Vane returned to the fog the next day.
He had spent the morning in Mana Control Lab where Elara had officially split the class. He was now part of the Body-Aspect group. It was a small collection of students whose internal channels were built like fire hoses rather than delicate instruments. They spent the hour learning how to cycle high-pressure mana through their own tissues without rupturing anything.
Valerica was there of course. She was the star pupil of the Body group. Her internal reinforcement was so dense that the air around her shimmered with heat haze even when she was standing still.
Vane was adequate. His channels were scarred and tough from years of abuse so he could handle the pressure. But his control was still binary. Either he was off or he was flooding his system with everything he had.
By the time he reached the forgotten sector in the afternoon his body was humming with residual energy and his mind was foggy with frustration.
He found the rusted gate. He pushed through the thorns and entered the overgrown meditation garden.
Senna was on the balcony just as he expected. She was wearing the same thin hospital gown. She had the same worn broom across her lap. She did not turn when he arrived.
Vane stopped at the edge of the flagstones. He did not say anything. He just stood there and waited.
After a long minute Senna sighed. It was a wet and rattling sound.
"You are persistent, freshman," she rasped. "I will give you that. Most people take the hint after I draw blood."
She slowly turned her wheelchair to face him. Her gaunt face was pinched with pain but her dark eyes were still sharp enough to cut glass.
"So," she said. "You came back. You want me to teach you how to hold a stick."
"Yes," Vane said.
"Why?" she asked. "The academy is full of instructors. Go bother Rowan. Go bother the beastkin. Why are you out here in the cold with a dying cripple?"
"They will not teach me," Vane said. His voice was flat. "I asked. They told me it is not their job. They said Zenith is not a preparatory school. I have to figure the basics out myself."
Senna let out a short and bitter laugh. "Of course they did. Zenith is a crucible. Sink or swim. It is their favorite line."
She spat on the stone balcony floor.
"It is bullshit. That is what it is. They call themselves an academy but they do not teach. They evaluate. They take the children of the rich and powerful who have already had millions of credits pumped into their training and they polish them. If you show up raw? If you do not fit their little molds? They throw you in the trash."
She gestured around her with a skeletal hand at the crumbling buildings and the swirling fog.
"This whole sector is proof of that. This is where they put the things they do not know how to fix. Broken equipment. Broken buildings. Broken people."
She looked back at Vane. Her expression hardened.
"So you are raw. You cheated your way in. Lied on your intake forms about your training."
"No," Vane said. "I didn't lie. The System gave me the skills. I just... didn't earn them the hard way."
"Ah," Senna nodded slowly. "A thief. I see. You stole the answers to the test without learning the subject."
She rolled her chair forward a few inches.
"And now you are finding out that in a real fight knowing the answer isn't enough. You need to know why it is the answer. You need the foundation."
She pointed a finger at a pile of rusted scrap metal near the wall.
"Grab that bar. The iron one. The one that looks like a crowbar that grew up too fast."
Vane walked over and picked it up. It was a solid iron rod about five feet long. It was heavy. It was pitted with rust and cold as ice.
"Hold it," she commanded.
Vane gripped the bar with both hands. He settled into a crouch. He held it like he held his daggers. His grip was white-knuckled. His shoulders were tight. He was ready to snap it forward for a quick strike.
Senna watched him. Her face was unreadable. After a minute she shook her head slowly.
"Garbage," she pronounced. "You are choking it."
"It's a weapon," Vane argued. "I'm securing it."
"It is a lever," Senna snapped. "And you are holding it like a knife. You are used to short blades, aren't you? Little shivs you can hide in your sleeve. You are used to fighting at zero range where you have to muscle the blade into someone's ribs."
She rolled her chair forward until she was right in front of him. She reached out with a surprisingly strong hand and slapped his forearm.
"Loosen up. If you grip a spear that tight you are just a statue with a long stick. A spear needs to slide."
"Slide?"
"The Argent Horizon is about velocity," she said. Her voice dropped into a lecture tone. "You cannot generate velocity if your hands are glued to the shaft. You are limiting your reach. You are limiting your rotation."
She gestured to the bar.
"Open your hands. Make a loop with your thumb and fingers. Let the bar rest in it. Now spin it."
Vane looked at the heavy iron bar. "Spin it?"
"Rotate it around your body. Pass it from your left hand to your right. Behind your back. Over your head. Do not grab it. Catch it. Guide it. If you grab it the momentum dies. If the momentum dies you die."
Vane adjusted his grip. He tried to swing the heavy bar around his waist.
It was a disaster.
His instincts screamed at him to grab the weapon tight. Every time the bar moved behind his back his "Rat" reflexes kicked in and he snatched the metal, halting the momentum. The heavy iron slammed into his kidneys. It banged against his shins.
He groaned, stumbling as the weight threw him off balance.
"Don't stop!" Senna yelled. "The moment you stop the weight becomes dead weight! Keep it moving!"
Vane gritted his teeth. He tried again. He tried to let the bar slide through his palms. It was terrifying. It felt like he was losing control of the weapon.
Clang.
The bar hit the flagstones. Vane dropped it.
"Pick it up," Senna ordered. "Again."
Vane picked it up. His wrists were aching. The rust was digging into his skin.
"You have ghosts in there, boy," Senna murmured. She watched him struggle. "I can see them. Little twitches in your muscles. Habits you picked up from wherever you stole your tricks. They want you to snap the weapon. They want you to retract it after every hit."
She leaned forward.
"Kill them. Right now. A spear does not retract. It cycles. It flows. There is no 'reset' in my art. There is only the next rotation."
Vane focused. He tried to ignore the System-implanted reflexes that told him to stab and retreat. He focused on the weight of the iron.
He swung it. He opened his hand. He felt the cold metal slide across his calluses. He caught it with the other hand, not stopping the motion but redirecting it.
Whoosh.
For a split second the heavy bar didn't feel heavy. It felt weightless. It was riding its own momentum.
Then he tried to muscle the next turn and the bar slammed into his knee.
Vane hissed in pain and dropped to one leg.
"Better," Senna judged. She did not offer him help. "You found the groove for a second. You felt the weight disappear."
Vane nodded, rubbing his knee. "Yeah. I felt it."
"That is the sliding grip. That is the engine. Until you can move that bar around your body without bruising yourself you are not touching a real spear."
She turned her wheelchair back toward the void.
"Pathetic performance. But not hopeless."
She looked back over her shoulder.
"Come back tomorrow. And bring bandages. We are going to do this until your hands bleed or until you stop trying to strangle the weapon. Whichever comes first."