The simulation painted the world in shades of rust and ash, emergency lighting bleeding red across shattered concrete. Holland moved through it like he was born to it, greatsword carving paths through digital flesh, wings catching air that didn't quite feel real. His body had stopped being his body somewhere around the third wave. Now it was just motion, just purpose. The valkyrie sigils crawled up his forearms like living things, white-hot and insistent, their light bleeding through the thin fabric of his grey cotton shirt. His veins answered them, lit from within, pulsing with each heartbeat. When he caught his reflection in a shattered window, his eyes had gone completely white, pupils drowned. He looked divine. He looked terrifying.
The greatsword took the first enemy high, the second through center mass. He was already spinning toward the third when Nero's voice cut through the chaos. "Your stance is too wide." Holland's next strike stuttered. His foot landed wrong, and suddenly he was seeing it: Nero's hand on his shoulder, heavy and gentle, fingers pressing between his wing joints. Another enemy came at him and he parried half a second too late, sloppy, the kind of sloppy Nero would've stopped the whole simulation for. The ghost-memory of an almost-smile, the single nod, the quiet "Better. Again." Holland swore and drove his blade through the next target with more force than necessary. He had his own students now. He'd graduated. He didn't need Nero's voice in his head anymore. But his greatsword overextended on the next parry. Basic mistake. Freshman-level mistake.
The simulation should've continued another ten minutes. So when everything just stopped, enemies dissolving mid-lunge, the ruined cityscape flickering out to reveal the training facility's sterile walls, his body reacted on pure instinct. He was mid-swing, full commitment, the greatsword already traveling through the arc that would split his target from shoulder to hip. And then there was no target, just a man standing exactly where digital flesh had been. "NERO?!" His wings exploded open, the sound cracking through the facility like a gunshot. He pulled up, pulled hard, muscles screaming as momentum fought correction. The greatsword's edge stopped so close to Nero's shoulder that Holland could see the fabric shifting in the displacement of air. Close enough to see his own reflection in the blade: eyes still blazing white, face twisted with exertion and fear.