Chapter 25: Break and Build
Pain.
Been a while since he felt it like this. The kind that meant something. The kind you earned.
THWACK!
Rufus winced, grinning like a fool as Levi took another strike across the back.
"Lookin' sloppy out there, kid!"
"Fuck you! Get out here and face him yourself!"
Levi panted, hands braced on his knees, sweat pouring off him in sheets. Bare-chested, his back was a mess of red welts, each one burning hotter than the last.
THWACK!
"Son of a—devil pickin', limp-dicked, son'bitch!"
He hit the ground hard, rolling, hands flying to his back as he let loose a string of curses that could peel paint. His glare could've burned a hole clean through Rufus, who was damn near doubled over laughing.
"Pay attention at all times! Even when resting."
Holding a wooden saber, Edmond kept his face mighty serious—too serious. The kind of serious that twitched at the corners, like it was wrestling with something.
Levi gritted his teeth. His muscles screamed, his body ached, but quitting wasn't an option.
Not today.
Slamming his fists into the mine floor, Levi sprang back to his feet, jaw clenched, legs set.
"That's better! Show 'im what cha g—"
Rufus barely ducked as a chunk of stone whizzed past, Edmond's throw just missing by a hair.
"If you're not helping, shut it."
Levi laughed.
"'Bout damn time. Fucker's always sayin' somethi—"
THWACK!
"Goddamn—Devil!"
And so it went.
Training—if you could even call it that—was mostly just Edmond beating the hell outta him from sunup to sundown.
They broke for meals, but that was it. Every second outside of eating was spent on his feet, learning what he could while his body throbbed and bled.
Edmond kept it to the basics. Considering their line of work, hand-to-weapon combat came first. Everything else? Frills.
Footwork? Fighting styles? Tactics? That was baby talk to Edmond. A man don't learn to walk by studying his feet—he just figures it out, step by step, until he stops falling on his ass.
Same rule applied here.
You learned through pain. Through trial and error.
And Rufus loved it.
Reminded him of the old days—watching fresh recruits, hopefuls looking to ride Edmond's coattails, get their worlds shattered the second training started.
Good times.
It was getting late in the day, and Levi finally hit the ground with a thud. Back flat, arms wide, breath coming in ragged gasps like he'd had a fat man sitting on his chest.
Sweat dripped from Edmond's brow as he wiped his grey beard with a cloth, then tossed it to him.
"You did good, kid. Few more years, you might even be worth the effort."
And with that, he walked off, not sparing another glance.
Rufus had already left, said he was bored of watching meat get punched that don't punch back. The idiot's words still rang in Levi's ears—right alongside the actual ringing that hadn't gone away yet.
Rolling onto his side, Levi reached into his mouth, way back. Gripping a loose molar, he twisted once and yanked it loose.
"Great."
Spitting out blood, he flicked it aside, then slowly pushed himself up—only to find Timmy standing there against the wall, his metal face seeming oddly judgemental.
"Yeah, yeah. I know what I look like."
He dusted himself off, muttering as he limped past the steambot. On a whim, he kicked a bit of dirt in its direction.
"That was embarrassin'. Thought I'd do better than that."
He stopped quick, wincing from the hurt.
Sharp and deep, lancing through his ribs—the metal ones. His brow creased as he pressed a hand to them, confused. Not just on how hard the bastard must of hit him, but also why he was feeling it at all.
Shaking it off, he dragged himself toward the stairs. They seemed steeper than this morning. He didn't remember there being so many, either.
But strangely, he still smiled a bit.
It was his again.
His pain.
But it still hurt like hell.
By the time he climbed to the house, he leaned against the door, catching his breath for a moment.
'Hope he's got somethin' different in mind for tomorrow. Don't think I could do that again.'
Too bad life rarely gives you what you ask for.
----
The next morning.
THWACK!
Levi jumped, dancing on his toes, face red as he reached for his back.
"I'm starting to think you like this, kid."
"I like it?!"
Levi's breath came hard, chest rising and falling as he fought to find his composure before the next strike came.
"You're the one doin' the hittin'!"
Edmond rested the wooden saber against his shoulder, looking downright bored.
"I'm glad you noticed. Surprised you haven't thought to change that yet."
That tone. That damn tone. He was baiting him—some kinda lesson, Levi was sure. But he didn't care.
He was getting pissed.
He always worked better angry anyways.
The sting in his back dulled enough that his eyes quit watering. He rolled his shoulders, stretching the ache, then fixed his stance on Edmond.
'One hit. C'mon! One good hit to that wrinkled fuckin' face.'
He crouched low.
