Dean stretched his calves in the Soucrest Elite Agency yard, a large circular field positioned near the middle of the facility. Three trees sprouted up from the grass, the leaves brushing and pulling in the strong wind.

The air smelt foul and hazy due to the fires a week prior. Fortunately for Falcon Hill, the city is on track to recover in no time, a large part due to Ranun Spring. His efforts didn’t go unnoticed.

Dean idolized the Soucrest King, seeing more in him than his own father. As a prince, that was harsh criticism, but it was true. Reagle ruled with his fists while Ranun ruled with his heart. Reagle cared more about what his people could do for him, while Ranun cared only about what he could do for his people.

Luckily for the agents, the SEA building was located in the eastern district, out of the flame’s reach when the crews finally smothered them. Dean played around with his wooden blades—his actual blades were under repair, ruined entirely from his duel versus Symond Whyte, the Supreme Commander of Soucrest and now Dean’s agent-general.

The collisions of swords wouldn’t have been as damaging if they hadn’t dulled his blades prior, meaning they took heavy impact in a broader surface area, denting rather than chipping. They had to replace both blades.

Work had been fun at times and excruciatingly painful at others. Fighting Symond had been a whole lot easier than Mason, so much so that Dean couldn’t believe that it wasn’t Mason at the top of the food chain.

Mason Miraco stood across from Dean, practice sword sheathed around his waist, dulled for practice. According to the others, Mason had a Soulsmithed sword, though he wouldn’t admit to the team what his blade’s enchantment did. When Dean asked about it, he had replied, “I don’t even know how to begin explaining what my sword does.”

Symond granted Mason his very own rank in the military. Gold Officer Mason Miraco, a title unique to him. Ranks like those weren’t handed out easily, and being as young as Mason—only twenty-five years old—it said a lot about his ability. A promising warrior.

He had all the qualifications at first sight. A robust and broad build, but skinny and in good shape, almost like a younger Ranun Spring build. Two scars were on his right cheek, one a line bridging his eye to his ear, and the other a zigzag pointing from the meet of his lips.

Dean swung his two wooden swords around, spinning, testing his core. His excellent balance aided him in combat. Though, as of recently, Dean failed to score a single scrimmage victory against Mason, let alone most other agents.

Vason and Meek were tough to score a victory over. Two relatively identical fighters—practically twins—both fought a similar style to Dean, using a more balanced offset of Dean’s fighting type, Wind Form. Yet, when they dueled, Dean only won a third of the duels. All in all, Dean was more skilled, though it was their experience that defeated him.

The only one Dean could consistently beat was Kylo, though Wind Form countered Lightning Stance favorably. Wind Form utilized speed for both offense and defense, while Lightning Stance went all-in on offense, converting speed and strength into a deadly combo. At least, versus anyone without the same agility to counter. Still, facing Kylo wasn’t easy. For one thing, he was about as giant as Symond and perhaps even greater in strength. He used his fists instead of a blade, however. One hit by him, and Dean had to go home early.

But his opponent now, Mason, needed his undivided attention.

“Are you ready, Prince?” Mason grinned. He liked calling him Prince instead of his name, likely because it irked him.

Dean nodded. He had to focus. Pouting over name-calling was a petty distraction to the task at hand. “Ready.”

“Not so fast,” Mason said. “Listen, Prince, Symond is riding my ass about your… performance as of late.”

Dean frowned. “If he has a problem, have him fight me instead of you. What is he, afraid to lose?”

“Oh, so you think it’s that?” Mason bellowed a laugh. The Gold Officer wore leather with a steel chest plate and pads around his joints. Though it was gray and black in color, Mason only wore this suit for practice, with his real suit reserved like his Soulsmithed sword for actual combat. “Listen, I get it, you think you’re hot shit for standing ground against Symond. But you’re an agent now. And agents can’t get by with only marginal success versus certain fighters they have an advantage against.

“I’m a balanced fighter. Sun Stance, to be exact. I excel at fighting all forms, though I never have an advantage as great as you had when you were up against Symond. But where you practice in Wind, you fail to understand. The fact that you haven’t even beaten me once means you just aren’t good enough at your form to work in this agency. Things need to change, Dean. And fast.”

Dean sighed. “I’ll do better.”

