The next night, Berwald and Tino lingered on the stage, after all the others had retired to relaxation. It had been a tough day for Tino, who lost quickly to Ivan. Even though his skill level increased again, he had a lot to prove. Determination shone in his eyes as he threw a couple of practice punches, fists shining like ice.

"Yer off balance," Berwald observed as he watcher the shorter warrior wobble. "Use the core 'f your body." Tino tried to fix his stance, but his legs were too far apart and he was exposing too many weak points. He tried to kick with his back leg but he fell flat on his face. Berwald stepped over to him and held out his hand. As he helped Tino up, he felt just how thin his fingers were. His entire frame was built for speed rather than strength. Berwald made a mental note to aware his student of those advantages. Tino pushed white-blonde bangs out of his face and tried again to correct his posture.

"No." Berwald rested his hands on Tino's hips, immediately regretting the move. They fit perfectly in his sturdy, calloused hands. A chill ran up Berwald's spine as he struggled to remember what exactly the correct posture was. Nervously, Tino's eyes fell on his and he froze. He looked so petrified, yet he still came to learn from him . . .

"You determined?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Tino nodded quickly, shuffling his feet to match Berwald's stance.

"I just want to have fun," Tino admitted, shrugging. "I heard that when your rank is higher, you get to fight more, and that means less time sitting on the couch in the lounge, though it's a very comfortable couch." A laugh arose in Berwald's throat, but it stayed there. Exactly how long Tino's innocent desires would last, he didn't know. Eventually, all everyone ever thought about was winning. "What do you like about fighting, Berwald?" His heart began to pound and he gazed emptily at the wall in front of him. He was in shock. Who cared if he liked fighting? What did he like about it, anyways? Something about snapping the others' necks was satisfying, he supposed. Perhaps it was the triumph of winning, of defeating the enemy and claiming glory. Maybe it was the action of the fight itself, with its wild blows and flying limbs. In all honesty, he hurt people, and his life revolved around causing pain. Did he like it? Could he like it?

"'S my job," he decided on. "Want to do a good job."

"Oh," Tino shrugged. "Well, you're doing a better job than I am!" Tino laughed awkwardly, breaking Berwald's chain of thought. "Am I standing right?"

Over the next few days, Tino warmed up to Berwald. He tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible, but he was more willing to approach him and much more outgoing around him. While battled raged on black screens, they talked about their homes, their hobbies, and other trivial things. Other than fighting, Tino enjoyed hunting, sitting in saunas, heavy metal, and strange festivals. Berwald told him about his favorite poems, which made him feel a little awkward. No one guessed that the strong, silent war machine was secretly a poetry fanatic—but Tino didn't think it affected him. With every little detail about his life, Berwald grew hungry for more—he wanted to know everything about him. What made him happy, his fears, what made him cry. The more he discovered, the happier he was, and by the end of the week, Berwald was the happiest he'd ever been. Their moments in the arena and the lounge expanded to Selection, where they could catch a few minutes of discussion before the contenders were decided.

"Well, looks like someone's been social lately," Feliks taunted. He sat in the lounge, watching Tino face Kiku, a white-clad fighter who was chosen at random. He barely took notice to the blonde's words. Give 'im a good kick in the side, he urged, convincing himself that their training was worthwhile. If he wasn't imagining it, his stance and power had improved. "He's a lucky bastard, isn't he? He's about my height and he's chosen way more than I am. It's totally unfair, if you ask me." His bubbly voice was filled with jealousy, yet Berwald still took no notice. Kiku's energy level fell as Tino jabbed him in the face repeatedly. "And he's only a level five fighter, but he gains skill so much faster than I do." Berwald flinched as a katana swiped Tino's side. "Hey, are you even listening to me?"

"Mm." He wasn't, but he didn't want to seem rude. He also didn't want to talk about Tino's sudden success when Feliks's only victory happened when the game player's sister withdrawled from the fight. Tino threw punches like fire and the fight concluded. A glow of pride swelled within him as he retreated to the Selection Stage.

"Tino Vainamoinen, level six reached!" Tino cheered next to Berwald, his name rising on the leaderboard. Within a week, he had risen to the sixteenth rank. Many surrounding faces looked appauled. Others were blank, uncaring. Tino took no notice. He stood where he was supposed to and smiled widely. Berwald blushed. His face was round and friendly, but deceiving. He could beat weaker opponents in minutes . . . yet still appear completely adorable. Berwald could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the way it would before a battle. As two players were selected, Berwald watched Tino, who turned to him and laughed. It reminded him of children in the snow, ecstatic and free. He suddenly felt breathless; his chest felt constricted as Tino accidentally brushed against his arm. After a week of getting to know him, he still didn't know what this was. The desire to beat him? How ridiculous. The last thing Berwald wanted to do was hurt him. He wanted to wrap his muscular arms around Tino's waist and sniff his hair. Berwald laughed dryly. A week ago, he was isolated, and he was happy. No, he was well-off. Decent life, good status. He didn't know true happiness until Tino came. All he knew was violence.

Violence couldn't be the answer anymore.