The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 92: Something Missing

The school grounds were silent.

No wind. No voices. Not even the soft creak of the trees that usually whispered against the night. Just the hush of pre-dawn stillness, stretched thin across cracked pavement and moon-washed dirt. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic thud of wood moving through air.

Jin exhaled through his nose as the three-section staff curved wide in a controlled sweep. The chain links clinked faintly between segments, following his motion with practiced timing. His foot pivoted across the faded white line of the sparring ring. Another spin. A half-turn. A downward strike—

The hit landed wrong.

Not in aim or direction, but in something harder to name. It lacked weight. Purpose. Momentum.

He pulled the staff back, rolling his shoulders.

Then tried again.

Each movement flowed well enough—he wasn’t sloppy—but even his own body could feel the hollow edge behind it. The strikes were clean, but not sharp. His motions smooth, but dulled. Mechanical. Rehearsed.

No rhythm. No fire.

He stopped.

The chain dangled loosely in his grip as he stood still, breathing just a little too hard for how little effort he’d put in. A thin sheen of sweat clung to the back of his neck.

This wasn’t helping.

He’d come out here hoping to quiet the thoughts.

But the thoughts always came back.

You’re just swinging things around.

You’re not like them.

You’re falling behind.

Jin flexed his grip on the staff, but didn’t move again. He stood in the moonlight, staring out across the empty training yard, as if waiting for something to change.

He didn’t hear the footsteps.

He just felt the shift—quiet but intentional—someone approaching from behind, her presence cutting subtly through the stillness.

"You’re up early."

He turned slightly, enough to glance over his shoulder.

Seul.

Her expression was calm, as usual. Not cold. Just... still. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands, and her hair was loosely tied back, casting a jagged shadow against the stone path behind her.

"I could say the same for you," Jin muttered, letting the staff rest against his shoulder.

Seul took a few steps closer, stopping near the edge of the sparring ring. "I’m rotating through night watch shifts. You’re not on duty."

"I know." Jin shifted his weight, staring down at the faint lines of dust beneath his feet. "Didn’t feel right to be asleep before everyone else."

A short silence stretched between them.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting toward the way he held the staff.

"You practicing something specific?" she asked. "Or just... swinging for the sake of swinging?"

Jin gave a dry huff. "Trying to get a feel for it."

Seul raised an eyebrow. "Your skill doesn’t already give you that?"

He hesitated, jaw flexing slightly.

"That’s the thing," he said, quieter now. "It does. I pick up something, and I know how to use it. Enough to be dangerous. Enough to make it count."

He glanced down at the weapon in his hands.

"But lately, it feels like that’s all I’m doing. Making it count. Just enough. Never more."

Seul stepped into the ring, still not interrupting—just listening.

Jin shifted again, lowering the staff completely. "Echo’s been tearing through the battlefield with actual technique. Joon throws lightning like it’s second nature. Even you—you’re out here dropping walls and crushing enemies with pinpoint control. And me?"

He gave a bitter half-laugh.

"I’m just the guy who hits things with whatever’s nearby."

Seul blinked, quiet for a beat.

"You say that like it’s not impressive."

Jin didn’t answer.

"I mean it," she said. "You pick up a metal pipe and make it fight like a weapon. You grab a broken strap and turn it into a snare. No one else here can do that."

"I know," Jin muttered. "I know I’m not useless. I just... I don’t know. It feels like everyone else is growing in these clear, obvious ways. Skills. Techniques. Mastery. And I’m over here still swinging like I did on day one. Just... better."

Seul nodded slowly. "So what are you really worried about?"

He hesitated, voice dropping lower. "That I’m not getting stronger. That I’m just borrowing strength from the things I pick up. Like none of it’s really mine."

She looked at him for a long moment, then stepped closer, arms still folded.

"You ever think that maybe your growth isn’t supposed to look like ours?"

Jin frowned.

"You’ve been adapting from day one. Every fight, every weapon, every situation—you always find something and make it work. But maybe that’s the problem. You’ve been reacting to everything around you."

She pointed at the staff.

"This? It’s yours now, isn’t it?"

He nodded.

"Then stop treating it like another borrowed tool. Start building something with it."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she kept going.

"You keep switching weapons, trying to be ready for anything. But you’re never really pushing one thing to its limits. You have potential, Jin. Infinite, according to the system."

She gave him a small smirk. "You’re literally built to become limitless. But maybe you need to choose a direction before you can start breaking barriers."

He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "...That’s not a bad point."

"I know." She turned to walk back toward the edge of the ring. "And if you ever quote that out of context, I’ll deny it."

He chuckled, the tension bleeding from his shoulders just a little.

"But seriously," Seul said, slowing her steps. "Don’t just try to fight like us. Find how you fight. You’re not the one behind. You’re the one who brought us here."

Jin blinked.

