The first full sparring session stripped away any illusion of courtesy.
No introductions. No soft openings. Just a bell and a body moving toward mine with intent sharpened by weeks of controlled restraint.
I adjusted instantly.
This was not the cage. Not yet. But it was close enough to remember who I was when rules thinned and instinct stepped forward.
The man across from me fought tight. Defensive shell. Counter-heavy. He waited for mistakes rather than creating openings.
I did not give him one.
We circled. Tested range. Feinted. The sound of gloves against pads echoed sharp and clean across the floor.
Len watched without comment.
So did the others.
I felt their attention like heat on my skin. Not curiosity. Evaluation.
When the bell ended the round, the man stepped back and nodded once. Respect. Quiet. Earned.
The next partner was different.
Aggressive. Pressing. He forced me backward, crowding space, trying to see how I handled discomfort.
I let him.
Then I shifted.
Timing mattered more than power. I slipped inside his reach and redirected his momentum just enough to break his rhythm.
His surprise was brief.
His correction was fast.
Good.
By the end of the session, my lungs burned and my muscles trembled with the familiar exhaustion that came only from real engagement.
This was what they had been holding back.
After cooldown, Mara appeared again.
"Medical," she said.
Already.
They tracked escalation as carefully as restraint.
The doctor examined me without ceremony.
"No significant damage," he said. "Recovery protocols are mandatory."
"I know."
"You do not always act like it."
I met his gaze. "Neither do your fighters."
He considered that, then made another note.
The schedule shifted again.
More sparring. Less conditioning. Opponent footage layered with scenarios that mimicked pressure rather than style.
They were closing the net.
That evening, I noticed something new.
Kade did not watch from above.
He was on the floor.
Not interfering. Not instructing. Just present.
That changed the air.
Fighters adjusted unconsciously. Posture sharpened. Movements tightened.
Authority does that.
During my final round, I felt his gaze more directly than before. Not assessing skill. Assessing response.
When I took a calculated risk and ate a light strike to land a cleaner one, his attention sharpened.
Not disapproval.
Interest.
After the session, he approached me for the first time without intermediaries.
"You chose exposure," he said.
"I chose the outcome."
"You absorbed unnecessary impact."
"I finished the exchange."
"You could have disengaged."
"I could have lost control of momentum."
He studied me.
"Risk tolerance is not the same as recklessness."
"I know the difference."
A pause.
"That will be tested," he said.
The next morning, the test arrived early.
I was called to the arena again.
This time, the lights were higher. The space is less forgiving.
The opponent waited inside the cage.
Not the one scheduled for my first official fight.
Someone bigger. Stronger. Less polished.
A stressor.
"You said controlled escalation," I said, standing outside the cage.
"I said escalation," Kade replied. "Control is relative."
"What are the rules?"
He did not answer immediately.
Then, "Three rounds. Stop when instructed."
"And if I do not."
"Then you breach."
There it was. The contract is tightening like a fist.
I stepped into the cage.
The door closed.
The bell rang.
The man came at me fast. No patience. No finesse. Just pressure.
I adjusted my footwork. Redirected. I avoided heavy impact where I could.
He caught me once. Solid. Enough to rattle.
I smiled despite myself.
The second round hurt more.
He learned. I adapted.
Pain sharpened focus. It always had.
By the third round, I was bleeding lightly from a split lip. Nothing serious. Enough to remind me I was alive.
The bell rang.
"Stop," Kade's voice cut through the air.
I disengaged instantly.
The man did not.
He stepped in again.
Instinct flared.
I ended it.
One clean movement. Efficient. Final.
He went down hard.
Silence fell.
I stood there, chest heaving, blood on my mouth, the taste of iron grounding me.
The cage door opened.
Kade did not look at the fallen fighter.
He looked at me.
"You were told to stop," he said.
"I disengaged," I replied. "He did not."
"You exceeded necessity."
"I ensured safety."
"Yours," he corrected.
"Everyone's," I said.
A long pause.
This was the moment. The breach. The forfeiture. The end.
Instead, he nodded once.
"Noted
The word landed heavier than any reprimand.
Later, alone in my unit, I cleaned the cut carefully.
My reflection stared back at me. Familiar. Focused.
The rules had tightened. The pressure had escalated.
But so had something else.
They were no longer asking if I was dangerous.
They were deciding what to do about it.
And I suspected the answer would cost more than obedience.