“I hope so,” Mason said. He was a hardass when he needed to be. And his comments were fair, but Dean was adapting. He only needed time. “So, until you get where you need to be, we are going to start betting.”

“Betting? Betting what?”

“How about we have five duels this practice. If you can’t strike and beat me once, you owe me your wage for the day.”

“What?” Dean scoffed. “That’s insane!”

Mason grinned. “Symond figures you do well under pressure. What better way to apply such pressure than to wage a little money?”

“And I won’t owe you anything if I win at least once?”

Mason nodded, delighted that Dean was even considering his proposal. Something needed to change for the prince. As of right now, he didn’t fit in. He wasn’t “elite” enough for Symond’s agency.

“And if I hit you twice out of the five times?”

“I’ll give you my entire week’s wage.”

“And thrice?”

“An entire year’s wage,” Mason beamed a face that Dean wanted to tear down immediately after seeing the smug expression. He raised his steel practice sword—a hybrid model—up. Most hybrids were long blades with slightly longer hilts than one-handed swords, though not quite as large as two-handed swords. The idea was that the sword's weight would make it excellent to be used with either one or two hands proficiently. “Now come on. We don’t have all day.”

Dean smiled, though he was worried his wage for the day would be plundered. He brought out his swords to his sides, then crossed to point, moving forward. In dueling theory, Wind Form struck first in most duels. But Sun Stance usually defended the first strike well enough, leading to a stalemated clash.

A lot of Sun Stance dealt with stalemated clashes with superior endurance and perseverance, often prevailing on top. But if Dean could catch his stance off guard and overwhelm him with a speed-based attack, he could sneak in a strike

They clashed, Dean’s wooden swords striking the dulled edge of Mason’s blade. Wood on steel, shards of splintering oak exploded into the air. Dean pressed forward, trying to drive Mason backward, applying pressure while pulling back one of his swords to swipe underneath.

But Mason planted his feet diagonally on the floor, preventing both of Dean’s ideas by keeping himself posted. He pushed, launching Dean back before he charged himself. Mason swung over the top, aiming for the head, always proficient at using the extra length of his sword to his advantage, keeping Dean out of the equation. Like dueling Symond, Mason’s defense had been his offense.

Using his feet, Dean danced out of the way, resetting the fight. Mason stood, waiting for Dean to engage again.

Damn it, Dean thought. I’ll never win in a battle of endurance.

Dean dashed forward once again, engaging with one sword this time. Mason responded by clashing back, having Dean’s attack recoil. Immediately, Mason was already on the offensive. Dean stepped back—

No! Dean stopped himself. He couldn’t win this duel fighting this way. To beat Sun Stance, Dean had to learn how to play a little more balanced himself. He went for a stab—a little improper given his curved blades—demanding Mason either dodge or block. He chose neither, using the back of his sword to swipe his sword down. As Dean swung overhead with the sword from his offhand, Mason already swung, connecting with Dean’s chest.

Mason won the first point.

“Damn it!” Dean shrugged. Steel, even dulled, hurt.

Mason smiled. “That’s what I like to see!”

“What? Giving myself up like that?”

“No, no, Prince. Innovation. Trying something different. Practice is training. You’ve reached near your skill ceiling already with Wind Form. But take it from Meek or Vason, they are less talented than you, yet they’ve trained and trained, reaching limits you haven’t even yet scraped the surface of.”

Dean nodded. “I… think I understand.”

“I think you do too,” Mason smiled before laughing. “Gem God, finally! I almost thought you were hopeless, falling for my traps over and over again.”

“If it is so problematic, why haven’t you told me sooner?”

“You don’t tell your knife how you’re going to sharpen it. You just do it.” Mason grinned, playing with the hilt of his sword, orbiting around his body, the steel shining the sun that had only recently returned to Falcon Hill. He halted the blade, pointing. “Come.”

Three duels had passed by with the same result—Mason being victorious in all. In the middle of the fifth and final duel, Dean continued to experiment with his approach, rarely, if ever, resetting. While two of the contests so far had ended in seconds with his immediate failure, others lasted several minutes, much to Dean’s surprise.

Mason never held back, even when his purpose was to train Dean. He said that only in genuine combat could one reach their true potential. Well, Dean finally started to tap a better form of himself. But it needed work—a lot of it.

