Aldrich squared off with his ghost clone again, its eyes identical to his. It was sharp, unblinking, and unreadable. They moved like reflections in a cracked mirror, fists slicing air with the speed and precision of seasoned killers. Each blow came fast, and each counter met it with equal force. The sound of fists striking palms echoed like gunshots muffled in cotton. Kicks came next, cutting arcs through the dusty dojo air like coiled steel springs unleashed.
The clone parried everything. Of course it did. It wasn't just any sparring partner. It was him. Every move, every rhythm, every instinct, it matched him blow for blow. He was sparring against himself. The part of him that never flinched. The part that didn't question or hesitate.
Sweat slid down Aldrich's brow, stinging his eyes. The rest of the dojo became noise behind a fog. The thud of feet. The groan of strained mats. His breathing was heavy and syncopated. None of it mattered.
He broke off, panting slightly, and crossed to the dojo's weapon rack, a battered stand holding dulled blades, sticks, and worn practice swords. His hand hovered only a moment before reaching for the sleek katana. It wasn't real steel, but its balance was right, the weight perfect.
He slid into stance. The clone responded in kind, mirrored grace and stillness, until their feet shifted, and the clash resumed. The swords cracked like whips, echoing louder than before. His blade became an extension of his will, an idea made manifest through decades of discipline.
And then the dojo's doors blew open with a crash.
The sound cleaved through the spar like thunder.
A squad of Red Core combatants stormed in, six of them, all armed to the teeth, rifles at the ready. Their crimson armor gleamed like fresh blood, their boots thudding against concrete like war drums. The energy in the room collapsed. All movement ceased. The fighters around Aldrich froze, instinctively drawing toward one another like prey sensing a predator. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was worse. Resentment.
The lead Red Core stepped forward, his helmet retracting with a subtle hiss, revealing a face too sharp, too clean, too smug to belong here. Blonde hair slicked back with precision. Eyes cold and blue, like ice under moonlight. A trimmed beard framed his jaw like it had been carved by razors.
"We're looking for Benson Brandy," the man growled, his voice dragging gravel behind every syllable.
Aldrich felt something twist in his chest. The name. It struck like an old bruise being pressed too hard. He lowered the katana slowly and moved toward the gathering of fighters forming a loose barrier.
"I won't ask again," the man barked, sweeping the room with his gaze. "Which one of you is Benson Brandy?"
Tension crackled like lightning.
"Easy," Herman said, stepping forward with a lazy smile. "No Benson Brandy here. Just humble fists and mats." He threw a glance back at the others. A few shrugs. A few nervous chuckles. All said nothing.
The Red Core's gaze narrowed. "Our intel says he's a fighter here. He's here now."
"Then your intel needs to lay off the ale," Herman replied, still smiling, though his stance had shifted, casual on the outside, braced beneath.
The man surged forward and stopped just shy of Herman's face. "You think this is a game, boy?" His breath stank of recycled air and authority. "Bring him forward, or I drag you all in and let the mines sort you out."
"Enough!" a voice rang from the crowd. Soft, but clear.
Everyone turned.
A lean boy stepped forward, barely seventeen, with tired eyes and wiry limbs. His hair was too long. His jaw, too tight. He walked like someone who had just stopped running.
"I'm Benson Brandy," he said, bitter resignation clinging to every word.
"No, Beebee," Herman began, but Benson threw him a glance and kept walking.
"You really think I'll let you all suffer for me?" he said, hand resting briefly on Herman's shoulder before stepping toward the soldiers.
Lucius, the blonde Red Core, didn't even blink. He drove the butt of his rifle straight into Benson's gut.
The boy crumpled with a gasp, coughing on the floor. Lucius crouched down, sneering. "Skipping your first day at the quarry, huh? That's a bold strategy, rat."
Herman lurched forward. "You.."
But Aldrich was faster.
Before Lucius could rise, the dull blade of Aldrich's katana slid up beneath his chin, just resting just against the soft spot under his jaw.
The Red Core squad reacted instantly, rifles trained on Aldrich, red lights blinking like hungry eyes.
"You got a death wish?" Lucius asked, his voice sharp now.
