I Choose the Skills Everyone Else Rejects

Pain filled Rovan’s shoulder.

His right hand stopped responding.

The trapped energy remained beneath the joint, pressing into a pathway that had not opened far enough to carry it. Rovan tried to pull the circulation back toward his Core.

Nothing moved.

The pressure spread down his arm.

A warning band flashed around his wrist, but Rovan shifted his shoulder and forced the energy forward again.

Something tore beneath the bone.

His arm struck the floor.

The training room changed.

Rovan stood in the same place with his shoulder wrapped and two fingers held inside a brace. He used less energy this time. When it began gathering, he adjusted his stance and released it before the pressure became dangerous.

Another attempt followed.

Then another.

The bandages changed. The pain moved. Each failure reached slightly farther along the unfinished route.

Rovan altered the angle of his hip, the turn of his spine, and the timing of his breath. He never repeated an attempt exactly. When energy gathered in one place, he changed the movement carrying it there.

Eventually, the thread passed through his legs and crossed his torso.

It reached the shoulder.

Rovan exhaled and allowed the joint to move instead of holding it rigid.

The energy curved around the blockage.

For a moment, the Core felt close.

Then the route collapsed.

Rovan hit the floor.

Nate returned to his room with his right arm hanging uselessly beside him.

He stared at his hand.

His fingers moved when he told them to, but the sensation came slowly, followed by a sharp tingling beneath the skin.

The pain faded with the Echo.

His fear did not.

Nate sat on the edge of the bed until he trusted his arm again.

Posthumous Disciple had given him Rovan’s experience. He remembered how each failure felt and which corrections had carried the energy farther.

Remembering was not the same as doing it.

His academy card showed two missed messages.

Where did you go?

The second had arrived twenty minutes later.

We’re eating in the south hall. Come if you’re awake.

Nate looked at the space he had cleared between the beds.

He told Ethan that he had fallen asleep.

Then he went downstairs before the kitchens closed.

The physician scanned him three mornings later.

Most of the bruising around his ribs had faded. His wrist had recovered, and the swelling in his knee had reduced enough that walking no longer hurt.

The physician rotated the scan around his leg.

"Any circulation practice since the attack?"

Nate looked at the pale lines representing his pathways.

"No."

"Any numbness, burning, or pressure around the joints?"

"No."

She examined the ankle more closely.

Nate kept his breathing even.

The previous night, energy had gathered there long enough to leave the joint warm for almost an hour. Nothing appeared on the scan.

The physician removed his medical restriction.

"You’re cleared for reduced physical load. Stop if the knee swells again."

"When can I join Combat Four?"

"Today."

The grey band remained around his wrist.

The physician glanced at it.

"I can clear your body. The investigation is someone else’s problem."

Marshal Holt still had not regained consciousness.

Without her statement, Nate’s administrative review remained open.

He thanked the physician and left.

His delayed baseline began that afternoon.

The instructor measured his endurance, balance, and circulation response while two assistants recorded the results.

Nate performed badly during the distance run. His lungs had recovered faster than the rest of him, but his legs lost strength before the test ended.

His balance score was better.

He crossed the narrow platforms without wasting many movements, recovering from each shift before his weight carried him too far.

During the circulation test, Nate used the shallow pattern registered under his false Kinetic Recall profile.

Posthumous Disciple remained hidden.

The instructor reviewed the results.

"You’ll repeat endurance in a month."

"Is it that bad?"

"It’s exactly what I’d expect from someone who spent the last week in medical recovery."

The instructor closed the file.

Nate returned to Combat Four the next morning.

Ethan reached him before the first horn.

"They finally cleared you."

"Medical did."

"And the review?"

"Still waiting for Holt."

Ethan glanced at the band around Nate’s wrist.

"She’ll wake up."

Nate had seen the suspension brace around Holt’s chest. He had watched the damaged Circuit darken beneath her skin.

"I know."

The horn sounded.

They took their places.

Nate spent the morning running, carrying weighted equipment and learning how far his knee could bend before it began to ache.

That evening, Ethan sent him an address in the old academy quarter.

A few of us are eating here. Come when you’re done.

Nate had already moved the desk away from the wall.

He stared at the message, then at the time.

I’ve got theory work. Next time.

Ethan replied with a single word.

Sure.

Nate locked the door and began again.

The first part of Rovan’s route passed through the ankle.

Some nights, Nate managed it on his first attempt. On others, the energy gathered inside the joint no matter how carefully he shifted his weight.

He learned to recognize the pressure before it became pain.

When it formed, he stopped. He waited until the warmth faded and tried again with less energy.

The return path did not grow because he forced more power through it. It grew when his movement gave the energy somewhere to go.