Dean swung in rapid succession, using a short distance flurry of blows, keeping himself on the offensive, attacking to defend, never allowing a stroke of Mason’s sword. He swung, Mason dodged under but met a slash from Dean’s off-hand sword. Little by little, Dean was learning how to push his attack, fighting to drive his way into winning instead of demanding a decisive blow off the start.

Mason smiled as Dean caught his sword. The Gold Officer forced his block a little harder, the wood of Dean’s sword shuddering on impact. Mason drove forward, now shifting the balance of the duel. The worst part about taking the more offensive approach was learning how to defend when they successfully pushed back. Dean didn’t know what to do when he lost his grasp on controlling the duel.

Whenever Mason had enough room to rewind his sword, he often hit hard, breaking any block Dean could manage to hold. Mason swung over the top, going down with terrifying momentum.

Jump back, Dean’s instincts demanded him to do. But, the whole point of this duel was to change his instincts. Dean paused, the blow coming straight down for his head. To defend against Mason, Dean needed both swords to protect himself. Two duels ago, the same attack broke through when Dean held his swords parallel but perpendicular to his lone blade. The strength of Mason’s attack had whipped Dean’s swords into his chest, breaking his block and winning Mason the duel.

This time, Dean planted his feet firm on the grass and decided on a different block approach. He crossed his swords, forming an x to catch Mason’s sword in the v shape at the top. The weight of the blow distributed into each arm, easing the tension, providing a successful block, achieved through technique rather than speed.

Dean and Mason shared a smile, though Mason didn’t let up. He pulled his sword out, swinging to the side this time. Dean tried blocking the same way, successfully halting his sword in its tracks. Dean stomped his left foot on the hard soil below, using it as leverage to lift his right foot to kick at Mason.

I have more weapons than my swords,

Mason ducked under, forcing himself into imbalance just to dodge Dean’s attack. He plopped to his back on the ground, barely escaping a swoop of Dean’s swords.

So close, Dean thought. Mason leaped back. All of that, and I failed to close the duel.

Mason grinned, pointing his sword again. Just when Dean tried his best not to reset the duel, the Gold Officer did it himself. Am I ever going to beat him?

Dean pressed on, continuing his attack as if they hadn’t reset at all. But the duel seemed to slip from him as Mason lifted his sword to attack again. Eager about testing his new block, Dean crossed his swords. As Mason dashed in, he shifted his sword, thrusting instead of swinging. Dean’s swords had no way of readjusting in time. He prayed he could lower them both in time, hoping he could catch the tip of Mason’s sword with the intersection of his swords.

But Mason blasted past, the tip of his dulled sword poked at Dean’s chest. The sharp pain knocked him back and off of his feet.

Dean tumbled to the floor, coughing with the loss of his breath. Gasping for air, he glanced up. Mason approached, lowering his hand. Dean accepted it, pulling himself up to stand.

“Damn it!” Dean spat at the ground. A hint of blood in his trace of saliva.

Mason grinned. “You’re doing better. You almost had me in that last one.”

“How do you want my wages? In coins or checks?”

“How about double or nothing tomorrow?” Mason suggested. Of course, he never intended on taking Dean’s wages. “I’ll cash in only when I think you are almost ready. Maybe I’ll wait for a year of your wages.”

“Haha,” Dean mockingly laughed. He smiled before erupting in a more genuine laugh. “Damn it!”

“You were better today,” Mason said. Together, they crossed to the tree nearest to the shade coming from the wall. He took a seat under the tree, opening the lid of a cooler, pulling out sandwiches from inside. He handed one to Dean. “You might just be worth keeping.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking and ripping the plastic seal off the sandwich. “I’m trying my best, you know.”

Mason lowered his brow, looking at him.

“I want to prove myself,” Dean explained, taking a small bite. After swallowing, he continued. “I’ve only practiced Wind Form for two years now.”

“Two years!” Mason gasped. Dean never saw him so surprised before. “I wasn’t impressed by you before, but I thought you have been practicing Wind Form your entire life.”

“Well,” Dean sighed. “My father forced me to learn Gold Form when I was little.”

“Gold Form?” Mason asked. Gold Form based itself on a single, one-handed sword. The idea was the wielder embraced death, instilling himself in total confidence. Every swing that came their way, Gold Form always defended and riposted, with sharp thrusting attacks that were hard to block. “That makes more sense for you. The Novac name embodied that form since the Zeroth King. But what made you turn to Wind Form?”

