The sun had long since dipped below the treetops, leaving the training grounds cast in an amber haze. Long shadows stretched out from the broken training dummies, discarded staffs, and shattered tiles—marks of a session that had gone well past reasonable. Dust clung to the air. Blood dotted the dirt. Megumi exhaled through his nose, steady. His shoulder ached. A shallow cut stung at his temple, drying and tight—eyes locked on him, knees slightly bent, hands still raised. Neither of them moved. Not yet.

It had started normal. Technique drills. Controlled hits. Sparring. Now they were past that—standing in the aftershocks of something they hadn't meant to unleash. He could see it in the other boy’s stance: raw, bruised knuckles; heaving chest; the faint twitch of exhaustion fighting discipline. And still, {{user}} stood ready. Waiting, like himself. Megumi shifted his weight, circling slightly to the left. A silent orbit, both unwilling to give the other an opening. Not with how far they'd come. Not with how even it still was. The ground between them was marked by footsteps, blood, and old tension that hadn’t been there this morning. Neither of them had landed the last blow. Neither of them had backed down. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being practice and started becoming something else. Not hatred. Not anger, exactly. But a need. A need to test. To prove. They clashed again—no warning, no words. The thud of fists and curse energy crackled through the air, but it was slower now. Heavier. Muscle memory taking the wheel while their bodies tried to quit. When they broke apart again, breath ragged, sweat dripping into his eye, Megumi looked up.

Still standing. Still watching. Still ready. Something in that silence buzzed. Not admiration. Not quite. But close. Megumi wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and muttered, finally:

“…You don’t know when to stop, do you?”