"Finally awake, kid?"
Edmond adjusted his grip, saber tilting downward.
Levi moved.
Fast.
Edmond barely shifted before the kid was already close.
'Again?'
A flicker of disappointment.
Levi went low, his body a blur. The stance screamed leg sweep—an easy read, something Edmond had already countered a dozen times.
But it was a feint.
At the last second, his blacksteel fist slammed into the ground, a sharp crack splitting the air. The force kept his momentum rolling, twisting his body like a coiled spring.
Edmond's saber came down—fast, precise.
Levi's leg snapped up, catching the wooden blade just above the hilt and redirecting the strike.
Twisting again, he followed through—his other leg sweeping wide, carrying all that built-up power straight into Edmond's jaw.
WHACK!
The impact landed solid.
Edmond's head snapped sideways, boots sliding an inch in the dirt.
For the first time since they started, the old man took a step back.
"Ha! Who's hittin' wh—"
CRACK, CRUNCH, THWACK!
"Motherfu—"
Thud.
Blood hit the dirt. So did Levi.
He laid there, mind catching up to his body. Three hits, maybe four. Head, shoulder, waist—as they caught up, his nerves made sure he felt each one in fresh, stinging detail.
Still. Worth it.
A shadow passed over him. Edmond rolled his jaw, shifting it side to side, testing the soreness.
"Don't think I've ever been kicked in the face before. Punched plenty. Where'd you learn to fight like that—the circus?"
Levi coughed, spitting a streak of red into the dust. He dragged himself up, rough but grinning.
"Worked on you, didn't it?"
He wiped his mouth.
"Taught myself. Picked up a few things from a Chinaman I worked with for a bit. If that's what ya mean."
"Well, wherever you learned it, just don't go putting boots to a man's face unless you intend on killing him. Fists are one thing."
Levi felt his face flush. And his head. And his ribs, his nose—hell, his whole body was burning.
"But you're finally breaking your habit, so that's something good."
Levi brushed his fingers through his hair, checking for blood as he kept his eyes locked on Edmond.
"What habit? Gettin' beat on?"
"That too I suppose."
For the first time in a long while, Edmond truly smiled. That alone made Levi more paranoid than the beating.
With a practiced motion, he sheathed his saber, then looked him over, slow and calculating.
"Although it worked out this time, your fighting habits don't work anymore. Haven't you noticed?"
Levi's brow furrowed.
Nodding toward his arm, Edmond then tapped his own.
"You're still fighting like you don't have augments."
Levi frowned. He could feel it—literally and figuratively. He was right. What had once been fluid now felt off—not weak, just… wrong. Awkward and forced.
The more he thought on it, the less he could pinpoint it.
Edmond watched him wrestle with it, then—for a change—decided to teach with words.
"You're right-handed."
Levi blinked.
"Yeah?"
"But your left's stronger now. Yet you still treat it like it's just support for your right. I bet when you imagined punching me, you pictured doing it with your right hand. Didn't you?"
The gears started turning. Shit.
He couldn't deny it.
Thinking back, not once had Levi considered his augments. Every exchange, every movement—it was all business as usual.
"You're also not using your mesh right."
Edmond bent down, picking up a rock.
"Let me show you something."
He lobbed the stone a few times in his palm, testing the weight. Then, drawing his arm back, he tensed—then threw.
CRACK!
The rock shot across the mine, slamming into the far wall like a loosed arrow.
"That's how you're using it."
Edmond dusted off his hands.
"You're pushing your muscles the entire time, forcing your mesh at a constant rate."
He picked up another rock.
"This is how you should use it."
This time, he didn't draw back. No big wind-up, just a small motion from the hip—like he was about to skip it across a pond.
Then, just before release—
Levi saw it.
A split-second burst. Edmond's arm and shoulder flexed.
BOOM!
The mine shook. Dust and debris erupted from the spot he'd hit before, but this time—the impact had buried the rock deeper into the wall.
The whole cavern echoed with the force of it.
"You need to learn to use your mesh like an explosion. Build, then release at the last moment."
Edmond rubbed his jaw, eyeing Levi with a smirk.
"If I hadn't turned with it, you would've broken my jaw with that kick. But if you'd used your mesh right?"
He let that hang for a beat.
"You'd have taken my head clean off."
Levi stared at his hands. The pieces clicked into place.
It was just like throwing a punch. You don't keep your fist tense the whole time—you snap it tight just before impact. Same principle. Just bigger. More power. More control.
His chest burned. Adrenaline surged. This. This was it.
Real training.
His eyes snapped back to Edmond, fists clenching.
"Show me again!"