked, ruffling her hair. "Sure you're not."
Helga cleared her throat. "So this is a goodbye?" She folded her arms, her concern hidden beneath a calm exterior. "Do you want us to go with you?"
Tarrin shook his head, his grip tightening on his duffle bag. "Nah, I know the way. Besides, I need some time to clear my head." His voice wavered slightly at the end, betraying him.
Helga studied him for a moment, then nodded, saying nothing more.
Before the silence could settle, footsteps echoed down the hall. A familiar presence entered the room.
Harry.