The morning mist rolled low across the training yard. Floodlights painted the dirt silver. Soldiers ringed the field in a loose circle, murmuring as they waited to see what the hell a "Counter exhibition" looked like.
Rus stood in the center, his HF blade humming faintly in his right hand. The weapon looked menacing when it was powered and vibrating along its edge, its faint shimmer of distortion running down the metal like heat above asphalt. Every few seconds, it gave a low, hungry buzz, as if it wanted something to cut.
Opposite him stood the Counter Eirik of the 9th, a broad-shouldered man with pale eyes and the kind of calm that came only from surviving too many close calls. His armor bore the scars of Riftborne fights, acid scoring, claw grooves, dents that told stories no one cared to retell.
He hefted his weapon, a poleblade longer than Rus was tall. Its edge gleamed with faint runes etched along the shaft, the kind of ornamentation the man probably took pride in. He twirled it once and planted his feet, every motion deliberate, precise.
"Ready?" Eirik's voice was low, steady.
Rus didn't answer immediately. He rolled his shoulders once, taking a breath. The air felt too light.
Then the world shifted.
The QTE overlay blinked into existence in front of his vision, translucent arcs of red and white marking possible strikes, counters, vectors. Attack indicators flared across Eirik's silhouette like ghost fire. His mutation had refined itself again, lines sharper, predictions faster. He didn't think about them anymore and just consciously pressed the button inside his head like it was a QTE section.
Rus dropped into stance, left foot forward, blade angled low. "Ready."
Eirik moved first.
The poleblade came in at a downward diagonal, sharp and fast, air cutting before steel. The red line traced the arc before it happened, Rus sidestepped, bringing the HF blade up in a tight parry. Metal shrieked, sparks snapping.
Eirik reversed instantly, twisting his wrists and sweeping the pole across. Rus ducked, stepped inside the reach, and drove a jab toward Eirik's ribs. The Counter twisted away, using the shaft to block, the clash cracking like thunder.
They broke apart.
The crowd muttered, no cheers yet, just the rustle of armor and breath.
Eirik came again, faster this time, feet pounding into the dirt. The poleblade flickered, low, then high, then a sudden thrust meant to bait a reaction. Rus didn't fall for it. The QTE arcs flashed, his perception slowing the world just enough for his body to move through the gaps. Parry. Sidestep. Tap the shaft away. Each block a heartbeat apart.
When Eirik spun, the blade whistled overhead. Rus ducked under the swing, the air kissing his hair, and countered with a short, brutal slash at Eirik's forearm. The man barely managed to deflect it. The hum of the HF edge carved a shallow groove through his vambrace.
Eirik grinned. "Fast."
"Faster than you think," Rus replied.
They circled. Dust hung between them like smoke.
Eirik adjusted his grip, shifting from long reach to mid-range. He stepped in, poleblade darting like a spear. Rus blocked once, twice, each impact jarring up his arm, but the red directional arrows on his HUD told him where the next one would come. High right. Low left. Spin counter.
He timed it perfectly.
When Eirik raised the blade overhead and brought it down in a vertical slam meant to break guard, Rus stepped half a pace sideways and angled his own sword up, catching the blow on the flat. Sparks flared, metal screamed, and for an instant the two were locked, weight against weight, strain biting into both grips.
Then Rus twisted his wrist, breaking the bind. His blade snapped up, caught the edge of the poleblade, and redirected it harmlessly aside. The counter stroke came before Eirik could reset, a sharp upward slash that clipped across his pauldron and sent him stumbling a step back.
The crowd exhaled, voices rising.
Eirik recovered fast, using the length of the weapon to keep distance. He thrust again, then swept in a brutal sideways cut. Rus met it, both hands on the hilt, deflecting it down and pivoting on his heel. The move turned his defense into motion, and he came around with a quick jab to Eirik's gut, controlled, but enough to knock the breath from him.
Eirik staggered, coughing, then barked a laugh. "Alright, Lieutenant. Let's see how long you can dance."
He surged forward, momentum renewed. The poleblade became a blur, slashes chaining one after another, each strike strong enough to shatter bone if it landed clean. Rus blocked, deflected, sidestepped. Each impact echoed, dirt spraying with every movement.
The attack indicators burned across his vision like flares. He was reading Eirik's entire body, the tightening of shoulders, the rotation of hips, the micro-pause before a strike. The man was powerful, yes, but predictable now. Each strike had a signal.
When Eirik tried to break his rhythm with another overhead swing, his heaviest yet, Rus saw the tell before the pole even lifted.
The red arc bloomed across his vision, long and deliberate.
Rus stepped in instead of back. His blade shot upward, parrying the downward strike near the base of the shaft, using Eirik's own momentum against him. The force rippled through the air with a sharp crack, and for a moment, Eirik's balance faltered.
Rus didn't waste it.
He drove a knee into the man's midsection, twisted, and slammed the butt of his sword into his opponent's ribs. Then he pivoted, foot sweeping low. Eirik went down to one knee, blade wobbling.
The HF blade hummed near his throat before he could rise.
The crowd had gone quiet.
Eirik's breath came heavy, but his grin stayed. Sweat rolled down his face as he slowly raised a hand and tapped the flat of Rus's sword with his fingertips in surrender.
"Enough," he said, voice hoarse. "I yield."
Rus lowered the blade, powering it down with a faint whine. The air between them settled.
Eirik pushed himself up with a laugh that was half-exhale, half-relief. "You weren't kidding about that reflex talk. You didn't even blink, did you?"
Rus gave a faint shrug. "I see things clearly."
