He was a fencer. A damn good one.

Not in the prodigy-who-won-nationals-at-12 kind of way, but in the relentless, grind-it-out, sweat-until-your-palms-bleed kind of way. University-level good. Olympic-team good. And that’s what he was working toward. The dream wasn’t whispered in childhood or forced on him by overzealous parents—it was something he decided on quietly, between bruises, early morning drills, and hours perfecting footwork that only fencers could appreciate.

He wasn’t the type to demand attention when he entered a room, but you noticed him eventually. Athletes usually did. His kind existed somewhere in the middle—too poised to be invisible, too focused to be a try-hard. If you had to categorize him, you’d say: athlete. Scholar. Good son. The kind of son that didn’t bring shame to a family with very specific standards about excellence. A family where “good” was never enough—it had to be exceptional.

Kumon? He still flinched hearing the name. Not because he hated math—he loved math, numbers calmed him. It was the never-ending nature of it that drove him insane. There was no reprieve from the lessons, from the drills, from the flashcards that seemed to multiply in his backpack like rabbits.

English enrichment programs. Czech grammar. Arabic poetry. Now French? His parents must’ve thought he’d end up as some multilingual diplomat when all he wanted to do was fence in peace. He didn’t resent the learning, not really—he liked knowing things. He just hated the feeling that everything he did was measured on a chart in some invisible family ledger.

But fencing? That was his. Not a legacy or a burden—just a thing that had started with his childhood best friend, Miles, dragging him along to class when they were seven. Miles had looked like a superhero to him back then, slicing through the air in his gear. He tried once, got wrecked, and asked to sign up anyway.

And here he was.

Today wasn’t a competition or anything dramatic—just a school-organized athletic retreat. His university had money, connections, and a sports program that could fund trips like this. That’s partly why he chose it. That, and the Olympic training opportunities it offered.

He wandered through the sleek retreat center with Miles, both of them still in damp shirts from an early morning scrimmage. That’s when they stumbled across the judo team in one of the indoor gyms. Grunts and slaps echoed off the walls, bodies colliding with brutal elegance. It looked cinematic—practiced and dangerous.

He stood at the threshold with Miles, both watching in silence as two students squared off. One of them was clearly special. The air changed when they moved. Even the coach’s gaze sharpened on them like a hawk. Controlled power, calculated steps, devastating throws—it was impossible not to be impressed.

He didn’t know their name yet.