Allen stood alone in the gym, the late evening air thick with the smell of sweat and varnished wood.
His shirt clung to him, drenched through, each breath dragging in sharp and uneven. The wooden sword in his hand trembled slightly, no longer from frustration but from fatigue.
He had been at it for over two hours. Swing, step, recover. Swing, step, recover. Over and over, chasing after that fleeting moment—the moment during the ambush when his body had moved on its own.
Those steps without weight. That coiling, serpent-like shift. Precision so sharp it felt inhuman.
But now? Every attempt was clumsy. His foot dragged instead of gliding. His shoulders felt stiff instead of fluid. Each time he tried, it ended with him stumbling forward, blade wobbling, balance broken.
Why can't I do it again…?
The memory of that perfect motion burned in his muscles, yet the harder he reached for it, the further it slipped. It was like chasing a shadow with bare hands.
