Moto spends the night pushing his limits, a desperate attempt to outrun the day's lingering frustrations. He recalls Mukai's frustrating truth about wind—how it subtly guides other powers—and finally notices the faint breeze shifting direction. With a sigh, he sits down to wait, needing the wind to align for his next smoke bomb attempt.
While he waits, his thoughts drift to Mukai's earlier question—the one about the dark smoke. The memory reopens an old, festering wound. He'd felt that surge of raw, untamed rage not just because Mukai pushed him, but because it starkly reminded him how far he still had to go. How utterly outmatched he was by others his age. How truly powerless he would be in the face of those older, more experienced. That moment had exposed a bitter truth he desperately tried to bury: his voice, his mere existence, still didn't matter in this world.
A haunting memory surfaces then, from six years ago: He's crowded into an old, rattling train carriage, tightly cradling his newborn sister, Amber, wrapped in a thin blanket. They are pressed against the warped metal window as the train lurches on unstable tracks. Outside, hordes of grotesque, red-skinned monsters claw at the sides, their blackened shells crashing against the steel with sickening thuds. Amber cries weakly in his arms. Trembling, a tiny, terrified child himself, Moto shields her from the horrifying sight, whispering desperate promises through the chaos. He vowed then that one day, she would live in a world without fear.
Now, the wind shifts. It begins to flow steadily in the bubble's direction.
Moto rises, grabbing a smoke bomb. He throws it—and this time, it glides farther than ever before, sailing effortlessly through the air, striking the water bubble with perfect aim... But the smoke disperses on contact. The bubble ripples, then settles, still unbroken. He sighs, a frustrated puff of smoke. Better, but not enough.
Then—heat.
A sudden, angry orange glow flares behind him, searing the air. A fireball screams past his face, a molten blur, striking the water bubble with a loud, violent explosion. Mukai, still asleep nearby, stirs, his eyes snapping open. He senses the water bubble burst.
Moto spots the lingering trail of scorched air and then—pain. His shoulder stings, a sharp, immediate burn. His shirt instantly catches fire. He slaps at it, patting out the flames quickly. He turns, and freezes.
Gwen, the Master of Fire, towers over him, a menacing silhouette against the rising sun.
Without a word of warning, Gwen grabs Moto by the collar, lifting him effortlessly. "Forfeit the match," Gwen growls, his voice low and utterly unamused. "It's humiliating enough that the King thought wasting my time was a good idea. I've already chosen my student."
Moto grits his teeth, defiance burning in his eyes. "No. This isn't about you. I won't be intimidated out of my shot."
Gwen pulls him closer, his hand igniting with fierce flames. He lifts his middle finger, revealing a gleaming red ring. "You see this?" Gwen snarls. "The King has the same ring on the same finger. I'm the one he calls when he wants to send a message. I'm the most feared of the King's Hand."
Moto struggles, throwing desperate punches and kicks, but Gwen's grip is iron. Flames scorch Moto's chest, blistering his skin. And yet... Moto doesn't scream.
It catches Gwen off guard. The boy is clearly in pain, his skin visibly blistering. But there is no fear, no begging, just raw, unyielding grit. Frustrated, Gwen's power surges. Flames roar up his body, solidifying into burning shoulder guards and formidable gauntlets.
"Moto!"
The voice slices through the oppressive heat, sharp with urgency. Gwen pauses, his teeth clenched, then turns—and his eyes widen as he sees who stands there.
Prince Mukai steps into the clearing, his expression cold and challenging.
"Prince Mukai... what are you doing here?" Gwen asks, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
Mukai stares coldly. "Go back to your post. Now."
Gwen slowly lowers Moto, then brushes past the Prince, a faint, parting hiss aimed at Moto. "Quit. Or else."
Once Gwen is gone, Mukai rushes to Moto's side, immediately summoning cool water to soothe the angry burns blistering his skin.
Moto, gasping for breath, is fuming. "This long-range thing—it's not gonna work. I'll just have to get in close and take damage if it means I land something solid."
"You sure about that?" Mukai asks, raising a brow, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
Moto stands, brushing the dirt off his scorched clothes, and nods. Mukai watches him for a moment, then an idea sparks in his eyes. He forms another water bubble. Moto groans. "I said long range won't work."
"Just wait," Mukai says, ignoring the complaint. He crafts a long, transparent cylinder of water suspended in the air above them, releasing random droplets like scattered rain. "Pop the bubble," Mukai instructs, "without getting wet."
Moto squints up at the falling water, then nods. This is a drill in evasion. Dodging mid-combat attacks.
Moto trains relentlessly all week. He only leaves the training grounds for brief moments to check on Sheu.
Sheu, meanwhile, grows increasingly convinced that something is being hidden from her. She asks Sukai to discreetly find out where her father was last deployed. Sukai tries. His father, King Douglas, refuses. "It's classified." That single phrase only fuels Sheu's suspicion. Determined, she immediately applies for a travel pass. If they won't give her answers, she'll leave the kingdom and find them herself.
The week passes in a blur of intense training and quiet desperation. The Succession Trials are now just one day away. In the training grounds, the afternoon sun casts long shadows as Moto stands beneath the suspended water cylinder. The target bubble waits patiently on the other side.
With a precise puff of smoke, he dashes forward—weaving, ducking, rolling through the falling droplets, a blur of motion. At the last second, he kicks off his shoe. It spins, a dark projectile, striking the water bubble cleanly. It pops. Not a single drop of water touches him.
Mukai approaches slowly, a faint smile touching his lips. He claps, a soft, respectful sound. "I'm impressed. Looks like you might not die after all."
Moto lands hard in the grass and throws up a tired thumbs-up, barely able to lift his arm.
Elsewhere, high in the forested mountains, Najo's arduous training continues. Dope and Gango watch him with pride.
"You've come far, man," Gango says, a rare note of admiration in his voice.
Panting, Najo nods, sweat glistening on his brow. "You guys are good too."
"Hey, brother," Dope grins, nudging Gango, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "Think it's time we show him the secret move?"
Gango smirks. "Yeah... we never mastered it ourselves, but maybe he can."
Najo perks up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "A secret technique?"
Dope glances around, his eyes landing on a bird perched innocently in the branches above. "Yeah. We call it... Hummingbird."
Najo raises an eyebrow, a flicker of disbelief. "Hummingbird? That's the name of a lightning technique?"
"You wanna learn it or not?" Dope asks, feigning offense.
"Of course," Najo says, his interest piqued. "If it gets the old man off my back, I'm all in."
Gango grins. "Cool. We'll need to go higher. That move's so destructive it might draw attention down here."
Najo nods. The three of them vanish into the dense forested mountains, leaving no trace behind.
Night falls. The trials are nearly here. And across the kingdom, in quiet anticipation, the contenders sharpen their edge.