The next day came too quickly.
Their bodies still ached from the previous training, but none of them complained this time.
By the time they arrived, Tongen was already waiting.
Arms folded.
Watching.
⸻
"You're late," he said.
They weren't.
But none of them argued.
The three of them stood in a loose line, still rolling out the stiffness in their shoulders, still carrying yesterday's bruises like quiet reminders. Jelo's ribs ached with every breath he drew in too deep. Atlas had tape wrapped around two fingers on his left hand—a small, personal admission that he'd landed wrong on something yesterday and hadn't mentioned it. Mira stood the straightest of them, posture clean, expression composed, though anyone paying attention could see the way she'd shifted her weight slightly off her left ankle.
None of that mattered here.
They'd learned that much already.
⸻
"Today," Tongen continued, "we remove your biggest weakness."
Atlas frowned.
"…Which one?"
"All of them."
⸻
