Days blurring into weeks, weeks into months for Cassian, as he found himself falling into a steady rhythm of days and months following a familiar routine all this subdued with silent determination. Morning light began to creep in through his bedroom window one moment, waking him when the faint sounds of the waking world crept into the house.
Something consistent he experienced each day, he noted; his mornings began to resemble one another. Sarah was in the kitchen at the time he dragged himself out of bed, the smell of breakfast wafting in the air. She always managed to sit with him at that tiny table, talking over the day ahead as she drank her tea.
"Excited for practice today?" Sarah asked one morning, her eyes bright as she passed him a plate of toast and eggs.
Cassian nodded slightly. "Yeah, we're doing endurance today. The coach wants us to go beyond the 100 meters."
Sarah smiled. "You'll do great, I am sure."
It went like this every morning-the small conversations about school life or sprint practice. It was a ritual that brought him comfort, though he still wasn't used to having parents who cared so much about the little details in his day.'
It was after breakfast that Cassian would be running out of his house, backpack in hand, to get to school on time. The walk was a silent one, with crisp mountain air filling his lungs as he made his way through the winding streets scenic enough to lead down to the school grounds. He had grown accustomed to the spreading beauty of nature, and sometimes, however, it still felt all a little too surreal for the life he had left.
Classes were daily routines, full of lectures and group work that didn't end until exam time. Cassian sat through them in silent intensity, his eyes narrowed intently on the material because he rarely said anything unless he had to. His crimson eyes made people look twice, but he learned to ignore the gazes years ago.
He had left school, and so his day became meaningful---training on the sprint track. The team was used to his face, though Cassian wasn't close to any of them, but when the track mattered nothing else did. Running was the only thing that felt real, and the only thing he could have a firm grasp over.
That afternoon, the sun was up, casting heavy shadows over the school athletic field. On the starting line stood Cassian, his legs twitched slightly as he stood with the other sprinters in a briefing their coach held for them today. It was not about speed. Instead, the concept of running technique was to be broken down.
Alright, listen up," barked the coach as his voice cut sharp. "We're going to do more than just running fast. We are going to break down each part of your sprint and relay technique and master each phase with you."
Cassian's focus narrowed in attention as the coach explained, familiar comfort of the track blending well with the technicalities of competitive sprinting.
"First of all," began the coach, "we have the reaction time. The millisecond it takes for your body to start moving once you hear the gun or whistle. No delay. A poor reaction time loses you the race." He pointed to blocks at the start line.
Cassian stooped low, his fingers nearly brushing the cool track surface. Reaction time he'd practiced a thousand times over in each and every practice session, an automatic response by the body before even the awareness of what's happened catches up with the brain.
"When you're out of the blocks, you're in the drive phase," the coach continued. "That's when your body is still low to the ground, building up momentum. That's where power comes from. You want to keep your strides short and strong."
Cassian adjusted his stance, feeling power in his legs. He had toiled and struggled with the drive phase at first; however, he was gradually beginning to balance raw force with controlled movement.
"Once you leave the drive phase, you get into the acceleration phase," the coach said as he paced in front of them. "You are doing your body up to rise, but you are still running forward. Your stride would go longer, but you still have to hold up your cadence. Don't lose your rhythm,"
Cassian nods to himself, recalling how his body happened during that transition. This acceleration phase is where he feels the fast-twitch muscles really kick in and send him forward faster than most can manage.
"And then comes the Maximum Velocity Phase, or so says the coach, with his low, intense voice: "This is where you achieve top speed. You're no longer accelerating, but you have to keep it going. Your cadence's peaked, and any loss of focus there ends it."
Surely Cassian knew this phase as the point where the race stretched out an eternity. The final, desperate push to stay ahead, where even a flicker of doubt could make you stumble.
They all looked at the coach with a glance. "Remember, this is relay preparation. You are no longer running only the 100 meters. We are taking it further than that. When you are running, think passing on the baton. You cannot slow down until the final line. You have to trust your teammate to take over at the right time.".
The relay concept adds another layer of difficulty, but Cassian was savoring it. They learned how to work together with the pacing of their strides and the timing. It is not only a matter of being fast; it's a matter of being harmonious with the person running next to you.
One more thing before we get going," the coach said, this time serious. "Be careful for false starts. Whether you be as swift as the wind it doesn't really matter. If you jump the gun, you're disqualified. Keep your composure in check. When you stand at the starting line, it is only you and the track."
Cassian's heart now set fast as he stretched into position, the starting line having become a much greater significance than just a streak on the floor. He viewed his lane, which unfolded before him like an open book-the emptiness of the lane waiting there for him.
The whistle blew, and in a split second he launched forward. Drive phase took over: his body was low and pounding with short, powerful strides. Acceleration phase smoothly followed: his body rose with the extension of stride while perfectly maintaining cadence. The raw power pulsed in his muscles as he approached Maximum Velocity Phase, every fiber channeled toward conserving speed.
But today was not a sprint like any other. Today was the day his coach had told them to push past the 100 meters, train for the relay.
Cassian's legs howled as he ruthlessly forced himself past the 100-meter mark, continuing running, gasping badly to catch his breath as he visualized the handoff. He wouldn't let up; this track stretched out before him until the very end.
His legs nearly buckled out from under him as he finally crossed the finish line. There was a rare satisfaction the racing used to bring, but now it came from exhaustion. The coach nodded in approval from the sidelines.
"That's what I want to see," the coach said. "Push through, keep that maximum velocity, and remember your technique."
They continued relay drills, honing the handoffs of each member and keeping their pace during the transitions. All grueling work, but not anything Cassian complained about. The more he ran, the more alive he felt.
As practice ended, the sun had long since dipped down the horizon. The long shadows that stretched over the track were dark and went silver in the falling light. Cassian plodded home, his body sapped of energy from all that he'd accomplished during the course of that day, but his mind was sharp and bright. Practice was one of the few rituals he could be sure of; at least one thing always seemed to be coming out right.
When he got home, it felt all embracing warmth that should be felt as one navigates through his house. Dinner time was very quiet; the sounds of his parents' conversations had steeped in familiar warmth.
"How's practice going?" Mark asked, tone casual but always interested.
"Good," Cassian replied, short answers always honest. "We worked on endurance today, pushing past 100 meters."
After dinner, they sometimes sat in the living room, watching there a few clips with hunter teams battling monsters outside the gates. Mark was interested in hunters; he could always be read up on the news or discussing the latest dungeon breaks.
"No electronics work inside the gates, right?" Cassian asked once, watching the blurry footage of a battle.
"Exactly," Mark said. "That's why all you see is what's captured outside or at the gate's entrance. Beyond that, it's just hunters and monsters."
Night was coming to a close, and Cassian lay under the covers, his thoughts echoed into the routine of the day. Every step of his life had become predictable, but there was some kind of comfort in the rhythm - wake up, school, sprint, home, sleep.