Royushi Kairo failed three drills before breakfast.

He failed the balance test by stepping half a second too late.

He failed the circulation check by stabilizing too well and then deliberately breaking rhythm.

He failed the reaction course by tripping over absolutely nothing.

The instructor stared at him.

Royushi stared back.

“…You tripped,” the instructor said slowly.

“Yes,” Royushi replied.

“There was nothing there.”

“I know.”

The instructor pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know this is a graded evaluation.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re aware your performance yesterday attracted attention.”

“Yes.”

“And this,” the instructor gestured vaguely at Royushi’s feet, “is how you follow that up?”

Royushi considered lying.

“I’m experimenting,” he said instead.

The instructor blinked. “With gravity?”

“Yes.”

The instructor wrote something on the datapad that looked suspiciously like a complaint.

“Next station,” he said flatly.

Royushi walked away, shoulders relaxed, heart pounding.

Good, he thought.

Very good.

Echo appeared an hour later.

Not dramatically. Not fully.

Just a partial projection hovering near the ceiling of an empty corridor, like a glitch someone hadn’t bothered fixing.

“You overdid the tripping,” Rikishu said.

Royushi didn’t look up. “I thought it sold the act.”

“You tripped like someone who wanted to be noticed for tripping.”

“That’s… fair.”

Rikishu folded his arms. “Inconsistency means believable incompetence. You can’t fail with intent.”

Royushi frowned. “That sounds contradictory.”

“It is,” Rikishu replied calmly. “Get used to it.”

Royushi leaned against the wall. “So what’s the ideal failure ratio?”

Rikishu paused.

“…That was a joke,” Royushi added quickly.

“I know,” Rikishu said. “I’m deciding whether to answer anyway.”

Royushi waited.

“Thirty percent,” Rikishu said finally.

Royushi blinked. “You just made that up.”

“Yes.”

“That feels irresponsible.”

“Most effective things are.”

By midday, Royushi had failed enough to calm the Citadel.

Not reassure it.

Not convince it.

Just… confuse it.

Which, according to Echo, was the point.

He lost a sparring match against a loud, overconfident second-year who burned half his Shuryoku reserves in the first thirty seconds. Royushi blocked efficiently for exactly twelve seconds too long, then mistimed a deflection and got knocked flat.

The second-year celebrated.

Royushi stayed on the floor longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling.

Ow, he thought distantly.

Worth it.

“Are you okay?”

He rolled his head slightly.

Ishara stood above him, hand extended.

He took it without thinking.

She pulled him up with controlled strength, eyes searching his face.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” she said.

Royushi sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“That was optimistic.”

They stepped aside as the next pair took the floor.

“You didn’t do this yesterday,” Ishara continued. “Yesterday you were… consistent.”

“That’s the problem.”

She studied him. “You’re deliberately underperforming.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Royushi hesitated.

Because the truth sounded insane.

Because a dead legend is training me through a hologram wasn’t exactly casual conversation.

“I don’t want attention,” he said instead.

Ishara raised an eyebrow. “Then you chose the wrong academy.”

“That’s also fair.”

Her lips twitched despite herself.

“Royushi,” she said, more quietly now, “people are already watching you. Failing won’t stop that.”

“It might,” he replied. “If I fail weirdly enough.”

She stared at him.

“…You’re exhausting,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied sincerely.

That earned him a flat look.

That afternoon, the Citadel reviewed footage.

Not openly.

Not officially.

But eyes lingered longer on Royushi’s file.

High latent potential.

Erratic output.

Unstable behavior.

One analyst frowned at the screen.

“He doesn’t match any known growth curve.”

Another leaned back. “Or he’s gaming the system.”

“Why would someone do that?”

The analyst shrugged. “Some people don’t want to be seen.”

The room fell quiet.

Royushi felt the pressure before he heard the voice.

“Stop smiling.”

He wiped his face. “I wasn’t smiling.”

“You were internally satisfied,” Rikishu said.

Royushi shrugged. “It’s been a productive day.”

“You failed too cleanly in the second spar,” Rikishu said. “And too sloppily in the third.”

Royushi groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes.”

They stood in a secluded training chamber, lights dimmed, walls humming softly. Royushi sat cross-legged on the floor while Rikishu hovered opposite him, more stable than earlier.

“Today,” Rikishu said, “we introduce stress.”

Royushi tensed. “Physical?”

“Mental.”

“That’s worse.”

“Correct.”

Rikishu gestured. “Circulate.”

Royushi inhaled.

The faint current stirred.

“Now,” Rikishu continued, “hold circulation while recalling something you avoided.”

Royushi’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t—”

“Choose,” Rikishu said calmly.

Royushi swallowed.

A memory surfaced unbidden.

A competition he never entered.

A conversation he never started.

A moment where he could have stepped forward… and didn’t.

His breath faltered.

Circulation wavered.

Pain flared—not sharp, but heavy.

“Good,” Rikishu said. “You’re leaking.”

Royushi clenched his fists. “That doesn’t feel good.”

“No,” Rikishu agreed. “It feels honest.”

The pressure intensified.

Royushi fought the instinct to shut down, to seal everything away again.

Stay, he told himself.

Just stay.

The current stabilized.

Barely.

Rikishu nodded. “That’s enough.”

Royushi collapsed backward, staring at the ceiling.

“Why does it always feel like you’re disappointed in me?” he muttered.

Rikishu considered the question.

“I’m not,” he said finally. “I’m cautious.”

“About what?”

“About liking your progress.”

Royushi frowned. “Why?”

“Because,” Rikishu said quietly, “liking things makes people reckless.”

That night, Ishara found Royushi on the Citadel balcony.

He sat on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, city lights far below. Wind tugged at his uniform.

“You’re going to fall,” she said.

“Eventually,” he replied. “Probably not tonight.”

She sighed and sat beside him.

They watched the lights for a while.

“You don’t talk much,” Ishara said eventually.

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

“And is there something now?”

Royushi hesitated.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m not sure I should.”

She looked at him. “Try.”

He exhaled slowly. “Do you ever feel like trying makes things worse?”

She considered that.

“No,” she said. “I feel like not trying makes regret quieter—but heavier.”

He glanced at her.

She met his gaze.

“For what it’s worth,” she added, “whatever you’re doing… it’s not cowardice.”

“That’s comforting,” he said. “I think.”

She smirked. “It’s an observation, not encouragement.”

Far away, where space bent around a structure that did not exist on any map, Sevran Axiom stood alone.

The air around him vibrated with controlled Shuryoku, condensed to a degree that would have crushed most bodies.

He listened.

Not with ears.

With intent.

There it was again.

A fluctuation.

Inconsistent.

Suppressed.

Deliberately wrong.

His lips curved faintly.

“Rikishu,” he murmured. “You’re still teaching.”

The pressure shifted.

“And you chose someone who doesn’t want to be chosen.”

He stepped forward, presence unfolding.

“That,” Sevran Axiom said softly,

“is new.”

Royushi lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.

His body ached.

His mind refused to settle.

For the first time, effort hadn’t just scared him.

It had started to feel… meaningful.

That frightened him more than any enemy ever could.

And somewhere beyond the Citadel’s walls, beyond distance, beyond certainty—

Echo watched.

Waiting.