During the day, Combat Four made him cross loose gravel while carrying a weighted frame with three other candidates. Every sudden correction pulled the load sideways.

The others fought to overpower it.

Nate shortened his steps and allowed the frame to settle before changing direction. His section reached the end without dropping it.

That night, the thread crossed his knee.

He almost pushed farther.

The memory of Rovan’s dead arm stopped him.

Operational sections began without Nate.

The assignments appeared after morning training. Combat candidates gathered around the display, searching for the names of their future teammates.

Ethan had been placed in a specialized section under senior supervision. Mara received another.

Leor joined a standard five-person group with two combatants, a medic, and a logistics candidate.

Nate’s file had not changed.

OPERATIONAL SECTION: PENDING

He found Leor in the refectory that afternoon.

The Veyr candidate placed his tray opposite Nate and showed him the new section badge attached to his uniform.

"Temporary," Leor said. "They’ll change the composition after the first evaluation."

"Who did you get?"

"A medic who hates blood, a logistics candidate who hates carrying things, and two fighters who already hate each other."

"Sounds balanced."

Leor looked at Nate’s empty shoulder.

"Still nothing?"

"The review is open."

"How long can they leave you unassigned?"

"I asked. The clerk said they could leave me pending until the investigation team closes the file."

"And they’re waiting for the marshal?"

Nate nodded.

Leor ate for a while.

Across the refectory, Ethan sat with his new section. The broad-shouldered candidate from Combat Four was beside him. A medic occupied the seat Nate might once have taken without thinking.

Ethan noticed him and raised a hand.

Nate returned the gesture.

Leor followed his gaze.

"You two grew up together?"

"Yes."

"You don’t talk much."

"He’s busy."

Leor looked at Nate’s training clothes, then at the dark marks beneath his eyes.

"So are you."

Nate continued eating.

The route reached his hip after another series of failures.

By then, he had stopped counting attempts.

His days settled into the same shape. Combat Four in the morning. Common theory after lunch. A meal with Leor when their schedules aligned. His temporary room after dark.

He called his parents twice a week.

His mother complained that he always chose the worst lighting possible. His father asked whether the academy had assigned him a permanent team.

"They’re changing the groups around," Nate said.

"Already?"

"The first ones are provisional."

That part was true.

His mother leaned closer to the camera.

"You look tired."

"Morning training."

"Are you still hurt?"

"No."

She did not believe him, but his father asked about the academy grounds and the conversation moved on.

After the call ended, another message from Ethan waited on Nate’s card.

Training ran late. Tomorrow?

It was nearly midnight.

Nate replied the following morning.

By then, Ethan had entered another supervised block.

They never chose a time.

As the path entered Nate’s torso, breathing became part of the problem.

A deep breath changed the shape of the route and scattered the thread between his ribs. Holding his breath tightened his back and stopped the energy completely.

Rovan’s Echo had contained the answer, but only as sensation.

A slight exhale before the turn.

A loose shoulder.

The weight moving first.

Nate repeated the sequence until his shirt stuck to his back.

Some mornings, the training field felt easier. He recovered his footing before he consciously noticed losing it. Weighted drills stopped exhausting him as quickly.

Other mornings, his fingers trembled while he fastened his uniform.

The instructors saw a weak first-year recovering from the attack.

They had no reason to examine the warmth spreading beneath his skin after midnight.

On the twenty-sixth night, the energy reached his shoulder.

Nate felt it coming through the torso in one continuous thread. It had never remained stable for so long.

He continued the movement.

The shoulder tightened.

Energy gathered beneath the joint.

Nate exhaled and changed the angle of his arm, following the correction Rovan had discovered near the end of the Echo.

The blockage moved.

The thread pushed closer to the Core.

Two fingers on Nate’s right hand went numb.

He tried to release the circulation.

Most of the energy dispersed.

Some remained trapped.

The numbness spread into a third finger.

Nate broke the movement and forced everything outward.

Pain burst through his shoulder. He dropped beside the bed and caught himself with his left hand.

His right fingers refused to close.

He waited.

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

The index finger twitched.

Sensation returned slowly, sharp enough to make him grit his teeth.

Nate remained on the floor until he could move the entire hand again.

He had made it farther than ever.

He had also repeated the injury that had started Rovan’s disciplinary record.

His academy card chimed on the desk.

Nate let it ring.

A second alert followed.

Priority.

He stood and reached for the card with his left hand.

The message came from the administrative review office.

MARSHAL HOLT REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS THIS MORNING.

YOUR ATTENDANCE HAS BEEN REQUESTED AT THE ROYAL CIRCUIT WARD.

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