For Reikika, the next two years did not blur.
They stacked.
Every day laid itself carefully atop the previous one, like stones placed by a patient hand. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was accidental. Where Midarion's time dissolved into silence and seasons, hers was carved into hours, bells, schedules, and bruises that followed rules.
The Black Post did not sleep, and neither did her training.
Ren woke her before dawn. Not with kindness, not with shouting—just presence. He would stand at the foot of her cot until her breath shifted, until instinct pulled her awake. Sometimes she startled. Sometimes she didn't. Either way, he turned and walked, already expecting her to follow.
They trained indoors more often than not. Stone halls. Iron yards. Narrow corridors where footwork mattered more than reach. Ren believed terrain should be mastered before it was indulged. Forests and jungles taught habits. Stone revealed mistakes.
Her mornings began with stamina. Not running for distance, but for control. Up stairwells with weighted packs. Down again. Holding stances until her legs shook—not to break her, but to teach her exactly where breaking began. Ren counted nothing aloud. Reikika learned to count on her own, marking time by breath and heartbeat.
Her Kosmo training followed.
Unlike Midarion, her Kosmo had never been silent. It responded the first time Ren demanded it, flaring instinctively around her like a startled animal. That did not impress him.
"Unrefined," he said, watching it ripple. "Loud. Wasteful."
He showed her what restraint looked like by doing nothing at all. His presence alone pressed against her senses, immense and unyielding. Standing near him felt like being next to a mountain that could decide to move.
They sparred often.
Always with wooden blades. Always controlled. And always humiliating.
No matter how quickly she adapted, how clean her footwork became, how sharp her instincts grew—Ren never exerted himself. He corrected her mid-strike. Stopped her blade with two fingers. Stepped inside her guard without effort.
She felt like an insect next to him.
Not because she was weak.
But because the gap was endless.
Each time she thought she had closed it, he proved she hadn't even measured it correctly. And yet—he never mocked her. Never raised his voice. He simply repeated movements until they became hers, then broke them apart again.
"Talent gives you access," he told her once, parrying her strike without looking. "Discipline decides how far you walk."
She held onto that sentence.
Afternoons belonged to Selina.
After kitchen duty—scrubbing pots, chopping roots, hauling water—Reikika sat at a long wooden table with ink-stained fingers and aching shoulders. Selina insisted on teaching her personally. Not delegating. Not shortening sessions.
Every day.
Letters first. Numbers soon after. Words followed quickly.
Reikika learned fast. Faster than Selina expected. She saw patterns. Structures. The way symbols locked together to make meaning. It felt like learning a different kind of blade—one that cut confusion instead of flesh.
Selina watched her closely during those lessons.
At first, there was pride. Open, radiant, almost unguarded. She praised her openly, sometimes forgetting herself. Then, gradually, pride sharpened into something else. Worry. Calculation. Silence where encouragement used to be.
Reikika noticed.
She didn't ask.
Evenings brought exhaustion. Sometimes tears she didn't understand. Other times laughter she couldn't stop, usually over something trivial—Ren misusing a word, Selina pretending not to notice spilled ink, the way the Black Post always smelled faintly of smoke and old steel.
At night, she thought of Midarion.
Not constantly. Not painfully.
Just… steadily.
She wondered if he was warm. If he was eating enough. If he still smiled the same way when he thought no one was watching. The thought no longer hurt. It motivated her.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Ren began assigning missions.
E-rank. Always in groups. Always supervised at first.
She watched more than she fought. Learned positioning. Learned restraint. Learned when not to draw her blade. Her Kosmo flowed more quietly now, woven into movement instead of spilling outward.
She succeeded. Every time.
Too consistently.
Ren noticed.
So did Selina.
The day Ren invited her on one of his missions, he didn't frame it as a reward.
"You are ready to see consequences," he said.
The mission was simple. Escort. Containment. No heroics.
It was also terrifying.
Ren moved differently outside the Post. Sharper. Colder. Violence clung to him like a shadow. Reikika did not try to imitate him. She focused on breathing. On footwork. On doing exactly what was required and nothing more.
She returned shaken.
But intact.
From then on, she accompanied him more often. Still not to the most dangerous places. Still not alone. But closer. Always closer.
Her swordsmanship sharpened into something efficient. Grace remained—but now it cut. She stopped apologizing when she moved faster than others. Stopped hesitating when orders were clear.
Selina watched this change with tightening hands.
One evening, after Reikika returned from a mission with dried blood on her sleeve—not hers—Selina reached out to brush it away. Then stopped.
Reikika noticed that too.
"I'm okay," she said gently.
Selina nodded.
But fear had already taken root.
The final mission of the year was not special. Not grand. Just another return through the gates at dusk. Reikika was tired. Her clothes were torn. There was a shallow cut along her arm, already bandaged.
She stood straight anyway.
Calm. Grounded.
Selina met her at the entrance and realized, with a quiet ache, that the girl no longer needed to be shielded.
Not from the world.
Not from herself.
Steel had learned to breathe.
And it would not wait.