"Not today," Aldrich replied, voice cold. "Just tired of hearing your voice."
Lucius smiled with his teeth. "You threaten me with a toy sword?"
"Wanna bet your life it's just a toy?"
Lucius's smile faltered.
Behind him, one of the Red Cores twitched. "Let me put a hole in him, Lucius. Right now."
"Hold," Lucius snapped, lifting one hand. "You've got guts, kid. But without a combat core, you're meat. You know that? I could take a blast from a street tank and still walk."
Aldrich's eyes didn't waver.
Lucius blinked. For a brief second, doubt crept in. He wondered what made the boy so confident.
And then…
"Well, damn. It's lively in here today."
All heads turned.
A man strolled in through the open doors, kimono flapping loosely, a straw hat pulled low over his face. At his side, a woman in black leather paced like a shadow. She was calm, beautiful, and lethal.
Master Veltroch and Julia.
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
The man didn't slow. "Veltroch. I own this dojo. That means you are on my mat, uninvited."
He plopped onto a stool, pulled out a fat cigar, and lit it with the spark of his thumbnail. "So, tell me. You planning to join my dojo, or are you just here to piss on my floor?"
Lucius sneered. "You teach mouthiness here?"
"I teach strength," Veltroch said. "But I let my students figure out when to use them."
He nodded toward Aldrich. "Put the blade down, kid."
Aldrich hesitated, watching Lucius for any twitch, but finally lowered the katana.
Lucius straightened, dragging Benson upright. "Doesn't matter. He threatened a soldier. That's a crime."
Veltroch puffed calmly. "With a prop blade. What's next? You gonna arrest toddlers with sticks?"
Lucius fumed, words failing him. He turned on his heel, motioning for his men to move out.
"Soldier," Veltroch called, tapping ash from his cigar. "Tell Commander Astrolak I said hello."
Lucius froze mid-step. The name hit him like a punch. He blinked, jaw tight.
Veltroch waved lazily. "And if that boy you're hauling comes back missing a tooth, I'll take that as a personal offense."
Lucius gave a jerky nod. "Y-yes, sir."
And just like that, the Red Cores vanished into the smog, Benson stumbling behind them.
The moment they were gone, the dojo erupted with murmurs and curses. Aldrich just stared at the door, his heart still thudding.
He had a year left. Maybe less. Then it would be his turn to march out that door, but not to training, not to opportunity. To a quarry. A grave without dirt.
"Aldrich. Herman. My office. Now!"
Veltroch's bark cracked the air.
Aldrich's stomach twisted. He knew what was coming.
He followed Herman across the dojo, past the cracked stone tiles, and into the one room in the whole Lowlands that actually looked like it belonged in the Highlands.
Veltroch's office was a tidy chaos. Martial books jammed the walls, scrolls stuffed into baskets, ancient trophies hanging off rusted hooks. The floor was carpeted in thick woven rugs, a soft hum coming from two seat-floaters hovering low near the desk.
Julia moved to one and sat with a stiff grace.
Veltroch didn't bother. He dropped into his metal chair, the frame creaking under his weight. A cleaning droid zipped past behind him, disappearing into the kitchenette.
Herman tried first. "Master, listen.."
"Fools!" Veltroch snapped. "You think standing off with Red Cores is some kind of game?"
Aldrich said nothing. Just stared at the fibers of the rug like it held secrets.
"You, Aldrich," Veltroch growled. "You're supposed to be the smart one."
"I'm sorry, Master," Aldrich muttered.
"Sorry doesn't cut it. You risked your life."
"I'll do better," Aldrich said.
Veltroch sighed and leaned back. "The trial's tomorrow."
He turned to Julia. "List?"
She pulled a folded sheet from her pocket and handed it over.
"Twenty-five from our dojo this year," she said, voice as flat as stone.
Aldrich's eyes flicked to her. She was still stunning over time. He remembered when they all trained together. When she laughed. When she looked at him.
Now she didn't.
Not even once.
But none of that mattered. Not compared to what waited tomorrow.
The trial wasn't just a test.
It was his only way out of here, and to the highlands.
And his last chance to find out who his father really was, and what happened to him.