“Quin,” Dean said. “I was struggling to grasp Gold Form, despite my many years of effort. Then, I fell in love with a girl.”

“Oh!” Mason laughed.

“What?”

“Is it that girl who has been on our building, watching you practice?”

Dean grunted, looking to the roof, seeing her hair whip out of sight from the edge of the roof. “She’s been watching us? For how long?”

“Since your first days,” Mason chuckled. “I just thought it was a stalker peeking over on you. I caught her staring at you. Apparently, her eyes were so honed in on you, she didn’t spot me checking her out.”

Quin… Dean looked up to the clouds, eying the roof to see if she glanced over.

“Cute too, you struck gold—”

“Hey!” Dean slapped Mason on the chest.

“What?”

“Don’t call her cute in front of me?”

“Why? Don’t you think she’s cute? I was just stating the obvious—”

Dean’s glare shut him up.

Mason grinned. “Fine, sorry, didn’t mean anything by it.”

Dean sighed. Maybe I’m being too defensive.

“So she taught you how to fight?” Mason asked.

Dean nodded.

“Is she any good?”

“Better than me.”

Mason frowned. “Then why isn’t she here instead of you?”

Dean shrugged. “Well, it’s not that she doesn’t want to. She’s very protective. I’m sure she wants to join just so she could watch over me the entire. I’m very protective, too, however. If there’s one person in this world I wouldn’t let die, it’s her. I can’t risk her life, not when my father would kill her just to spite me.”

Mason frowned. “So, you don’t understand the severity of our job, do you?”

Dean tilted his head. “What?”

“That by becoming an agent, you must understand that death is a great possibility. Few agents live a full life, you know, and we’re long past due for another war. To be an agent is to accept an early death. You may understand that death is an option to you, and you may accept that. But I promise you; your girl will struggle far worse.”

Dean frowned.

“That’s why I think love is abysmal,” Mason grinned. “One cannot love in this world without feeling pain of equal value. If you’re okay being an agent, and if you’re okay being in love, then you’re among the insane.”

Dean frowned.

“I’m warning you, soldier,” Mason said, planting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Understand that by being an agent, you’re destined to hurt her. The pain of death is nothing compared to what you’ll put her through. I hope you understand.”

Dean nodded. “I… know.”

The Gold Officer finished his sandwich, pulling out two water bottles, giving one to Dean. “It’s not that I’m spiteful. I’ll have you know I once had somebody I loved.”

“And?”

“She was an agent like me,” Mason said. “She died next to me a few years back. It was supposed to be an easy job. Me and Meltine were guarding a prized caravan heading to Norcrest. On our way there, three dozen bandits in their forest ambushed us. The seven of us protecting it were enough to defend a force that big quite easily, given a fairer fight.”

Dean frowned.

“But they set up traps,” Mason shook, his grip on the plastic bottle of water tightened, and a few squirts burst out, landing on his lap. “Explosives, to be exact. Mines. She was in the front while I guarded the back. By the time the chaos ended and three dozen bandits were killed before us, I rushed to her.”

His eyes showed a cold, solemn stare. There was more to the Gold Officer than Dean once thought.

“She was missing half of her limbs, and blood pooled under her. I can still remember the sight to this day.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. He didn’t know what to say in a situation like this. All it did was make Dean worry. What if he died? What would happen to Quin? Would she be alright?

“If I could choose,” Mason started, pausing for a moment before finishing. “Between loving her or rather to have never loved her at all. I think I would be better off without the pain that came with those feelings, special as it felt.”

Dean frowned. “I can’t see myself even to fathom not loving her,” he said. “Even with the pain, knowing that my life was better the time she was here, I would never give those memories away. I’ll love her to my death and far past it.”

Mason smiled, though a little bit of sadness bled through. “Damn, lovebirds. She can come down here, you know. She doesn’t have to watch you from the rooftops.”

Dean almost drowned out all the surrounding noise, ignoring the Gold Officer. He felt his heart clench as he realized something. Dean didn’t want Quin to come down with him. If he brought her into this and she died…

Dean would have lost the most important person in the world to him. He didn’t want to involve her out of fear for himself. He’d rather die himself than bear that heavy pain.

“Let’s keep her out of this for now,” Dean eventually said, feeling more selfish than ever.