Another Training Session (OPEN)

[Rouge Ako]

The sun had begun its slow descent nearly half an hour ago, casting the academy in the deepening hues of dusk. Soon, night would claim the grounds, where flickering pathway lights guided students through the shadowy campus. The grand halls of the school grew dimmer as one by one, their lights blinked out. A few students hurried toward their dormitories, anxious to avoid the encroaching darkness. Others strolled languidly, mesmerized by the painted skyline—a kaleidoscope of fading golds and fiery reds. Yet amidst the serene transition, an anomaly stood out: one training room burned brightly, its open window spilling sharp echoes of wood clashing against wood into the evening air.

WHACK.

Inside, the training room was a chaotic tableau of destruction. Wooden dummies lay shattered and splintered across the gym floor. Glass-like blades protruded from low-hanging targets, their edges glinting ominously in the fluorescent light. A slashed and leaking punching bag sagged in the corner, surrounded by a graveyard of broken wooden practice swords. The evidence of prolonged use—discarded water bottles, crumpled food wrappers—hinted that this wasn’t a scene born from a fleeting burst of rage, but hours of unyielding, relentless effort.

Near the room’s center stood Rouge Ako, the red-haired musician. Sweat dripped from his brow, tracing the sharp lines of his face as it mingled with the tattered remains of his determination. His loose gym pants and clinging undershirt bore the marks of his grueling session, the signature red sash around his waist. A broken practice sword trembled in his grip, its surface dented and splintered from the fury of his strikes.

Rouge didn’t set out to destroy nearly every weapon in the room. But tonight, the anger and hollow ache within him had taken control. This year, he was alone. The bonds of friendship and camaraderie he had painstakingly forged over the past two years were now little more than memories, leaving him adrift in an ocean of isolation.

WHACK.

The blow landed hard, reverberating through his palms and up his arms. The vibrations dulled the turmoil in his mind, though only for a fleeting moment. Each strike left his hands stinging and his ears ringing, sweat pouring from his body in relentless streams. His chest heaved, every breath a labored effort as he struggled to find relief from the suffocating heat and humidity. But relief did not come. Instead, his muscles screamed for rest, and yet his resolve kept him moving.

Raising the battered sword above his head, Rouge swung again.

CRACK.

The practice blade gave out with a final snap, its wooden tip soaring across the room before landing with an almost anticlimactic thud on the mat. Rouge stared after it, his grip tightening instinctively on the now-useless hilt. He felt the emotions well up inside him—anger, frustration, grief. His fingers twitched, gripping at the air, and from nothing, a crude glass sword began to form in his hand, shimmering and jagged. Without hesitation, he brought it down in a sweeping arc.

The glass blade carved through the wooden dummy effortlessly, its edge slicing as though the wood were no more substantial than air. As the halves of the dummy toppled to the floor, Rouge let out a long, shuddering breath. Slowly, he tightened his grip again, and the glass weapon in his hand shattered, scattering in brilliant shards before disintegrating into fine dust and fading into an ethereal aura. All around the room, other glass constructs dissolved in kind, their remnants vanishing into the void.

”The finale of an otherwise unorthodox performance.” Rouge muttered under his breath, the first words he’d spoken since he began. His voice was hoarse, raw from disuse and exhaustion. He stood amidst the ruins of his training, a lone figure in the flickering light, unsure whether he had found release or only dug himself deeper into the void.

[Pericles Herodotus Ozymandias]

"Cousin, I understand you desire to see me, and I am not so steadfast to deny that the intent is mutual, however I truly consider this present time to be non-ideal for you to visit me... Yes, Cousin, I am well aware that your office is near to the Beacon campus, however class demand my full focus... No Cousin, I do not take pleasure in disrupting your plans to meet with me, but I do take pride in making wise decisions... Indeed Cousin, I am aware of both your older age and the archetypal understanding that age begets wisdom, but I'm sure you take pride in existing as an exception to that proverbial rule." A firm and steady voice echoed into the training room, followed by firm footsteps as an unknown figure approached, unaware as to the current state the training room was in.

"Cousin, we will have to finish this matter at another point, I have at last found time to train after a day of prioritizing my academia... Yes Cousin, I... I value you as well." The voice called out, only a few steps away from the training room. At last, Pericles turned the corner, revealing his armored form, his warrior's composition in its entirety as a raised brow gazed upon the wreckage of the training room. The Scroll was succinctly deposited into a pocket within the leather bindings of his armor as Pericles took in the entirety of the room and the occupant within.

Thinking for a few moments, Pericles finally spoke, "I suppose I should start by clarifying of your health and safety before inquiring of the reason for the room's current state."

[Rouge Ako]

Rouge’s head snapped toward the source of the voice, his sharp, ruby-red eyes narrowing as he took in the figure stepping into the room. The clinking of armor echoed faintly, a sharp contrast to the silence that had settled over the wrecked training hall. Broken dummies, splintered wood, and the faint shimmer of dissipating glass constructs told the tale of an hours-long battle waged not against an opponent, but against himself.

