The knifeman's first move: A sharp lunge low, at the thigh. A feint. Actually – a transition into a slide, an attack at the shin. Saigo parried with his blade, stepping back. 'Fast. Precise.'
Regaining his balance, Saigo went on the offensive. The blunt training blade whistled, carving deadly arcs. The knifeman didn't block – he dodged with incredible flexibility, using falls, tumbles, rebounds off the walls. He didn't attack – he wore him down, waiting.
Saigo, irritated by the evasiveness, made a slightly wider swing. The knifeman saw it and didn't dodge. Instead, he threw a handful of dust and fine gravel, scooped from the ground, right into Saigo's face! By animal instinct – Saigo closed his eyes, leaping sideways.
That instant was enough. The knifeman didn't try to wound – that would be suicide. He lunged forward, not at the torso, but a glancing blow, like a shadow. His training knife (blunt, but with a serrated edge to mimic cutting) scraped across the side seam of Saigo's shirt, at the level of his lower ribs.
Rrrrip! The fabric split open for a couple of inches, revealing pale skin and a scar beneath.
Saigo, having wiped the dust from his face, froze. His gaze fell on the torn seam. Adrenaline was replaced by icy realization, mixed with… a spark of respect.
The knifeman had already rolled back to a safe distance, raising his hands to signal the end of the fight. He was breathing like a cornered animal, but cold triumph burned in his eyes. Gorn was shouting something incoherent.
Saigo slowly lowered the training blade. He walked over to the knifeman. Not to strike. He reached out a hand not to the guy's throat, but to his shoulder, squeezing it with a force that made him wince.
"Name?" Saigo's voice was quieter than a whisper, but heard across the entire yard.
"…Lorik, Brother Saigo."
"Lorik," Saigo nodded. His eyes still burned with green ice, but the corner of his lip twitched. "The recommendation – is yours. Dirt in the face – a dirty trick. But sometimes… the only justified one to survive."
He released the guy, picked up his pack, and without a glance at the stunned acolytes or the roaring Gorn, headed for the far targets. A red abrasion marked his side, and beneath it – a barely noticeable scratch from the serration. Few had ever touched his flesh. A piece of his shirt had become a novice's trophy. And a reminder to him: even a pup can scratch.
The heavy door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the world, Gorn's shouts, the acolytes' whispers. The silence of the Training Crypt enveloped Saigo like a dense shroud.
Here, in the stone belly of Sen-Baz, hidden from outside eyes and ears, he could remove the mask. Not the mask of the killer – he wore that always. But the mask of control. Here, he could vomit out all the rage, all the fear, all the accumulated adrenaline tremors into the leaden reality of blows.
The air smelled of dust, weapon oil, and… ozone. The elder brothers used this hall for experiments, fearing leaks. No traitors had been found for decades, but caution was in the Clan's blood. As it was in his now.
Saigo threw the velvet pack onto the stone floor. Its metallic contents clanged, the echo rolling under the vaults. He methodically began to gear up:
Meteor Fists of Ares – the cold, alien metal clenched his knuckles.
Acid Saber on his thigh – the sheath hissed from stray drops.
Ring of the Insatiable Void – the stone of darkness settled like an icy weight on his finger.
Shield of Lunar Reflection magnetized to his forearm – the mirrored surface caught the dim light of the ceiling crystals.
Armor-Piercing Blades "Shadow" – three thin stilettos, hidden in the folds of his clothes. His favorites. For special moments.
Heavy. The equipment pressed down like a titan's armor. But one's own burden doesn't break bones. Especially when you know – every gram could be the barrier between life and the eternal darkness of a deep cave.
He fell into a stance. Not the one shown to acolytes. But his own – low, springy, deadly, like the posture of an enraged cat. His eyes fixed on a lever protruding from the wall.
BAM!
A punch to the toggle and the mechanisms roared to life. Dozens of mannequins, until then frozen like stone idols, came alive. They rushed along complex channels carved into the floor, like insane chess pieces on an invisible board. Screeching, clanging, and a deep hum filled the hall.
FZZZT!
The first mannequin spat a stream of murky, hissing liquid – an imitation of basilisk venom. Saigo lunged left. The sludge flew a centimeter from his shoulder, imprinting itself on a stone column. The stone hissed strainedly.
Here, everything was real. No illusions, no tricks.
'Hm. And what if while moving… and under fire?' – the thought flashed as he was already leaping across sloping slabs, dodging arrow-simulators firing from the eye sockets of another mannequin.
Then began the already familiar, painfully known hell.
Hours merged into a bloody dance. His legs flickered, scrambling up walls, tumbling over moving obstacles.
His arms worked like pistons: BAM! – a gauntlet strike. The mannequin didn't fall – it vanished in a cloud of splinters and metallic dust. A wave of shrapnel sprayed Saigo – rang off the shield, embedded itself in the dense fabric of his clothes.
FZZZT! – the saber drawn. An arc of yellow fluid split the air. A second mannequin melted like wax under a blowtorch, leaving a puddle of acrid smoke.
SCREECHED! – The Ring of darkness absorbed the simulation of dark magic (a violet beam from a third mannequin), the stone glowing with an ominous crimson. Saigo channeled the accumulated energy back – the discharge blew the head off a fourth mannequin, turning its torso into smoldering embers.
SHHH-BOOM! – The Shield caught a stream of icy breath (white vapor from a fifth), the mirrored surface shuddered but reflected the blow back. The mannequin exploded into a block of icy shards.
And the Armor-Piercing Blades… They flickered like wasp stingers. Into seams, into "joints," into imitation eyes. Ideas swarmed in his head: 'Like this – under the scale… Like this – into the wing base… And here – into the magic node on the throat…'
He lost track of time. Lost the sense of weight. Only movement. Only the target. Only survival. He drove himself like this until his muscles burned with white fire, and his breath tore his chest to shreds.
And then, when his legs almost buckled, nearly throwing him onto the stone floor.
He stopped.
Sweat poured down his face in rivers, mixing with dust and soot. The air in his lungs burned. His shirt sleeves were turned to tatters from explosive recoils, acid splashes, and magical ricochets. But the artifacts were intact, and he – alive. A worthy price for experience…
He crawled back to his chambers past midnight. The door closed with a bolt. He dropped the velvet pack, still stuffed with death, onto the floor without strength. Then collapsed onto the bed.
Without strength, without thoughts, without dreams. Only a black, bottomless chasm of exhaustion swallowed him whole. The last thing he felt before falling into oblivion was a dull ache in every muscle and the chill of the ring of darkness on his finger.
'Tomorrow – the mountain. Tomorrow – the dragon. Tomorrow – freedom. And now – sleep.' He mumbled in his thoughts, sinking into Morpheus's embrace.