Location: Fenwick District — The Aetherium Foundry — Jerkins Family Training Ground — Night
The training ground was a cathedral of discipline.
Not a room—a statement. Its walls were bare concrete, scarred by years of impact, crisscrossed with cracks that told stories of strikes that had landed and strikes that had missed. Its floor was polished wood, worn smooth by decades of feet, its surface gleaming under the harsh white light that fell from a single fixture overhead. The ceiling was high, lost in darkness, the shadows pooling in the corners like waiting predators.
The air was cold.
The air was waiting.
Jericho Jerkins stood near the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. His face was a mask of controlled neutrality, but his eyes—his eyes were fixed on the woman standing before him. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were squared. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the breathing of a man who had been taught never to show weakness.
She was older than him. Not by much—but enough. Her hair was silver-streaked, pulled back in a severe bun that pulled the skin of her temples taut. Her face was sharp, lined, the face of someone who had spent decades in service of something greater than herself. Her uniform was dark, its lines clean, its fabric expensive. Insignia decorated her collar—marks of rank that Jericho didn't recognize but knew better than to question.
Her name was Seraphina Jerkins.
She had been the matriarch of the family since before Jericho was born, and she had never let anyone forget it.
"This time," she said.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled. The voice of someone who had never needed to raise it to be heard. It cut through the silence like a blade through silk.
"Our family is being made a mockery."
"By that woman."
She didn't say Brenda's name.
She didn't need to.
"Not only did she issue this tournament without our authorization, but she also allowed someone from the north to participate in the Crucible Ascension. She treats us like children—like we are pieces on her board to move at her whim."
Her eyes were cold, flat, the eyes of someone who had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"And what's worse—due to her background, we cannot do anything about it."
"We can only swallow the insults."
"Again."
"And again."
She stepped closer.
Her heels clicked against the polished wood.
"So tell me, Jericho—what have you done about the recent troubles your father left you to solve?"
"The kidnapping."
"The one involving the senior engineer—the one who oversaw the Aetherium Loom."
Jericho's jaw tightened.
The muscles in his neck stood out.
"It has hit a wall," he admitted.
His voice was flat, hollow, the voice of a man who had been forced to admit failure.
"Eugene Torrent still hasn't gotten any leads on the perpetrators. And his family—"
"His family is a problem."
"They are always at our necks. Always trying to find dirt about us. Who knows—they might be behind it themselves."
"They aren't even part of our Shinkai."
Seraphina's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
Her fingers pressed against Jericho's lips, silencing him mid-sentence.
"Some things," she said.
Her voice was soft, almost gentle—which made it more terrifying than any shout.
"That are paved for by them—are not meant to be questioned."
"Our only job—the Jerkins family's only job—is to follow orders."
"That is the part we were born to play."
"That is the part we are meant to follow."
"So when you say things like that—"
Her eyes narrowed.
"—it tells me one of two things."
"Either you are using it as an excuse to hide your incompetence."
"Or—"
She paused.
"—you are showing me that you might not be the right individual qualified to succeed my brother."
---
Jericho's expression flickered.
Panic. Not the hot panic of fear—the cold panic of someone who had just realized that everything they had worked for could be taken away in a single moment.
"I—"
His voice cracked.
"I spoke out of turn."
"I—"
"I ask for forgiveness."
"I—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
His hands were trembling. His breath was shallow. His eyes were wide, desperate, the eyes of a man who had just seen the ground fall away beneath his feet.
Seraphina's eyes were cold.
"How demeaning," she said.
Her voice was flat.
"For a Jerkins to present himself like this."
"You know, Jericho—"
She paused.
"I heard of late that your younger brother—the one who lost his way—actually survived the Crucible Ascension."
"Which is quite surprising."
"Considering my brother never put him under the rage ever since he was born."
"Maybe—"
Her smile was thin.
"—he should be the one next in line."
Jericho's hands clenched into fists.
His knuckles went white.
His eyes—his eyes were not the eyes of a man who was afraid.
They were the eyes of a man who was ready to kill.
---
Seraphina's hand moved again.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
Her palm struck Jericho's cheek.
The sound echoed off the walls—sharp, wet, final.
"Control yourself," she said.
Her voice was ice.
"You are a Jerkins."
"You do not let your emotions control you."
"You—"
Her hand found his hair.
She pulled.
His head snapped back.
Her eyes met his.
"Look at me," she said.
Her voice was soft.
"Look at me."
"You are better than this."
"You are stronger than this."
"You are—"
She paused.
"—a Jerkins."
"And Jerkins do not fail."
"They do not falter."
"They do not—"
"They do not."
---
Jericho's eyes were wet.
Not from tears—from something else. From the pressure of everything that had been building inside him.
"I—"
"I—"
"I—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Seraphina released his hair.
She stepped back.
"If you don't want me mentioning your brother," she said.
"Then prove me wrong."
"Right now."
She gestured.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows.
He was tall—not massive, but lean. His uniform was dark, practical, unadorned. His face was calm, his eyes cold. His hands were clasped behind his back. His presence was the presence of someone who had been trained to kill and had never forgotten it.
"Meet your opponent," Seraphina said.
"Your Kenshin."
"The one who will test your worth."
---
Jericho's hands were still shaking.
His knuckles were white.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
The figure—the Kenshin—stepped into the light.
His face was unreadable.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
His voice was flat.
Jericho's throat moved.
"I—"
"I—"
"I—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
---