He exhaled heavily, brushing damp strands of scarlet hair from his face, his chest still heaving from exertion. The stranger’s polished armor gleamed in the fluorescent light, their composed gait and eloquent tone immediately setting them apart from the students Rouge typically encountered. This wasn’t someone who wandered in by mistake.

Straightening his posture, Rouge’s sharp eyes lingered on the stranger for a moment before flicking to the wreckage around him. He adjusted the crimson sash around his waist, its familiar weight grounding him as he searched for words. His usual blunt tone softened, shifting to something more measured as he picked up on the stranger’s formal manner of speaking.

“Health and safety, you said?” Rouge began, his voice low and deliberate, carrying the faint edge of exhaustion. “A rather apt observation, considering the current state of affairs. Though I’d argue the room has suffered more grievously than I have.”

He leaned the broken practice sword he’d been holding against the wall, the movement almost casual, though his eyes remained watchful. ”I must admit,” he continued, his words carefully chosen, “this is not the sort of company I anticipated tonight. But I suppose, given the circumstances, company was inevitable.”

Walking toward the corner of the room, Rouge spotted a broom leaning against the wall, its bristles frayed but serviceable. He picked it up and paused for a moment, brushing shards of broken glass with the tip of his boot into a smaller pile before beginning to sweep. The rhythmic sound of the broom scraping against the floor filled the space as he gathered the remnants of his shattered constructs.

“Forgive me,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, carrying a hint of sarcasm woven beneath the formal cadence he was adopting. “It seems I’ve been remiss in maintaining the integrity of this training room. A most regrettable oversight, I’m sure.”

He glanced briefly at the armored figure, his ruby-red gaze piercing yet calm. “I take it you’re not here by accident. Clearly, you’re no stranger to formality or structure, given the way you carry yourself. So, enlighten me. What brings someone like you to this rather… undignified corner of the campus?”

He resumed sweeping, his movements steady, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips suggested he was testing the waters with his newfound conversational tone. “If nothing else, I hope you’ll pardon the state of things. It’s been a long evening, and I suppose I let my temper get the better of me. Not my finest moment, but we all have those, don’t we?”

Rouge paused, leaning slightly on the broom handle as he turned to face the stranger fully. ”Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity, as if he were as interested in deciphering the stranger’s purpose as he was in cleaning up the mess around him.

[Pericles Herodotus Ozymandias]

Pericles visibly mulled over Rouge's words, his jaw flexing and unflexing as he thought, before finally replying, "You owe as much as lightning owes to a tree, which is to say, only a debt of luck. Today, of all day, was merely the point at which I found a time at which I could slip away from my other responsibilities in order to maintain my training of my discipline and physicality."

Pericles' left eye glowed with the blue symbol of the Eye of Horus as the glass shards and other inorganic sediment debris was quickly gathered in a whirlwind before hardening together into a small cube, which Pericles deposited in the nearby bin, "Shall I leave you, and with that, this room as well, in order to finish your earlier acts, or are you comfortable with my borrowing of the space?"

[Rouge Ako]

Rouge paused mid-sweep, resting the broom against his shoulder as he watched the armored figure’s display. The glowing sigil in Pericles’ eye and the efficient swirl of debris caught his attention, though he kept his expression neutral, save for a slight lift of his brow.

“A debt of luck, huh?” Rouge said after a beat, his tone even, though a faint note of dry amusement lingered. “Well, I guess I’ll take what I can get. Luck doesn’t visit me much these days, so thanks for the assist.”

He leaned the broom against the wall and crossed his arms loosely, his scarlet gaze lingering on the small, compact cube of debris Pericles had deposited in the bin. “That’s a neat trick,” he added, nodding toward the now-cleared floor. “Saves a lot of time, I’ll give you that.”

Rouge shifted his weight slightly, glancing at Pericles before letting his eyes wander over the room. “As for the space, it’s not like I’ve got a claim to it. You’re free to stay if you want. Plenty of room for the both of us to train without stepping on each other’s toes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the edge of his sash as he considered the figure in front of him. “Though, if we’re sharing, we might as well do more than just exist in the same room. You’re clearly here to train, and from the way you carry yourself, I’d guess you know what you’re doing.”

Rouge took a step back toward the center of the room, his boots crunching faintly against the last remnants of glass. “Name’s Rouge Ako, by the way,” he said, inclining his head slightly in a polite, though informal gesture. “If you’re up for it, maybe we could trade a few techniques. No harm in seeing what someone else brings to the table.”

His ruby-red eyes met Pericles’ glowing gaze, a spark of curiosity breaking through the fatigue in his features. “Of course, if you’re just here for some quiet, I’ll stay out of your way. But something tells me you didn’t come all this way just to keep to yourself.”