The blade rattled my teeth as it slammed into my guard. I shifted with the impact, letting the force roll through my shoulders while my axes slid along the flat of his sword. The dulled metal screeched against mine, sparks snapping harmlessly where real edges would've bitten flesh.

  He followed immediately. Another strike came from the opposite side, faster than the last, hips turning, shoulders driving power through the blade.

  I stepped back. Then again. And again. Anyone watching would've thought I was losing ground. They wouldn't be wrong.

  Sparring with Bran had always been a pain. He was the strongest member of our squad by a comfortable margin. When combined with an absurd agility for his build, the result was an explosiveness that was almost unfair. Every swing carried consequence. Taking him head on was a mistake you only made once.

  He carved downward toward my shoulder. I rolled just outside the path, one axe guiding the strike away while the other hovered ready to punish an overextension.

  There wasn't one. He flowed seamlessly into a rising slash, sweeping upward with terrifying speed. I leaned back so far my balance teetered, abdominal muscles straining as the tip stopped a hair from my chest before I knocked it aside

  The platform rang beneath our feet.

  Around us, the rest of the squad occupied the tiered seating that overlooked the circular sparring floor.

  "You guys are boring me out of my mind," Lydia groaned. "Do you have any plans to actually make this fight worth watching?"

  I ducked another swing.

  Not yet.

  "Can you two wrap this up?" Kate added. "It's been twenty minutes. Some of us have plans."

  Bran grinned at that, pressing harder. He blurred through a tight combination meant to overwhelm my guard—high, mid, low—each strike forcing me farther back towards the edge.

  I evaded the heavier blows and deflected the lighter ones, conserving energy wherever possible.

  On the sidelines, Cuiran's lazy voice drifted down. "Every time. You guys can't say I didn't warn you that they shouldn't have gone first."

  I risked a glance upward between weaves.

  He was sprawled across the seating with his head resting comfortably in Mous' lap, completely unconcerned with the violence happening meters away.

  The wind displacement from another close miss snapped me back into focus

  Bran lunged again, blade thrusting forward with surprising precision for such a heavy weapon. I leaned sideways, narrowly avoiding it.

  Five inches shorter than me, but the size of his weapon erased most of my reach advantage. The extended grip gave him leverage, control, and enough range to force me to remain on defense unless I committed fully.

  Which I wouldn't do. Not yet.

  Over the years, I'd developed multiple solutions to Bran. Technical traps. Timed counters. But the simplest method remained the most reliable. I let him tire himself out.

  Bran lacked little as a fighter. Speed. Strength. Instinct. But his stamina was shit. He burned bright and fast, and I was more than willing to let him. However, it didn't take him long to figure this out and he began to develop countermeasures to the strategy, making minor adjustments every time we fought.

  None had any success so far.

  His breathing sounded steady. His shoulders dipped slightly between strikes, just enough to suggest fatigue. An obvious trap. One he had tried before.

  I disengaged, creating separation between us. He exaggerated his recovery, letting the sword drag a second longer than necessary. I drew in a slow breath as we circled. Sweat. Metal. Polymer padding. And beneath it— Nothing strong enough. I almost smiled.

  Nice try.

  He moved again with renewed aggression, abandoning the act without hesitation. He knew I wouldn't bite. The blade hammered down in a relentless flow, trying to force a mistake through sheer pressure. Each blow pushed me further from the center.

  I ducked a swipe, moved under the follow-up, and came up inside his reach for a heartbeat before disengaging again.

  Patience.

  Unlike Bran I had no problem with drawn out battles. I could, quite literally, do this all day. Minutes passed in motion. His strikes stayed dangerous, but inefficiencies began to surface. Gaps widened. Footwork grew heavier. The sword lingered a beat longer after each swing.

  Then—

  There it was. An overpowering smell of salt and heat. I exhaled slowly.

  Finally.

  His next swing came fast. But not fast enough. Instead of retreating, I stepped in. The shift was subtle—just half a stride forward—but it shattered the rhythm. His eyes flickered in surprise. A single heartbeat of hesitation.

  My right axe rose upward, knocking his blade off-line with a sharp metallic crack. My left followed immediately, slamming into his guard.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His recovery was slow. I pressed on. He slashed wide to regain initiative. I slipped inside and checked his blade with both axes, redirecting it past my shoulder. The motion flowed naturally into a counter he barely caught in time.

  Fatigue simplified fighters. He was becoming predictable and the speed of his reactions had dipped considerably. He wouldn't be able to bail himself out for much longer.

  I dismantled the next attack before it fully formed, intercepting at the wrists. His blade stalled mid-motion. I continued with a kick that forced him to step back. The first time he'd yielded ground all fight.

  "Oh," Lydia said, suddenly interested. "There he is."

  Bran tried to reassert pressure with a heavy overhead strike.

  I blocked it easily. Too easily. He swiped again. I trapped the blade and stepped past his guard. He reacted on instinct, throwing a wild kick to halt my advance.

  Desperation.

  I slipped to the side. The kick cut through empty air. He overcommitted, momentum carrying him forward as he rolled to recover space. Another mistake. I was already moving.

  Leaping after him, I hurled my left axe at his foot, forcefully interrupting his attempt to regain his balance. The split-second disruption was all I needed. I closed the distance. My other axe rose and stopped a breath from his neck.

  Bran froze, chest heaving.

  "…Yeah," he muttered at last, lifting a hand in surrender. "That's enough."

  I lowered the weapon and offered him my hand.

  He took it, pulling himself upright with a tired laugh.

  From the stands, Kate groaned loudly. "Finally. My hair had already started turning grey."

  Bran wiped away his sweat, still breathing hard. "You know you're screwed the moment I figure this out right?"

