"About the weapon... and myself?" Dirga asked, brows furrowed.
Sasa gave a lazy nod, still floating mid-air with one leg crossed over the other, cane sword resting beside him like a bored pet.
"Yes. That thing in your hand — the dice — it’s a weapon, yes, but it’s not your weapon. Not yet."
Dirga looked at the red cube in his hand. The Crimson Core pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat held just beneath the skin.
"There are only two types of weapons that matter," Sasa continued, twirling his cane lazily. "Weapons... and concept weapons."
"Concept weapons?" Dirga echoed.
Sasa spun his cane, and it flickered—then twisted. The elegant sword-shape split and shifted into a glowing golden lever, the form of his slot machine flashing into existence behind him with a mechanical clunk.
"This cane—" he tapped it against the floor, which echoed unnaturally. "—is just a form. My real weapon is Goldy, the slot machine. My concept, bound in form. The cane just grew with it."
Sasa’s gaze narrowed.
"Some concept weapons are born when your soul is strong enough. Others are forged, when your weapon and your concept... assimilate."
Dirga’s breath hitched slightly. The Crimson Core... it wasn’t just powerful. It was calling to him.
"But right now," Sasa said, floating downward and pointing with his cane, "that dice is just a tool. Not bound. Not loyal. Just a curious, conscious trinket with a tendency for chaos."
Dirga clenched it tighter in his hand. The cube shifted, briefly rippling like molten glass, then settling again into solid form.
"Wait—what do I need to do to make it mine?"
But before Sasa could answer—
Dirga’s senses flared. Without hesitation, his hand snapped outward and the dice transformed into a thin blade. A slice of air. Fsshk.
The insect burst in a red flicker, dissolving mid-flight.
"Good reflexes," Sasa mused. "Anyway. Where were we? Ah, yes—feeding."
"You need to feed it your concept energy. Just like watering a plant. Ordinary weapons grow souls when fed enough of a strong user’s concept. But—" Sasa pointed again at the dice. "—that’s not an ordinary weapon. That’s a cosmic weapon."
Dirga blinked. "Cosmic?"
"Yes. One of the rarest. A weapon so strange, the universe itself gave it a mind. It doesn’t need you. But it’s curious about you."
The dice pulsed again, red and black lights shimmering across its surface like a rotating galaxy. It felt... expectant.
"So if you feel like that thing’s calling to you," Sasa said, more serious now, "then answer. Feed it. Let it taste your concept."
Dirga stared at the cube. His heartbeat matched its thrum. He could feel the gravitational pull—not from the dice, but from within.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the training arena, closed his eyes, and placed the Crimson Core on his open palm. Darkness swirled behind his eyelids—deep space, folding, spinning.
He focused on the black hole at his center.
Not to destroy. Not to collapse.
His concept flowed through his veins like liquid iron. It reached his hand. The cube shimmered.
The room dimmed for a split second, shadows drawn inward.
The Crimson Core rose slowly above his palm, suspended by energy alone. Its edges glowed brighter, shifting hues—crimson to orange, then deep space blue.
A silent detonation of color spread out from the cube, then vanished. It dropped softly back into his palm, no heavier than before — but now... different.
Sasa whistled, genuinely impressed. "Well, well. It likes you."
Dirga smiled, sweat on his brow.
"Good," he said quietly. "Because I’m not letting go."
"So," he exhaled, his breath still heavy from the last bout, "what’s next?"
Across the arena, Sasa floated lazily in midair — one leg crossed over the other, arms behind his head like a man lying on a hammock that didn’t exist.
"What lesson are we on?" he asked, already smirking.
Dirga rolled his shoulders and glanced upward. "Sense and weapon."
"Bingo," Sasa said with a soft clap, still spinning slowly in the air. "But we’re escalating now. It’s not just about hitting harder or dodging faster. Your senses are sharp when you’re calm. But what about when you’re broken, starving, sleep-deprived? What if you’re bleeding out in a battlefield that isn’t yours?"
Dirga narrowed his eyes. "You want to simulate war."
"I want to simulate Hell," Sasa replied, his grin widening.
He snapped his fingers.
A shimmering tear opened in the air — a rift like shattered glass. From it emerged a deep growl.
Then came the beasts.
Three hounds — monstrous, lean, and coiled with muscle — stalked out of the portal. Each was as large as a lion, fur bristling with unnatural sheen. One was crimson, its eyes burning like embers. One was void-black, its coat absorbing light. The last shimmered blue, like ice forming mid-air, cold steam rising from its fangs.
Their paws hit the ground with heavy, deliberate thuds. The space warped around them with a pressure Dirga could feel in his ribs.
"These are my pets, they will be the first one," Sasa said casually. "Red, Black, and Blue. Each one hunts with a different instinct. Each one is faster than the last. You fight them. No rest. No sleep. No food. Unless you earn it. Every beast you kill gives you a reward — drink, food, or one minute of rest. You choose."
Dirga stared at the creatures, now circling, snarling low and deliberate.
"And the mosquitoes?" he asked quietly.
Sasa’s eyes gleamed. "Still active. Always will be. Hidden in the chaos, waiting for your lapse in awareness. You’re training your senses, remember? They don’t stop just because a hound wants to eat your lungs."
The hounds moved as one, coiled like springs about to snap.
Dirga was still kneeling — but not for long.
With a burst of telekinesis, he propelled himself sideways, the red hound slamming into the stone where he’d just been. The impact cracked the floor, dust spraying into the air. Dirga twisted mid-air, pulling the Crimson Core into his hand. It shifted instantly — a long, curved blade gleaming crimson in the firelight.
The black hound came like a shadow — a blur of muscle and murder, silent until the last second.
Dirga had barely landed, boots skidding across the stone floor, when his instincts screamed. The Crimson Core pulsed in his palm.
In a flash of red light, the blade in his hand melted into a round shield, its surface engraved with an orbiting ring of shifting glyphs — a shield born not to block, but to bend force.
The hound slammed into him like a wrecking ball.
Dirga braced. His feet dug trenches into the floor. Sparks and dust exploded around him as his body was shoved back — shield-first — into the wall.
Behind the smoking barrier of steel and force, Dirga exhaled slowly. His eyes glinted through the veil of impact dust.
A grin tugged at his lips.
"Well," he muttered, voice low and sharp, "time to start."