Those Who Ignore History

The way Ranah taught could only be described as chaotic brilliance—or erratic torment, depending on the hour.

There was no formal structure. No progression charts. No fixed syllabus. Just her voice, her shadow, and Starborn Finale endlessly spinning beside me like a summoned echo of my own indecision.

"Circle clockwise!" she barked, and I had to snap my fingers once to get Lumivis to obey.

"Now left drift. Then right. Faster."

Starborn Finale spun with a hum like a song half-remembered, skimming along the dirt and grass like a silver comet.

"Serrate the formation!"

I twisted my fingers in the air, giving the command through gestural shorthand. The Machina vibrated in place, rotating with jagged shifts like it was cutting an invisible pattern into the earth.

"Good," Ranah muttered, walking circles around me like a hawk evaluating prey. "Now reverse the spin and maintain line tension."

My hands moved automatically now. Every command ran through practiced channels—mind to gesture to motion. It was nearly meditative.

And that's when she struck.

"What do you want to do with your life?"

The question came like a thrown blade.

"What?"

"Answer."

"I—I don't know."

"Bad answer. Next question: What are your greatest fears?"

I hesitated, blinking.

"Losing control."

"Too vague. And wrong. You fear helplessness, not chaos. Chaos excites you."

I almost stumbled as I walked, the shift in gears from physical to philosophical nearly throwing me off balance. Lumivis jittered for half a second before re-stabilizing.

"Do you want children?"

"What?" I coughed.

"Too slow. You do. Or at least you want to want them."

She was relentless, each question tearing into personal corners I hadn't given conscious shape to. They weren't meant to be answered, not directly—they were meant to disrupt.

Then she asked:

"Who do you currently love out of your company?"

Everything stopped.

The words hung in the air like the scent of blood before a storm. I faltered. My hand lost its motion. Lumivis stuttered mid-spin.

And that's all she needed.

With a swift step forward and a sudden shove, she knocked me clean off my feet. I landed with a grunt, grass catching in my shirt, dignity left somewhere above me.

Ranah loomed over me, hands on hips, her silver braid swinging like a pendulum of judgment.

"Focus, Alexander." Her tone was still playful—but behind it, firm, rooted, knowing. "You're great at splitting your focus across multiple threads. It's one of your best traits. But the moment a question tugs at your heart, you overthink. You get lost in it. Your feet lose the rhythm. Your mind collapses the hierarchy."

I grumbled but said nothing, still lying in the grass, staring up at her with a faint scowl. She leaned over me with a pout, her face now blocking the sun.

"And ignoring all of my questions is rude," she added with mock insult. "I expect at least a little honesty when I'm giving you this much free labor."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're being manipulative."

"I'm being effective," she replied.

"And nosey."

"Also true. But effective."

I sighed, pushing myself up slowly. Every muscle ached from the drills. My shoulders screamed. My hips were still sore from the earlier blow. But I sat, resting my arms on my knees.

"You don't ask those kinds of questions in the middle of combat training."

"That's the only time to ask them," she said. "Because it's when you're unguarded. In real fights, emotion doesn't wait for permission. That's why I keep throwing them at you—so you'll learn to fight through them. Not around them. Not by ignoring them. But through them."

She sat down across from me, arms resting on her knees, eyes calm now. No more grin. No mischief. Just something closer to concern—or was it understanding?

"You're a Walker," she said simply. "You don't get the luxury of separating your heart from your weapon. One always bleeds into the other."

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Silence fell between us.

The wind tugged at the tall grass around the estate fields. Starborn Finale continued to spin slowly a few feet away, loyal and quiet.

"Who do you love, then?" she asked again, softly now.

I closed my eyes.

Names fluttered across my mind like pages flipping in a storm: Cordelia's quiet intensity. Ten's reckless loyalty. V's unknowable presence. Fractal's shimmering innocence. Too many to name. Too many feelings to sort.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Or maybe… I'm afraid to know."

Ranah didn't reply for a while. Then she said, "Good answer."

She rose, brushing off her trousers. "Come on. We've got another hour before the sheep need tending again. Let's make it count."

I stood too, slowly. My legs trembled from exertion, but the weight in my chest felt just a little lighter. I looked at Starborn Finale, still spinning patiently, its golden trails catching in the evening light.

"Ranah?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you do this?"

She paused, turning slightly.

"Because you're worth it," she said, voice suddenly sincere. "You're broken, yes. But you're trying. And trying matters."

She smiled, a bit sheepishly. "Also, I like watching you fall over when I ask hard questions. It's kind of adorable."

I groaned and summoned Starborn Finale closer, using it to lean on like a cane.

"Let's train," I said, trying to smother the blush threatening to creep onto my face.

"Good. Because tomorrow, I'm adding mounted drills."

"Wait. On what mount?"

"Whichever one doesn't buck you off first," she said, already walking ahead, laughter in her voice.

I groaned again. Loudly this time.

But I followed.

