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. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic thud of wood moving through air.
Jin exhaled through his nose as the three-section staff curved wide in a controlled sweep. The chain links clinked faintly between segments, following his motion with practiced timing. His foot pivoted across the faded white line of the sparring ring. Another spin. A half-turn. A downward strike—
The hit landed wrong.
Not in aim or direction, but in something harder to name. It lacked weight. Purpose. Momentum.
He pulled the staff back, rolling his shoulders.
Then tried again.
Each movement flowed well enough—he wasn't sloppy—but even his own body could feel the hollow edge behind it. The strikes were clean, but not sharp. His motions smooth, but dulled. Mechanical. Rehearsed.
