The training arena smelled faintly of ozone, the kind of sharp tang that clung to the air after mana-discharge weapons had been firing all day. The floor's polished composite panels gleamed under the overhead lights, each reflective square marked by faint scuffs and burns from countless sparring sessions.
Aftan stepped inside, scanning the scene—Unit 3's Elite was spread across the room in loose clusters, stretching, checking gear, or bantering before drills began. The space thrummed with a quiet competitiveness, the kind that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Albert was the first to notice him. Taller now, broader through the shoulders, with the same lopsided grin Aftan remembered from the Academy, he broke from a group near the far wall and crossed the room in quick, easy strides.
"Aftan, you half-breed bastard!" Albert's voice carried, drawing a few glances. He clasped Aftan's forearm in a firm, grounding grip. "Didn't think I'd see you here this soon."
"You think I'd pass up the chance to show you up in front of the Elite?" Aftan replied, smiling despite himself. His voice carried its old warmth, but underneath there was a hum of tension—this was a new arena, a higher stage.
Their reunion was loud and unapologetic—exactly as it had been in their Academy days, when friendly rivalry had pushed them both to excel. The two traded quick updates, half-teasing, half-serious: Albert's recent ops, Aftan's abrupt transfer orders. But the moment was broken by a sharp voice from across the room.
"You're blocking the floor."
Kay stood there, arms folded, gaze level and unimpressed. She was in light combat leathers, dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. Every line of her posture said she'd been watching them, measuring.
"Sorry, Captain," Albert called, though the lack of rank in his tone said otherwise. Kay's eyes flicked to Aftan.
"So you're the new striker," she said flatly. "Hope you can keep up. We don't slow down for transfers."
Aftan's jaw tightened. "Guess we'll find out."
Ahmar's voice cut through before the tension could coil tighter. "Pair off for sparring. Kay, you're with Aftan. Let's see what the Academy taught him."
The bout began fast. Kay's style was sharp and angular, each strike calculated to force Aftan onto the defensive. She pressed him hard, her footwork immaculate, testing for gaps. Aftan adapted, drawing on instincts honed in half-Genshi training—slipping just outside her reach, redirecting her momentum. The clash of their styles drew attention; murmurs rippled from the sidelines.
Albert leaned against the rail, watching with a grin. "Ten credits says she eats mat in under a minute," he muttered to Forge, who smirked but didn't take the bet.
Kay heard it. She feinted left, drove right—and found her strike caught, redirected, and answered with a sweep that took her legs out. She hit the mat with a thud, the breath leaving her in a short, sharp gasp.
Silence hung for a beat. Then Kay was on her feet, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile flickering and vanishing. "Not bad," she said, and walked off.
The next drills paired them again, not by accident. Passing commands between them became a silent negotiation—Kay would push the tempo, Aftan would temper it, each testing how far the other would bend before breaking. By the end, their breathing was ragged, but there was a mutual, unspoken acknowledgment: neither would be easy to break.
Later, in the locker area, Albert clapped Aftan on the shoulder. "You've made a friend for life there. Or an enemy. Same thing, really."
Aftan smirked, but his mind was elsewhere. Kay's precision, her speed—she wasn't just hostile for the sake of it. There was something in her eyes when she'd looked at him after the bout. A measure. A question.
Whatever it was, he knew it wasn't the last time they'd be crossing lines—and next time, it might not be on a training mat.