The cheers still rattled the dome long after the Blood Bear's body cooled, but Isaak barely heard them. His hand lingered where his father's grip had been, the weight of it heavier than steel. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the stage below.
Mikey was walking towards the tunnel with Ryosuke, wrapped in Bobo's jacket, waving back to the people who actually cared for him. Isaak could see it in their faces—the laughter, the relief, the pride. A boy who had just defied death was already folded back into family, while Isaak, even here among the highest ranks, felt more like an orphan than Mikey ever had. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. The old man's words still dripped venom in his ears.
'Break him.'
Isaak knew what that meant. It wasn't just a test of strength or survival anymore. It was a command to destroy the boy from the inside out—to carve out whatever spirit, whatever fire had carried him through the first trial. His father wanted the kid crushed in body, in heart, in will. And Isaak was the one expected to do it.
He straightened, smoothing the front of his coat as if the simple act might steady his pulse. His face had to remain unreadable, as the rest of the Brass looked to him for composure. But his eyes—his eyes betrayed him. They kept falling back to Mikey, to the image of the boy standing covered in blood, refusing to bow, refusing to break.
Something twisted in Isaak's gut. He remembered the way Mikey had stared up at him just minutes before, his gaze sharp and unyielding, drenched red like some vengeful ghost. That stare had unsettled him more than he would ever admit aloud. For a moment, he almost admired it. Almost.
"Isaak."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Another Brass member leaned close, muttering under his breath, careful to keep his tone hidden beneath the roar of the crowd.
"Your father's right. That boy—if left unchecked—will grow into a problem far larger than we can control. Don't hesitate when the time comes. He mustn't pass. He must get banished."
Isaak gave the man a small nod, nothing more. His face was stone, his posture unshaken. But inside, his thoughts churned, restless, bitter. He rose from his seat, stepping back from the railing. The others around him continued to laugh, to jeer, to toast drinks over the spectacle they had just witnessed. Isaak said nothing. He turned and walked the narrow hall that curved behind the box seats, boots echoing softly against the stone. Away from their eyes, his composure cracked. He pressed his palm against the cold wall, shoulders tight, his breath rattling.
He saw Mikey's mother and father in the boy's defiance and strength. But above all else, Isaak saw himself—at least the man he once thought he'd be—in that refusal to yield.
And he hated it.
He hated that he envied the boy. He hated that the boy carried something pure, something Isaak had long since bartered away for a seat at this table. He hated most of all that part of him wanted the kid to win, even knowing his father's punishment would be merciless if he failed to "break" him. Isaak closed his eyes, jaw clenched, whispering to the empty corridor.
"Don't make me do this, kid. Don't make me choose."
But the Brass would demand his choice soon enough.
---
Mikey found himself laid out on a cot, the faint smell of iron and antiseptic hanging in the small waiting room. His head pressed against a thin pillow, chest still sticky with half-dried blood. A nurse leaned over his leg, needle in hand, threading him back together with delicate precision. Her fingers were light, almost too careful, as if she were afraid he might break beneath them.
"...Ow."
The sound escaped him with a flinch as the stitch tugged his skin. She didn't stop, only gave him a small, knowing smile before uncorking a vial and dabbing a green, cream-like sludge across the wound. The stuff clung to his skin, thick and almost luminous under the dim light.
Mikey raised an eyebrow. "What are you rubbing on my cut?"
The nurse—young, maybe only a year or two older than him—smiled softly, her laugh more like a breath.
"It's Linnium. Same thing we used on your ribs when you first got here... remember?"
Mikey blinked, his brow furrowing, until the memory hit him. "Oh... yeah, I do. Wait—you treated me before?"
Her cheeks pinked as she nodded. Mikey let out a small chuckle, his lips curling despite the soreness in his body. "Erica, right?"
She nodded again while smoothing the Linnium across the stitched flesh. He winced at the cool burn that sank into his leg, but the pain dulled quickly, the limb fading into numbness.
"Well, you're doing a great job, Erica," Mikey said with a crooked grin.
Erica giggled under her breath, looking down at her hands as though embarrassed by the praise. "Thank you..." Her voice was quiet, almost unsure, though her eyes lingered longer on him than she probably realized.
She finished with the cream and began wrapping the bandage tight, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin. He felt the press even through the numbness. She tied it off neatly, then hesitated, cheeks coloring again as if debating with herself. Finally, she swallowed and spoke, her words tumbling out too quickly.
"So... are you seeing anyone?"
Mikey blinked at her, not understanding where this was going.
"What? Like a girlfriend? Nah. Too, uh... too preoccupied at the moment."
Her blush deepened until her ears burned crimson.
"Oh... y-yeah, th-that makes sense..." She bent back to roll down his pant leg, trying to mask her fluster.
When she stood again, she clasped her hands together nervously.
"Well... if you're ever on Level 122... I wouldn't mind if you stopped by my pod..."
Mikey tilted his head, confused.
"Sure. Why?"
Her mouth opened, shut, then opened again.
"Well, I think you're really—" she froze, corrected herself mid-sentence, "I-I just think your wounds might need rechecking... every once in a while."
"Alright, works for me," Mikey said easily. His tone was casual, honest, oblivious. He smiled as though she had just offered him free medicine, and not something far more vulnerable.
He was dense. Painfully dense.
Before Erica could try again, the door creaked open. Ryosuke stepped in, his presence swallowing the room in quiet authority. His eyes flicked to her, then to Mikey.
"Could you give us a moment, young lady? I need to speak with my student."
Erica quickly gathered her kit, bobbing her head. She paused at the doorway, glancing back one last time. With a burst of boldness, she blew Mikey a quick, shy kiss before slipping out. Mikey blinked after her, eyebrows raised, still trying to compute what had just happened. By the time his brain began turning it over, the door had already shut. Ryosuke moved closer, his gaze shifting briefly to Mikey's wrapped leg.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good... for the most part. I'm alright."
The tired man nodded and settled heavily into the chair beside him. The dim overhead lamp painted the concrete walls in tired shades of yellow, the air close and warm. For a moment, neither spoke. Ryosuke rubbed at his temples, a sigh dragging from his chest. The silence pressed in until Mikey broke it, as he always did.
"So... what the actual hell was that? Was your guys' phase one that intense?"
Ryosuke shook his head, the lines on his face shadowed in the lamplight.
"No. From what I've seen, no."
Mikey leaned forward slightly, searching his mentor's expression.
"Then why did I have to deal with that thing?"
Ryosuke paused for a moment. He had a choice to make, either to tell Mikey the truth about the test being rigged or to hold out. The boy has been through too much, Ryosuke didn't want to burden him further.
Yet, the swordsman made his decision.