***

Ranah led me through the eastern training yard. Beyond the fields and livestock, nestled against the slope of the hill, Temptation waited.

Today, he wasn't a child or an elder. Instead, he had taken on a more adult form—middle-aged, perhaps in his late forties. His goatee was peppered with strands of gray, giving him a certain distinguished severity. The hair atop his head was immaculately groomed, slicked back with the precision of a man who didn't allow chaos to cling to him.

He wore a sleeveless coat over reinforced sparring leathers, elegant in design but unmistakably practical. When his gaze fell on me, there was something both familiar and alien in it—like meeting a stranger who knew all your secrets.

"Alexander," he said, with no preamble. "Tell me. When the bow fails you, what do you reach for?"

No warmth. No indulgent tone. Just a hard question, shaped like steel.

I paused, glancing down at my side, where the enchanted sash from Celeste hung coiled. It shimmered faintly with pale enchantment, almost like moonlight caught in silk.

"I have this," I said, unclasping the sash and letting it uncoil slightly between my fingers. "It functions like a meteor hammer. Weighted, flexible, capable of wide arcs. While mounted, I could land a hit—or five. The inertia alone would stagger most Others."

Temptation watched me with eyes that didn't blink often.

"Flexible weapons have their place," he said. "But their unpredictability can be as dangerous to the wielder as it is to the enemy. What about something rigid? Something to ground you when you must fight on the earth or dive from your mount?"

I hesitated.

"I… haven't decided."

He turned and walked to a nearby rack of weaponry—a mix of traditional and exotic arms gleaming in the sun—and pulled free a short, brutal-looking axe. The head was wedge-shaped, broad and thick, clearly made for smashing rather than elegance.

"Try this," he said, offering it handle-first. "Cavalry axe. Short range. Dense impact. When your future griffin dives, it'll carry the momentum. You swing mid-fall, and their flank turns to red ruin. Not a refined weapon—but useful. Still takes edge alignment. Miss the mark, though, and they just get a good bruising from the shaft."

I took it. The grip was sturdy, wrapped in worn hide, familiar enough.

I swung once.

Then twice.

A third time, slower.

It felt... off.

I frowned, turning it in my grip. "Shouldn't the weight be at the head?"

Temptation gave a curt nod. "It should be. But this one is balanced differently. See how it dips under your swing? That's deliberate. It draws low and fast. Slides beneath shields. And the grip's enchanted—it partially bonds to your palm. It won't fly out unless your body tries to abandon it. Only when it sinks into something and your instinct pulls to reclaim it will it let go."

I tried again, slower this time. The balance was… unusual. Not wrong, but not intuitive either. Like dancing to a rhythm I hadn't learned yet.

I shook my head. "It's not bad. Just feels... not mine."

"Then it probably isn't," Temptation said simply, taking the axe back without judgment. "Every warrior has their weapon. One that speaks to the way they move. Their instinct. Their rhythm. Yours hasn't spoken yet."

He turned again, selecting something longer this time. When he handed it to me, it gleamed with a subtle violet hue under the daylight.

"What is this?"

The blade was long—almost absurdly so. Slightly curved, single-edged, with a hilt designed for two hands. Its length bordered between a sword and a whisper of legend.

"An odachi," Temptation replied. "Typically not used by cavalry, but... you're not typical."

I ran my hand along the dull edge, feeling the slight undulation of the hamon, the temper line along the steel.

"It's beautiful," I murmured.

"Deadly, if used right," he said. "Picture this: You run out of arrows mid-flight. The Others surge beneath you. You leap from your griffin. Wind screams past you. And as gravity carries you down like a hammer of judgment, you bring this blade down into the neck of something that should not exist. It severs clean. Their scream cuts short. You wrench the sword free. Their blood paints the battlefield like a promise."

He wasn't being poetic.

He was being honest.

My pulse quickened.

I swung the odachi once—wide, slow. It pulled against me, heavy at first, but the momentum carried the blade fluidly.

The second swing was easier.

The third felt like a statement.

This sword—this felt closer to me. Dramatic. Dangerous. Capable of devastation, but demanding discipline. It didn't forgive mistakes, but it offered power in return for control.

"I could use this," I said, more to myself than to them.

Temptation's eyes narrowed, satisfied. "You could. But we'll see if it likes you back."

I turned to see Ranah watching from behind a nearby post, arms folded, expression unreadable.

"I thought you said this was weapon evaluation," I said to her.

"It is," she replied. "But it's also soul evaluation. Every weapon Temptation hands you reflects part of how you see yourself."

I blinked. "So what does this say about me?"

"That you want to control the fall," she said, then pushed off the post and walked away.

I looked back down at the odachi in my hands.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I didn't just want to survive the descent. Maybe I wanted to turn it into an attack—into meaning. Not to resist falling, but to own it. To descend with purpose.

Temptation reached for another weapon behind me.

"Now," he said, "let's see how you handle someone trying to take that sword away from you."

And just like that, training resumed—no end in sight.