CHAPTER 117: SKILL

The click of Mara’s apartment door shutting behind him was a small, insignificant sound. He didn’t linger in the building’s sterile hallway.

One moment he was there, the stale air tasting of city dust and old anxieties; the next, he stood in the cool, familiar stone passage of his castle. The shift was instantaneous, a ripple in reality only he perceived.

’A few days,’ Fin thought, the echo of Mara’s reluctant agreement still fresh. ’Too long. But necessary.’ The list was a risk for her, a certainty for him.

He pushed the image of Mara’s pale face and Juna’s knowing smirk from his mind. They were tools, distractions.

Sounds of combat drew him forward – the sharp ring of steel on steel, grunts of effort, the thud of feet on packed earth. He walked through the archway and into the bright sunlight of the training ground.

Arachne and Scarlet were sparring. They moved on from wooden practice weapons; real blades flashed between them now. Arachne, fluid and precise, her movements a deadly dance.

Scarlet, all aggressive power and fiery energy, her laughter sharp when she broke through Arachne’s guard. They were faster, stronger. The infusions were working.

His gaze swept past them, settling on a figure near the edge of the training area.

Meg.

She wasn’t just watching. She held a short, unadorned wooden staff, her knuckles white where she gripped it. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, sweat dampening her hair, sticking it to her temples.

She moved through a basic defensive stance, then a clumsy strike. It was awkward, unrefined, but her eyes blazed with a familiar, stubborn intensity.

Arachne disengaged from Scarlet with a swift parry and a spin that put her out of Scarlet’s range. She turned to Meg.

"Again. Lower your center. Don’t just swing, Meg, feel the balance." Her voice was patient, the tone of an instructor.

Meg nodded, breathing heavily, and reset her position. She tried the movement again. A little better.

Scarlet leaned on her sword, wiping her brow with the back of her gauntlet. "Keep at it, newbie," she called out, a grin in her voice. "You’re only slightly less dangerous to yourself than you were yesterday."

Fin watched, silent. Meg, with a staff in her hands. Training. A core of her own flickering within her.

’Good.’

A rare, faint sense of approval stirred within him. This was progress. This was survival. This was why he fought.

He stepped forward, the crunch of his boots on the gravel perimeter of the training ground finally drawing their attention.

Scarlet’s head snapped up, her grin widening. "Well, well. The king returns from his mysterious errands. Did you bring us any souvenirs, Boss?"

Arachne turned, inclining her head respectfully. "My Lord."

Meg paused mid-swing, the staff lowering slightly. She looked at him, a quick, tired smile flashing across her face before she straightened, her expression becoming serious again.

"Fin."

He nodded, a single, curt gesture. His gaze rested on Meg for a moment longer. The exhaustion was plain on her face, but beneath it, a new resilience. The faint white light of her core, almost invisible in the bright sun, pulsed steadily.

"You’re improving," he stated, his voice flat.

’A long way to go,’ he thought. ’But she’s started.’

Meg’s faint smile was enough. He turned his attention to the center of the training ground. Arachne and Scarlet were watching him, waiting.

"Keep training," he told them. "Meg, rest when you need to."

He walked past them, towards an empty section of the ground. He focused on mana control, on weapon manifestation, on brute force. But Jericho... Jericho had been fast, precise, his movements economical. Fin’s own fighting style felt raw, unrefined in comparison.

’Martial arts,’ he thought. ’Hand-to-hand. Unarmed.’ He’d seen Hunters use it, fluid and deadly. He relied on overwhelming power, on the artifact’s strange gifts. But power could be countered. Skill, true skill, was harder to overcome.

’How hard could it be?’

He settled into what he vaguely recalled as a basic fighting stance from some cheap instructional datapad he glanced at weeks back. Knees bent, hands up. It felt... awkward.

He threw a punch. Then a kick. Then a combination, trying to emulate movements he’d seen.

The result was not impressive.

