The entire training grounds was quiet now. Quiet, and heavy.
Dust curled in the silence, swaying with the tension that hung in the air like mist. Everyone was watching in anticipation. Itekan stood, one foot on the mat, the other planted at its edge like a soldier staring into a battlefield.
Across the ring, his second dagger lay motionless.
He stood still for a moment.
Then—
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
And again.
He closed his eyes, drowning out the world.
A single beat of his heart.
Another.
He began to leap softly in place, not high, just steady vertical motions—controlled, almost meditative. Each spring of his legs reset the rhythm of his body. Each exhale cast off a lingering thread of hesitation. His head cooled. His thoughts, once a clutter of instincts and flashes, became still. Sharp. Singular.
By the time he opened his eyes, everything else was gone.
There was only the ring.
And Zanzo.
The taller boy stepped in from the far side. He looked confident—smirking, sword held poised in stance, read to attack at any given moment. But even he sensed something had shifted in Itekan. The silence. The poise. That eerie calm.
They circled each other.
No words.
Eyes locked. Breathing measured.
Itekan saw it.
An opening.
And he moved.
Zoom.
He vanished. Zanzo's eyes darted, wide. A sharp spin. His blade lashed behind him—only to catch air.
A fake.
From below, Itekan shot forward. A jab toward the hip. Zanzo twisted to parry—
—And caught a roundhouse kick square to the temple. His head snapped sideways with a sickening thud.
Before he could recover, Itekan was already gone again, skimming back across the mat. Zanzo recovered and rushed in with a wide arcing sweep, eyes sharp, his form erratic and aggressive.
Wood sliced the air.
Itekan dodged by the breath of his hair.
Again.
And again.
Zanzo's swings came faster, at wild angles, trying to pin Itekan down. He refused to be caught.
Then came the shift.
Itekan ducked under a slash and launched himself forward. Daggers moved in a blur—each strike a surgical precision.
Stab.
To the gut.
Stab.
To the ribs.
Stab.
To the sternum.
Three blows landed before Zanzo could even tighten his grip. He gasped, body folding slightly—
Then retaliated. A wild upward slash meant to split Itekan in two.
It hit.
But the body tore in half—and vanished.
An afterimage.
Zanzo froze.
His instincts flared. But it was too late.
Itekan was behind him.
Twin daggers raised.
Poised for the neck.
In that fraction of a heartbeat, Zanzo saw what was coming. If it landed, he would be unconscious at best. Paralyzed at worst. He didn't flinch.
He let it happen.
CRACK—!
The wooden daggers drove in, just beneath the jawline—perfect placement, deadly angles. They struck with such force that the sound echoed off the rafters. For a moment, Zanzo stood upright, spine rigid—
Then collapsed.
He hit the mat like dead weight.
Blood sprayed.
Not a trickle. A sudden burst, arterial, spraying across Itekan's arms and the mat.
His eyes widened. His breath stopped.
That… wasn't supposed to happen.
He dropped the daggers instantly.
"Zanzo!?"
Zanzo's throat gurgled, his hands desperately clutching his neck. Blood poured between his fingers. His body convulsed once. Twice. His eyes rolled back.
Itekan's hands were shaking as he tore off part of his sleeve and pressed it against the wound. "No, no, no—stay awake, Zanzo, stay with me—!"
His voice cracked.
"ROSE!!"
His shout was primal.
Rose sprinted across the ring, sliding to her knees. Her hands already glowed green as she screamed the incantations. The light from her palms pressed against Zanzo's neck, but even she paled at the sheer volume of blood spilling across her hands.
"He's crashing—!" she whispered, panic cracking through her control.
The other students had begun to gather at the edge of the room. Some gasped. Others turned away. But none laughed. None dismissed it.
This was real.
This was life and death.
And standing among them was Pwain.
Unmoving.
Kutote stepped forward, fury rising in his chest. "You could've stopped that! You watched—he almost died!"
Pwain didn't blink. "And what would that have taught him?"
Kutote's fists clenched. "That we're not monsters!"
"This world is," Pwain said coldly. "The sooner you all learn that, the better your odds of surviving it."
"But he's not—"
"Dead?" Pwain interrupted. "No. He might yet live. If Rose does her job. And if Zanzo's spirit doesn't give out before then."
Kutote stared at him, jaw clenched. It took everything not to lash out. Not to draw his own blade and test if Pwain bled like a man or a god.
But he didn't.
He turned instead, fists trembling.
He had grown soft.
He remembered the cold clarity of survival. Of vengeance. Of Flocker's body broken and the promise he made before the flame took him.
Never again.
That vow roared in his chest now.
As Itekan and the others lifted Zanzo—his body limp, his blood staining all of them—Kutote didn't follow. He only watched.
And in that moment, he made a vow too.
One day, he would be strong enough that no one else would fall because he hesitated.
Strong enough that not even the gods could ignore him.
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Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)
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