"That's one way to put it." Eirik rolled his shoulders, wincing. "Feels like I fought a machine with a human face."
Rus didn't respond, though the comment wasn't wrong.
Around them, the soldiers started clapping, some cheering now that it was clear no one had died. The fight had been fast but clean and efficient. Eirik reached out a gloved hand. Rus took it.
"Good fight," Eirik said, smiling wearily. "Remind me never to piss off your unit."
"Don't plan to," Rus said. He meant it.
They parted, and the crowd dispersed, still buzzing with talk.
As Rus wiped the sweat from his brow, he caught his reflection in the faint sheen of the HF blade. The eyes that stared back looked calm. Too calm.
The QTE overlays were fading now, one by one, dissolving into air. The faint glow along his vision dimmed until the world looked normal again, flat, slower, heavier. He felt the difference instantly, the way time seemed to drag without the pulse of that enhanced perception.
For a brief moment, he missed it. The clarity. The flow. The quiet hum of inevitability that came when every strike had a line, every threat a color.
Then the feeling passed.
He slid the blade back into its sheath, the lock sealing with a soft click. The hum died.
Berta was the first to approach, grinning like a wolf. "Boss, you make that look too damn easy. Are you holding back or just cruel?"
"Training," he said simply.
Kate whistled low. "He looked like he was reading the guy before he even moved."
Amiel stood at the back of the group, arms folded, expression blank. Only her eyes betrayed thought, following the blade with faint curiosity. "He was."
Rus met her gaze for a moment, then looked away.
The bay wind kicked up dust across the yard, carrying the scent of oil and salt again. Another day. Another victory that didn't feel like one.
Eirik clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past, still smiling. "Next time, Lieutenant, I'll bring two blades."
Rus smirked faintly. "Then I'll bring none."
The laughter that followed rolled across the yard, easy and tired.
He stood there a while longer, watching the others drift back to work, before finally heading toward his prefab.
* * *
By evening, the spar was already a rumor.
Eirik's laughter still echoed somewhere across the compound, but the crowd had dissolved, and the base had returned to its usual rhythm of noise, movement, and order pretending to be calm.
Rus was back in his prefab office, buried under reports.
The HF blade rested against the wall beside his desk, still faintly warm from earlier. The rest of the room smelled like ink and machine oil. The hum of the air conditioner did its best to drown out the sound of the generators outside, but it only made the silence inside heavier.
Rus worked through the stack mechanically, from supply requisitions, damage assessments, personnel rotation lists. Every document looked the same after a while. Lines, numbers, signatures. All the invisible machinery that kept the illusion of control running.
He didn't know how long he'd been at it when a shadow fell across the doorway.
"Lieutenant."
Kilgore's voice was always deep, worn, carrying that authority that made people straighten without thinking.
Rus set down his pen. "Colonel."
Kilgore stepped inside, moving with the deliberate weight of a man whose knees had lost their patience years ago. He glanced at the desk, the papers, the stale coffee. "You ever stop working?"
Rus gave a faint shrug. "It piles up if I don't."
Kilgore grunted, pulling up a chair without asking. "I saw the fight today. Eirik said you handled him like he was swinging blind."
Rus didn't look up. "He's good. Strong. Just… readable."
Kilgore smirked. "Readable. You've got a way of making things sound simple that shouldn't be."
Rus said nothing, flipping another page.
The colonel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You ever think maybe it's not them slowing down, but you speeding up?"
Rus looked at him then. "You mean the mutation."
Kilgore nodded. "Yeah. That." He studied Rus's face for a moment, as if trying to see the change in his eyes. "You've gotten faster. Cleaner. Even for a Counter, that's rare. You hit the point where the human frame can't keep up with what's in your head, but you're still holding it together. That's not normal."
Rus exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "It's still growing. But I can feel it… stabilizing, maybe. Like it's reaching some kind of limit. The threshold."
Kilgore's brow furrowed. "Threshold."
"Yeah. I heard every mutation's got one," Rus said quietly. "You push it too far, it starts tearing you apart, rewiring your nerves until you're not you anymore. I can feel mine brushing against that edge."
Kilgore studied him for a long moment. "You think it's gonna break?"
Rus shook his head. "No. Not yet. But it's close enough that I know where the line is."
Kilgore nodded slowly, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's good. Because once we take this next sector, I think things might finally quiet down. The corridor will be secured, the bay fortified, Damasa linked to Libertalia. Command's already calling it the 'Southern Spine.' They'll need maintenance crews more than soldiers after that."
Rus raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll actually let us rest?"
Kilgore chuckled, low and dry. "Rest is relative, son. But yeah. If all goes well, you'll be able to finish your service without much more trouble. Paperwork, inspections, drills. Maybe some ceremonial bullshit to keep the brass happy. But the fighting? I think the worst is behind us."
Rus looked back down at the papers scattered across his desk. His pen was still resting where he'd left it, ink drying on the nib.
"I hope you're right," he said quietly.
Kilgore stood, straightening his coat. "I usually am. Unfortunately."
He started for the door, pausing just before stepping out. "Oh, and Lieutenant, get some rest tonight. You look like hell."
Rus gave a faint smirk. "Yes, sir."
When Kilgore was gone, the silence crept back in, heavier than before.
Rus stared at the half-finished report for a moment, then reached for the coffee. It was cold. He drank it anyway.
Outside, the bay lights flickered against the water, and the sound of engines rolled like distant thunder.
Maybe Kilgore was right. Maybe the fighting really was done. Maybe he'd finally get to finish his term without another shitshow
Maybe.
He set the cup down, reached for his pen, and went back to work.