The bruises from the night before hadn't even had time to turn dark.
Leon was already back in the East Yard, barefoot. The morning dew soaked into his soles, biting cold. His shoulder still throbbed from Elric's final hit—clean, sharp, intentional. But pain didn't stop him anymore. It was just a part of the ritual now. A reminder that he was still here.
He drew a lazy line in the dirt with his toe. One stroke. Then another. A pivot.
He wasn't even fully conscious of it—his body was already mapping out footwork. Imagining opponents stepping in and falling before they even had the chance to strike.
"You're early."
Elric's voice came from behind—same gravelly tone, no surprise.
Leon didn't turn. "I never left," he replied.
There was silence, then the quiet clack of wood hitting earth. Elric stepped into view, carrying something wrapped in cloth.
