Rennik’s hand trembled, not from fear, but from the raw, simmering fury beneath his skin. Toban’s threat, a knife twisted into his deepest fear, echoed in the silent Vendele Boardroom. He had accepted the duel, binding himself to Karys’s fate, but the cost was Nomi’s safety. There was no going back. He couldn’t afford to be just Rennik Dal, the clumsy delivery boy, any longer. Not entirely. He needed to find a way to fight without revealing the full, terrifying extent of his Shinkai lineage, a paradox that gnawed at his gut.
“We need to train,” Karys had said, her voice sharp and practical as they left the tower, the media circus still buzzing outside. “Jarlath isn’t going to hold back. You need to at least look like you can defend yourself.”
Rennik, feigning a nervous stammer, had suggested an abandoned facility on the city’s industrial fringe—the Crimson Coil Depot. Its derelict walls and broken skylights offered both privacy and a convenient excuse for any accidental ‘scaffolding collapses’ should the need arise. Karys, suspicious but lacking a better option, had agreed.
Inside the vast, dust-choked space, fractured sunlight spilled through the grime-coated glass, illuminating motes dancing in the stale air. Twisted metal skeletons of old machinery loomed like forgotten titans. Karys, dressed in sleek athletic wear that hugged her lithe frame, looked utterly out of place, yet commanded the space with an almost regal confidence. She demonstrated a basic guard stance, her movements precise, if unsuited for actual combat.
“Left foot forward, guard up,” she instructed, her brow furrowed. “You’re too stiff, Rennik. Relax your shoulders. Like this.” She nudged his arm, her touch sending an unexpected tremor through him.
He forced himself to appear awkward, his limbs moving with exaggerated stiffness, mimicking a novice. Karys sighed, a wisp of impatience escaping her lips. “No, no. Your stance is all wrong. It’s like you’ve never thrown a punch in your life.”
Her words, meant to chide, inadvertently dragged him into a memory. A different warehouse, older, smelling of damp earth and aged wood, not rust and oil. Grandfather Hiroki, his back ramrod straight, his eyes like polished obsidian, watching young Rennik. The scent of ozone, the quiet hum of concentrated energy.
*“The Void Palm, Rennik,” his grandfather's gravelly whisper echoed in the past. “It is not a strike of force, but of absence. You do not hit, you unravel. Find the stillness within the storm. Breathe through the lower dantian, gather, condense. Then, release.”*
*The old master had demonstrated on a thick slab of reinforced concrete, not with a flourish, but with a deceptively gentle tap. The concrete didn’t shatter; it imploded inward, a perfect, circular void appearing where his palm had rested. The air around it seemed to shimmer, then collapse in on itself.*
*“This technique is for defense, for protection. Never for aggression. It is the final warning of the Shinkai. Its use draws attention, attention that could cost us everything.” His grandfather’s gaze, usually so warm, had held a deep, unshakeable sorrow. “Promise me, Rennik. Only if there is no other path.”*
*The memory fractured, replaced by the screams, the shattering glass, the metallic tang of blood, and his grandfather's unblinking stare fixed on rafters lost in smoke. The Void Palm, unreleased, forever locked away in Rennik’s trembling hands.*
“Rennik? Are you even listening?” Karys’s voice cut through the lingering haze of his past. He blinked, shaking the phantom dust from his eyes. “Yes, Ms. Vendele. I… I’m trying.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning embarrassment.
“Fine. Try this.” Karys moved with surprising agility, stepping in close. “You need to anticipate. If I come at you like this…” She launched a feigned, slow jab. Rennik, calculating the trajectory, the pressure points, the minute shift in her weight, could have disarmed her in a hundred different ways without her even realizing it. Instead, he clumsily raised his arms, letting her hand connect lightly with his shoulder.
“See?” Karys huffed, pushing forward. “You’re leaving yourself open.” She grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm behind him with unexpected strength, then used her other hand to push his back, pinning him against one of the rusty metal pillars. Her breath, minty and warm, brushed his ear. His body, instinctively rigid, softened under her touch, playing the part of the overwhelmed amateur.
His back pressed against the cold metal, Karys’s front was flush against his. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, the soft give of her muscles, the subtle scent of her expensive perfume mingling with the metallic tang of the old depot. Her arm pinned his wrist behind him, her torso pressed firm against his ribs while heat radiated between their skin.
“You need to find your center,” she murmured, her voice lower now, almost a whisper, her eyes, usually so sharp and distant, now wide and searching, locked onto his. He could see the flecks of gold in their depths. Her gaze drifted to his lips, and he felt his own breath catch. The warehouse draft went still as she lingered mere inches away, close enough that he felt her shallow exhale. It was almost a relief, a release, from the constant pressure of his deception.
Suddenly, a faint scraping sound cut through the silence. Karys flinched, pulling back abruptly, her cheeks faintly flushed. Rennik, his heart still thrumming from their proximity, quickly regained his composure, his gaze darting to the shadows. It was Nomi. He recognized the familiar soft patter of her worn sneakers.
Nomi emerged from behind a stack of corroded oil drums, a triumphant grin on her face, a thick, leather-bound journal clutched in her hands. “Rennik! Karys! You won’t believe what I found!” Her eyes, bright with discovery, sparkled under the dim light. “I finished Grandfather’s last journal. The breathing sequence for the Void Palm! It was hidden in a cipher only he would use!”
A chill locked Rennik's throat dry. He had protected that secret with his life, and now Nomi, innocent and brilliant, had stumbled upon the very technique that marked them. “Nomi, no! You shouldn’t have come here!” he hissed, his voice sharper than he intended, a desperate plea for her to quiet.
But it was too late. Before Nomi could respond, a sudden blur of motion erupted from the deeper shadows. Two figures, cloaked and masked, moved with chilling efficiency. One grabbed Nomi, clamping a hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other, with a flick of his wrist, sent a sleek, black dart whistling through the air. It thudded into the rusty pillar beside Rennik’s head, pinning a folded piece of parchment to the metal. The figures vanished as quickly as they appeared, melting back into the gloom, taking Nomi with them.
Rennik lunged, but they were gone. He tore the note from the dart. His eyes scanned the stark, block letters, the message searing itself into his mind: *THROW THE FIGHT TOMORROW, OR THE GIRL DIES.*