Seul stopped, glancing back over her shoulder.

"If you really want to build something of your own... maybe stop looking for the next weapon, and start treating the one you have like it’s worth mastering."

Then, just like that, she turned and walked off into the darkness.

Jin stood there a while longer, the three-section staff still cradled loosely in his hand.

Eventually, he raised it again.

But this time, when he moved, his steps weren’t just clean—they had weight.

He didn’t swing to see what would land.

He moved like someone who was trying to understand.

And in the still silence of the morning before sunrise, the staff spun again.

But this time—it sang.

The quiet lingered long after Seul left.

Jin stood in the ring, staff balanced loosely in one hand, his thoughts slowly catching up to his body. The early edge of sunrise began to tint the sky, dull oranges bleeding into the fading gray of night.

He lowered the staff.

It had been his go-to weapon these past few days — versatile, unpredictable, great for defense, and in the hands of someone like him, dangerous. He liked it. More than that, he respected it. But as he stood there, turning it over in his grip, a thought settled that he hadn’t let himself say out loud until now.

It’s not enough.

It wasn’t the staff’s fault. The weapon was reliable, adaptable — exactly the kind of thing his skill let him shine with. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He kept choosing things that were safe. Blunt. Clean. Nothing that would cross a line.

Because deep down, he still wasn’t sure he could.

His eyes flicked to his inventory, summoning the familiar interface only he could see.

[Inventory]

• String of Fate (Unidentified)

• Bottled Water (x2)

• Energy Bar

• Broken Katana (Severed Hilt)

His gaze lingered on the last item.

The first weapon he ever bought from the shop.

The one that had drawn blood that day they left the police station — when the territory quest began.

He remembered that moment with painful clarity. The grip in his hands, the weightlessness in his body, the way the space around him had disappeared in the haze of instinct and fury. The screams had sounded far away. And the look in Ryu’s eyes when he tried to kill him—

It was the first time he’d felt out of control. Truly out of control.

That had been the birth of Bloodlust.

A skill he hadn’t seen since.

Jin furrowed his brows. It had been buried deep in his status window ever since, dormant. The system said it activated when blood was drawn. But it had never triggered again. Not when he used the gun. Not when he faced the Qu Sha. Not when he was facing the generals.

So why then? Why that moment?

He knelt slowly, setting the staff aside as he sat back against the edge of the sparring circle. The morning dew was cold against the back of his legs, but he didn’t notice.

Was it just because it was a blade?

Because it could cut?

His hands flexed unconsciously.

He’d drawn blood since then — hell, half the people they fought had left the battlefield bruised and bloodied. But it hadn’t been the same.

Jin exhaled, head leaning back slightly to stare up at the just-lightening sky.

"Maybe it’s not just about the blood."

Maybe it was about intent.

The blade hadn’t been dangerous because it could cut. It had been dangerous because he had wanted to use it. To end a threat — not stop it, not subdue it — end it.

Maybe that desire had called to the skill, or maybe the skill had amplified the desire. Either way, the two had fed into each other, and something terrifying had awoken.

He’d spent so long avoiding it.

Avoiding the edge.

The gun had been a loophole. Blunt, at range, distant. The pole — even more so. Flexible. Forgiving. Defensive.

None of them were designed to kill the way a blade was.

He pulled the broken katana from his inventory, summoning it into his hands. The hilt was still worn, the metal fractured just past the base. A ruin. A reminder.

But it had also been the only time he’d truly felt power snap into place.

Even now, holding the remains of it, something coiled faintly in his chest. Not fear. Not rage.

Recognition.

He turned the hilt in his hands. Slowly. Carefully. Not giving into the impulse, but not running from it either.

Bloodlust had been a system-given skill. He hadn’t chosen it. But it was his now. And he was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

"I can’t avoid it forever," he muttered.

The pole had taught him control. Defense. Balance.

But if he wanted to lead — to protect the people here, the ones who were counting on him — he couldn’t afford to keep limiting himself out of fear.

There would be more fights. Worse enemies. People who wouldn’t give him the chance to pick up a pipe or swing a length of cloth. And when that time came—

He needed to be ready.

Not just to fight.

To kill.

Not recklessly. Not cruelly. But if he had to — if it was the only way to make sure the people behind him survived — then he had to stop fearing what was already inside of him.

Jin stared at the broken blade one more time.

Then dismissed it, the hilt dissolving into flickers of light.

When he stood again, the three-section staff returned to his grip, and his stance felt... different.

He didn’t spin it this time.

Instead, he held it still — not like a borrowed tool, but something forged from a choice.

For now, he’d keep using it. But he knew what he needed to do next.

He needed to revisit the blade.

And not just to test the weapon.

But to test himself.

The sun crested the horizon behind the training yard, casting a long shadow from Jin’s figure across the grass.

He didn’t notice.

His eyes were forward now.

Focused.

Ready.