Sinborn: A war without heaven..

Chapter 10: Arrival

Sachi Hiro’s POV

The road to Central was long, but boredom never lasted with me. It couldn’t.

I had my legs kicked up on the wooden cart, head resting against sacks of grain. The poor driver hadn’t spoken in hours, probably because of the way I’d snatched his reins earlier. What? The horses weren’t running fast enough. Even shadows moved quicker.

“You’ll get us killed, girl!” He’d shouted when I whipped the reins and sent the horses barreling down the dirt path.

I only laughed. If a little speed can kill you, you weren’t alive to begin with.

After that, he kept his prayers to himself. Couldn’t blame him—most people did the same around me. My hair, red as blood, always drew stares, and my eyes… well, I’d seen men flinch at less.

But I didn’t care about stares. I cared about the itch. That slow burn under my skin that begged for release, for someone worthy enough to set it off. Every time my fingers brushed the frayed rope marks around my wrist—left over from the last time fools tried to “contain” me—I smirked. Not at the memory of the fight, but at the memory of holding back.

That tavern brawl had been pathetic. Five men, one insult about “Sinborn trash,” and a table shattered over someone’s back. They thought they’d seen me fight. They hadn’t. I never waste myself on small prey.

No—I choose. Carefully.

Because when I fight for real, it’s not just fists and blades. It’s everything. And not everyone deserves to see that.

By the time the spires of Central scraped the horizon, I was restless. My body wasn’t tired, but my blood was humming, begging for something more than drunks and wannabe toughs.

The driver finally slowed the cart at the gates of Central, muttering a prayer under his breath. I hopped down before it stopped, stretching like a cat. My knuckles ached faintly from the tavern, but the ache was sweet—it reminded me what I was still saving myself for.

The guards stiffened as I approached, hands hovering near their hilts. None of them stepped forward. Smart. I wasn’t here for them anyway.

“Name?” One guard barked, voice tighter than his grip on the quill.

I tilted my head, holding his gaze just long enough to make him sweat. Then I smiled. “Sachi Hiro. Remember it. You’ll be whispering it soon enough.”

He stamped my entry papers with a little more force than necessary, and I strolled past.

Central hit me in a wave—smoke, steel, a thousand voices all competing to matter. Pretenders. The lot of them. To me, it smelled like opportunity.

I wasn’t hunting drunks, guards, or weaklings. I wanted a real fight—one that cracked my bones and thrilled my blood. One worth remembering.

And something told me I wouldn’t have to wait long.

Their so-called evaluation was supposed to test us against “low-level creatures.” An insult. I cut through them in minutes, each swing of my blade weighted not with effort but with disappointment. I didn’t need to say it aloud; anyone watching could see my disinterest.

The last of the creatures dropped with a wet thud, its body split cleanly down the middle. The blade in my hands barely hummed with effort. Around me, the others were still busy flailing at their assigned targets. Pathetic.

I kicked the corpse aside and rested the blade across my shoulders, yawning. “Is that all?”

“Not quite.”

The voice cut through the air—calm, measured, and laced with authority. I turned, and there he was: the instructor.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running down the side of his jaw like a signature. His eyes weren’t wide with fear like the guards, or glazed like the drunks from the tavern. No, his eyes studied me—sharp, focused.

Finally.

The others froze, watching as he strode across the field with the kind of quiet that made the ground itself pay attention.

He drew his blade. It wasn’t anything special—standard issue, plain steel—but the way he held it, steady and certain, made even a plain weapon look like death.

“I’ve been told you’re reckless,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “Let’s see if you’re skilled as well.”

My grin spread before I even realized it. “You should’ve stayed with what you were told, old man. I don’t fight just anyone.”

“Good.” He lifted his blade. “Then prove I was worth it.”

The rush hit me. My blood surged, and my body loosened. Every nerve sharpened into clarity.

He moved first—fast, far faster than I expected for a man his size. His blade came low, angled for my ribs.

I twisted just enough, feeling the air split as steel passed. My counter came quick—a s***h aimed for his throat, a test to see how fast he really was.

Clang.

He parried, the sound ringing across the courtyard. The impact sent a thrill through my arms. Strong. Good.

I pressed harder, strike after strike, blades sparking, steel howling. Each movement was precise, sharp, a little faster than the last. He kept up—barely. His defense was good, but not perfect. He was reading me, adapting.

I laughed. A real laugh. My chest burned with it.

He went on the offensive, blade flashing in arcs that cut the air. His strength was raw, heavy. Twice I felt the edge graze my arm, the sting blooming warm against my skin. Close. Too close.

But I didn’t step back. Didn’t yield.

Instead, I let him think he had me. My guard dropped an inch too low, my movement just a hair too slow. His blade came in, certain and final—aimed to finish.

And that’s when I shifted.

A snap of the wrist, a twist of my stance. My blade caught his at the last possible breath, steel grinding. With the momentum, I shoved forward, locking us chest to chest, blades biting against each other.

His eyes widened. Just a flicker. Then they narrowed again, unyielding.

“Better than I thought,” he muttered.

“Not even close,” I whispered back, teeth bared.

With a roar, I shoved him back. He stumbled a step, but held his ground. My blade was still humming, begging for more. My body begged with it.

And then—my fingers twitched. I felt the pull. The part of me that wanted to stop holding back, to let loose everything. But not yet. Not here. He wasn’t the one I’d waste that on.

So instead, I pulled the blade back and spun, ending the dance before it truly began.

“Is that enough for your little test?” I asked, voice mocking but edged with something sharper.

The instructor studied me. His breathing was controlled, but I’d seen the sweat beading along his brow, the way his knuckles whitened on the hilt.

“…Pass,” he said at last, lowering his blade.

I smirked, sliding mine back into its sheath. “Thought so.”

But inside, my heart was still racing. Not from exhaustion—no, I could’ve gone all day. From hunger. The kind of hunger that only a real fight could ever satisfy.

And I still hadn’t had it.