They ran it until she stopped thinking and just moved.
Until it stuck.
“Next lesson.”
Zach pulled the training knife from his belt. Rubber blade, bright orange.
Emma’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“You’ll never outfight a knife.” He flipped it once, caught it. Easy. Natural. “You don’t fight it. You redirect, break contact, run.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
She nodded, expression serious.
Zach advanced. Controlled. Telegraphed. Emma sidestepped—late, wrong angle. The blade touched her ribs. Light contact.
“Dead.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Again.”
He varied it. High. Low. Fast. Slow. From the side. Each pass shaved seconds off her reaction. Not enough—but improving.
On the sixth try, she got her hand on his wrist. Redirected—barely—but it changed the angle.
“Better.”
On the seventh, she hesitated. He closed the distance in the blink of an eye. “Dead.”
She exhaled sharply, frustrated.
“Stop trying to win,” he said. “Winning is irrelevant.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It’s easy because it’s true.”
He reset. “Again.”
Eighth pass. Zach came in from her left. Emma reacted. She kicked sand toward his face—not much, enough to disrupt his vision—and pivoted hard right, shoved his shoulder, and moved.
Zach’s footing slipped half an inch in the sand. He corrected, but she’d already created space. Three feet. Not enough to matter in a real fight against someone of his level. But tactically correct.
He stopped. Straightened. “Better.”
She stood, breath rough, hair wild, sand streaked across her arms and legs. Watching him warily, not trusting his relaxed stance.
Good. She’d learned.
“That wasn’t pretty,” she said.
“It isn't supposed to be.”
She gave a short breath that might have been a laugh. “Did I pass?”
