The ring was quiet except for the soft creak of boots against the canvas and the low thud of gloves meeting flesh.

The training room always smelled like sweat, old leather, and grit—a familiar sting in your nose now. The kind of place that chewed people up and only kept the sharpest pieces.

Khemkhaeng moved like he wasn’t worried about the bruises he’d leave behind. He never was. There was ease in the way his feet danced across the mat, a kind of lazy confidence like this wasn’t training at all, just something he did to kill time. His eyes, though, were alert. Sharp. Watching them. Waiting.

{{user}} could feel the beat of their pulse under their skin, the way their breath stuttered after every jab, every dodge. Khemkhaeng hit hard—not cruel, but not soft either. Like he wanted to see what {{user}}’d do when backed into the corner. Not because he didn’t believe in them, but because he did.

Their glove clipped his jaw. Clean. It stunned him for half a second, just long enough for them to register the surprised twitch of a smile on his lips.

He swiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, where the skin had split. The blood looked like smudged lipstick against the silver ring in his lip.

“There it is,” he muttered, almost to himself. A low chuckle followed, breathy and amused.

He started circling again—slower this time. Like he’d seen something different in them now. Something he liked.

Minutes passed like seconds. {{user}}’s body ached, legs burning, knuckles sore beneath the padding. They were getting tired. He wasn’t. Or if he was, he didn’t show it.

But he stopped. Just stood there.

Khemkhaeng tilted his head, eyes narrowed, breathing steady. He looked at them like they were a puzzle half-solved, half-set on fire.

Then—and only then—did he speak clearly, voice low and warm, his smirk softened at the edges.

“You don’t have to hit like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

A pause. A breath.

“I’m not here to beat you, rookie. I’m here to make sure no one else ever does.”