"To live in the present is to carry the weight of every second."
Five-thirty in the morning came way too early.
Way too soon.
I dragged myself out of bed, eyes barely open, feet shuffling across the floor like I was wading through the flooded streets of Barangay Ilog in Infanta. Mornings were always rough, but today was worse—I'd barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw violet eyes staring through a camera, or heard a crackling sound like thunder with lightning, or felt myself drowning while someone just stood there watching.
But this was important. Training. My new ability. Whatever it is I am now.
I grabbed my gym bag and slipped out quietly. Shuttle whined at the door, his tail wagged expectantly, wanting to come along. I knelt on one knee and scratched his ears and promised him a run later.
The air around the foothills of Mt. Banahaw was cool and fresh—give it an hour and the heat would be back, harsh, uncaring, and bossy, like it owned everything on this side of Quezon.
Coach B was already at the gym, sitting on the bleachers with two steaming cups. The aroma was enticing—salted caramel coffee. His favorite.
"Natulog ka ba?" he asked by way of greeting, handing me one of the cups.
"No. Couldn't sleep." I accepted the coffee gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my hands. "Kept thinking about... everything."
"That's understandable. Even an adult can be overwhelmed by finding out you're a Resonant. It simply isn't something you can process overnight." He stood, setting his cup aside. "But we don't have time to ease you into this. You awakened your ability yesterday—and it's not asking if you're ready. And an uncontrolled Resonance can be inconvenient, or worse, dangerous."
I followed him onto the court. The gym was eerily quiet—just buzzing lights and distant roosters. Through the high windows, I could see the sky beginning to lighten.
"So how do we do this?" I pulled out my racket, feeling its familiar weight. "How do I control something I don't understand?"
Coach B grabbed a shuttle from the basket. "What did it feel like yesterday? What was different during those times when it worked?"
I closed my eyes, trying to recall. "Everything got... clearer. Like when those crime shows use that blue light thing. Everything just looked bluish but vivid all of a sudden. I knew at once that time didn't slow down, but I felt like it did for me—like I had more time to… think. To see 'options.'"
"Hmm. So that's your Neural Resonance—we'll call it Insight." He tossed me the shuttle. "But you couldn't turn it on whenever you wanted to. It just happened."
"Right. I tried maybe twenty times. But it only worked three times, when I stopped trying."
"Exactly." Coach B nodded. "Neural Resonances can overload your head. They're connected to your mental state, focus, and consciousness. You can't force them like flexing a muscle. You have to achieve the right mindset first."
He gestured to the service line. "For you, based on what you've told me, that mindset is living completely in the present. No thinking about past rallies. No stressing about the next one. Just pour your entire consciousness on 'now,' and live in this one shot or this one point."
"That sounds impossible during a real match."
"Not impossible. Just hard as hell, at first. That's why we train." He walked to the opposite side. "Ill serve. Don't worry about how you return—your job is to try and use Insight before you hit. I don't care if you return or miss the shuttle. I just want you to use Insight on purpose."
"That's it?"
"That's everything." He served—high and deep into my backcourt.
I watched the shuttle arc through the air and tried to find that mental state.
Present moment. Nothing else matters.
Just now.
Just this shuttle.
Just—
The shuttle sailed over my outstretched racket and landed on the floor.
"Again," Coach B said. No judgment. Just patience.
Again. And again. And again.
Thirty minutes passed. Thirty minutes of straight misses. My frustration grew more intense with each attempt. The harder I tried to focus on the present, the more my mind went everywhere else—past mistakes, future consequences, all that pressure.
"Stop." Coach B finally called. "You're trying too hard. You're acting like the present's something you have to chase instead of something you're already in."
"I don't understand the difference."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Tell me why you love badminton."
The question caught me off guard. "What?"
"Why this sport? Out of everything, why badminton?"
I lowered my racket. "Because... when I'm playing badminton, it's just me, the shuttle and the court. No exams, no pressure, no family stuff—everything else just disappears."
"Exactly. You're not 'trying' to make everything disappear—it already has. You're already in the present when you play. You just need to recognize that feeling and deepen it." He picked up another shuttle. "One more time. But this time, don't try to activate Insight. Just play. Love the game. Be in the moment."
He served.
The shuttle rose once again in a gentle arc. I watched it, not trying to slow time or sharpen perception. Just... watching. Appreciating the way it tumbled through air, feathers catching fluorescent light. Feeling my racket's weight. Sensing the court beneath my feet.
Then it happened.
The world shifted.
Not dramatically. Not like flipping a switch. More like the creeping glow of sunlight at dawn—slowly, revealing something that had always been there.
The world lit up with that blue light again. And under that bluish glow, I could read the shuttle—its spin, its trajectory—like subtitles in the air.
Time didn't slow down. It was me who slowed down. My perception expanded. Every tiny moment stretched out till I could take in everything—the spin, the arc, the "why" behind each detail.
I stepped in without any second thought and tapped a drop shot so soft it kissed the tape before falling over.
The sensation faded as the rally ended.
"There." Coach B said, the faintest hint of a grin on his voice. "That's Insight. Your Neural Resonance kicked in right there."
