The school grounds were silent, no wind, no voices, not even the soft creak of the trees that usually whispered against the night. Just the hush of pre-dawn stillness stretched thin across cracked pavement and moon-washed dirt, broken only by the dull, rhythmic thud of metal cutting through air.
Jin swung the length of iron pipe through another wide arc, pivoting his foot across the faded white line of the sparring ring. A half turn. A downward strike.
The hit landed wrong.
Not in aim. Not in direction. Something harder to name than that, some missing weight behind the motion that no amount of correct form seemed able to fix. He pulled the pipe back, rolled his shoulders, and tried again.
Each swing flowed well enough. He wasn't sloppy. But even his own body could feel the hollow edge behind it, clean but not sharp, smooth but dulled, mechanical in a way that had nothing to do with skill.
No rhythm. No fire.