His balance was off. His limbs felt gangly, uncoordinated. He stumbled on a poorly executed spin, nearly tripping over his own feet. He tried a high kick that went wide, throwing him off balance again.

He looked less like a dangerous Hunter and more like a particularly uncoordinated monkey flailing in a fit.

A snort came from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

Scarlet was openly grinning, her hand clamped over her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking.

"Nice moves, Boss! Very... interpretive."

Meg, sitting on the bench, had a hand over her mouth too, but her eyes were crinkled at the corners, a giggle escaping.

Even Arachne, ever stoic, had a faint smile playing on her lips. It was a small thing, barely there, but on her, it was the equivalent of roaring laughter. Her gaze held a rare flicker of amusement.

Fin stopped, lowering his hands. He felt a flush creep up his neck. It wasn’t anger. It was... embarrassment. A foreign, uncomfortable sensation.

’So, harder than it looks,’ he conceded internally, his earlier confidence deflating rapidly. He looked at his hands, then back at the laughing girls.

’Right. Not a natural, then.’

He ignored their amusement, or tried to. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and tried another sequence. A block, a low sweep. The sweep was too high, the block too slow. He felt like a child playing at war.

"Maybe stick to the glowing fists of doom?" Scarlet suggested, finally letting her laughter out. "It’s more your style."

Meg was trying to stifle her giggles behind her hand, but not very successfully. "Sorry, Fin," she managed, her voice thick with mirth. "It’s just... you’re usually so good at everything."

’Usually,’ he thought. The flush on his neck deepened. He wasn’t angry at them for laughing; he probably looked ridiculous. He was frustrated with himself. This was a weakness, a glaring one.

He let out a sigh, dropping his hands. This wasn’t working. He couldn’t teach himself something so complex just by wishing it. He needed guidance.

His gaze shifted to Arachne. She had mostly composed herself, the smile faded, but the hint of amusement still lingered in her eyes as she watched him. Her movements in combat were always precise, economical, deadly.

’She moves like water and shadow,’ he thought. ’If anyone can teach me, it’s her.’

He walked over to where she stood, the echo of Scarlet’s laughter still in the air. His usual confidence felt a little dented.

"Arachne," he began, his voice quieter than usual, the earlier flatness tinged with something else – a reluctant admission of need. He gestured vaguely back at the patch of ground where he’d been making a fool of himself.

"I... I need to learn this. Properly." He met her gaze, serious now. "You’re the most skilled fighter here in this way. Would you teach me?"

Arachne blinked, the last trace of amusement vanishing completely, replaced by her customary focused attention. A flicker of surprise, perhaps, at the directness and humility of the request. "My Lord?" she questioned softly, seeking confirmation.

"Martial arts," he clarified. "Unarmed combat. From the beginning." He looked at his own hands, then back at her. "What I was doing... that was useless."

A rare, almost imperceptible softening touched Arachne’s expression. "It would be an honor, my Lord," she said, bowing her head slightly. "But my style is... specific. Woven with my own abilities. It may not directly translate."

"The basics, then," he pressed. "Stance, balance, how to move. How to not look like..." he paused, a hint of self-deprecation touching his lips, "...that."

Scarlet sauntered over, wiping an imaginary tear. "Ooh, a private lesson from Spider-Lady? Can I watch? This is better than any trid-drama."

Arachne gave Scarlet a brief, cool glance before turning back to Fin.

"Very well. We begin with stance and balance," she stated, her voice all business now, but with an underlying current of dedication. "Everything flows from there."

She demonstrated a simple, low stance, her body perfectly aligned, rooted to the ground. "Like this. Feel your connection to the earth."

Fin mirrored her. It felt different now, with her direct instruction. Still awkward, but there was a sense of purpose to it, a logic he hadn’t grasped on his own.

’This is going to take a while,’ he thought, settling into the unfamiliar posture. The laughter had stung, but it also lit a fire under him. He would learn. He had to.