  "Maybe," I grinned. "But not today. You're still my son and I remain a disappointed father."

  He snorted and stepped off the platform, flipping me off as he joined the others.

  I turned toward them, spreading my arms wide, high on adrenaline.

  "Are you not entertained?!" I yelled. "Who's up to be the next sacrifice?"

  Jen didn't hesitate.

  She vaulted down before anyone else could respond, landing lightly on the platform. The impact barely made a sound. Her training sword slid free in one smooth motion.

  "I got next."

  I watched her settle into stance.

  This was not the same person from a year ago. She had improved drastically in almost all areas. The last time we fought I barely managed to win by exploiting some old habits she still hadn't dropped.

  And that was before she advanced to tier 4.

  Over the past months I'd improved too. Stronger transitions. Better conditioning. Cleaner reads. But something was wrong. There was an unyielding wall inside me. Every time I felt close to breaking through—to becoming something sharper, faster, more complete—I hit it. Hard. And no amount of repetition or analysis had cracked it yet. Not Jen. She had shattered hers.

  While the rest of us scraped upward inch by inch, she'd suddenly found another gear entirely. Weeks ago she'd been called up for assessment, and when she returned, there was something different in her eyes.

  To call the current Jen dangerous was a hilarious understatement. She was on another level now. This fight was hers to lose.

  Grinning despite the thought, I bent and retrieved my axes. A challenge was always welcome.

  I adjusted my grip and squared up across from her. We circled once, measuring distance. The air was taut with tension.

  She moved first—

  A metallic whistle sliced through the air. Something slammed into the platform between us with explosive force. Both of us jumped back instinctively. A spear quivered upright in the metal floor, embedded deep enough that the platform hummed from the impact.

  I looked toward the stands. Kate stood, arm still extended from the throw.

  "A bit dramatic, don't you think?" I called, gesturing at the spear.

  "Playtime's over," she replied. "Command just reassigned us."

  I frowned. "Reassigned?"

  She nodded, expression turning serious. "Just got the word from Smith. Unit Ninety-two is out of commission. For now, we are to take on their duties effective immediately."

  It came completely out of the blue.

  I didn't like my training time interrupted. Not when momentum had just started to build. But the order was clear. And they weren't suggestions.

  "Alright," I said, clapping once to pull everyone back into focus. "We're going to be quick."

  I looked at Kate. "What should we be doing right now?"

  "Hold on." She tilted her head slightly. "Smith, pull it up."

  A translucent document bloomed into view in front of her visor. Lines of text scrolled rapidly, reflected faintly across her face before she dismissed it with a flick.

  "We're scheduled for patrol. Eighth and Ninth District. North-East ring."

  "Good." I nodded. "We'll hit the showers before suiting up. Can't have us stinking up the streets."

  A few lazy nods.

  "Kate. Lydia." I pointed between them. "Basic equipment only. Loadout light and efficient. Have everything ready asap."

  I dropped my weapons to the floor with a heavy metallic clatter and began stripping off my sparring gear.

  "That's it. Move. We leave in fifteen."

  I stepped out of the shower feeling unsatisfied.

  The water had barely warmed before I shut it off. No time to stand under it and let the heat settle into muscle. No time to think. Long showers reset me. Washed away static. Gave me space to breathe and rebuild. Short ones just put me in a bad mood.

  As I dried off and pulled on my uniform, I forced myself to adjust my mental state. This assignment was different. It wasn't our first assignment or even our first patrol. But it was our time moving solo.

  Even after probation ended, we were still shadowed. Paired with senior squads. Assigned backup roles. Trusted enough to act—but not enough to lead.

  Today that changed. There would be no higher squad watching from behind. No safety net. If something went wrong, it would be on us.

  On me.

  By the time I reached the gear room, most of the team was already there. Equipment trays were half emptied. Kate and Lydia were loading up a crate of field supplies. They sealed it, lifted it together, and jogged past me without slowing. I moved to my stall as the others sorted through their weapons.

  Trent and Lloyd were waiting for me. I picked them up and let their weight settle into my palms. The multilayered solid CMC weapons absorbed the light in a muted sheen. Perfectly balanced. Twenty-inch handles. Reinforced grip.

  A halberd top instead of a simple axe head. Blade edge, spear tip and a hammer reverse. They had been commissioned for me after our record-breaking performance in the first major exercise as a reward.

  But they weren't trophies.

  They were my vision. For a long time I'd known standard short axes limited me. Too committed to slashing arcs. Too linear. My combat system relied on adaptation and diverse transitions. Axes alone couldn't keep up. So I redesigned them. Inspired by traditional halberds, but compressed. Modular and made for brutality.

  I hadn't used them in a real engagement yet. Part of me hoped I wouldn't have to. Another part, the more honest of the two, wanted to see what they could really do.

  I strapped Trent to my right side. Lloyd to my left. Both named after my favorite basketball players. Worthy of my most prized possessions.

  The vest came next. The familiar tightening across my torso. Magnetic locks clicking into place. I loaded the rest of my gear methodically: two grenades secured at my hip, dual KL handpieces holstered, plasma cutter at the belt. By the time I lifted my helmet, the room had cleared.

  I followed into the central area.

  "How are we looking?" I asked.

  "We've got three minutes to spare." Mous replied.

  "Excellent." I said. "Cuiran, take a look at the area reports and observations. I don't want any surprises."

  "On it."

  "Jen, tell Lydia to pull the van around. We're leaving earlier."

  She nodded and put on her helmet.

  I felt like a professional now. Before we would have had to report first Officer Bailey, waited for confirmation, then waited for a higher squad to chaperone. Not anymore.

  We were Class 1 marshals now.

  Real marshals.

  In almost every machine city, there are four marshal command stations. Each one securing at least for rings in the North, East, West and South areas.