I stared at my hands. They were trembling slightly. "I did it."
"Once. Now do it a hundred times more—no, a thousand. Until it becomes second nature to you." Coach scooped up another bunch of shuttles, ready to fire again.
"Again."
We kept at it for another hour. I only pulled off Insight about once out of every five tries—still trash, I know, but better than nothing.
Each time I picked up something new—breathe slower, loosen the shoulders, stop doubting. The moment I second-guessed, my grasp of Insight vanished.
By seven, I was wiped out. Not my body—my brain. Like I'd been cramming for finals without sleeping. Every time I triggered Insight, it felt like flexing a muscle I'd never exercised—one that got sore fast.
"That's enough for today," Coach B said, seeing me sway. "Using your Resonance drains your mental endurance fast. Push too hard and you'll crash. We'll train every morning—early, before the others—until you have better control."
"How long will that take?"
"Weeks… Maybe it could take years." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, we don't have a textbook or manual that can help guide us to mastering Resonance. It's like taking a bus to a place you've never been—no clue when you'll get there… Some could never really figure it out, even after years." He paused. "Others get it fast—because they have no choice. Let's hope you're not in that category."
The reminder of Gen-X and the Emperor nearly made my knees buckle.
"Go get breakfast," Coach B said. "Regular practice starts at eight. And remember—"
"Don't tell anyone. I know."
I headed for the locker room. As I pushed the door open, I heard voices—some teammates were already there.
"—absolutely dismantled him. Twenty-one to seven. Wasn't even close."
"That's Kenshin for you. Guy's a monster."
"Yeah, but he never talks to anyone. It's weird."
I turned the corner and saw three girls sitting on the benches.
The first one noticed me and smiled. She was petite—maybe five or six inches shorter than I am—hair loose around her shoulders. Everything about her movements looked measured, precise.
"You're the new guy. Liam, right? The one who won yesterday?"
"Yeah. That's me."
"Dhyne Gutierrez." She offered her hand. I shook it—her grip was surprisingly strong. "Singles player. I'm all about control and placement."
The second girl was shorter but looked strong, her hair split into two tight ponytails. She also wore volleyball shoes instead of badminton ones. "Mhymel Sanchez. Defensive specialist, which means I dive for everything. And that my body hates me." She added as an afterthought. "Welcome to SWAT."
The third girl was tall—several inches taller than I was—and wore a bright yellow headband. "Honey Grace Dalisay." She said, grinning. "I play doubles with Laureen—I'm the backcourt hammer."
"Nice to meet you all." I set my bag down. "Where's everyone else?"
"Laureen's probably running late," Dhyne said. "And Kenshin..." She glanced at Mhymel.
"Kenshin is… different," Mhymel finished. "He's part of the team, but he trains solo most days. He just shows up for matches and official practice."
"He's the guy you were talking about? The one who won twenty-one to seven?"
"That was last week." Honey Grace shook her head. "Kenshin doesn't just win. He hammers. His smashes keep getting heavier the longer the rally goes."
I felt a prickle of recognition. Building power with consecutive shots—that sounded like a Resonance. Kinetic type, maybe?
Was Kenshin a Resonant too?
"You okay?" Mhymel asked. "You look pale."
"Just tired. Long morning." I forced myself to smile. "So what should I expect from practice?"
They filled me in—conditioning drills, footwork exercises, multi-shuttle feeding, practice games. Tough, but nothing that I couldn't handle.
Then Laureen Santos showed up—athletic, full of energy, and super tall. She immediately started talking about how she helped her lola carry the groceries, explaining why she came in later than usual.
We headed to the main court together. For a moment, it felt normal. Just students who loved badminton, ready to train.
No supernatural abilities.
No emperors hunting people with powers.
Just the sport.
Then I saw him.
He was alone on the far court, doing footwork drills so fast his feet seemed to blur. Even from there, I could feel the intensity of his focus and the controlled power in his movements. He wore black, moved like someone who'd been training forever.
Kenshin Momota.
"That's him," Dhyne said quietly. "Don't take it personally if he doesn't acknowledge you. He's like that with everyone."
But as if he'd heard, Kenshin stopped and turned to look directly at us. Directly at—me.
His eyes were blue—bright, intense blue—and there was something in them. Recognition? Assessment?
We stared at each other across the gym. I felt that same prickle I'd felt with Coach B yesterday. The sense of something hidden beneath the surface.
He was a Resonant. I was suddenly certain.
The question was: did he know I was one too?
Kenshin looked one last time, then went back to his drills. Yep—he wasn't the type for small talk.
"Come on," Mhymel said, tugging my arm. "Let's warm up before Coach gets here."
Practice began at eight sharp. Coach B ran us through conditioning that left my legs burning and lungs gasping. Then footwork—split steps, lunges, defensive retrievals, offensive positioning. Everything was timed, measured, and critiqued.
The whole time, I could feel Kenshin nearby—his rhythm building, every step sharper than the last, like he was charging something invisible.
We rotated through multi-shuttle feeding drills. Coach B stood at the net with a basket, flicking shuttles in rapid succession—cross-court, straight, drop, clear, smash.
It was brutal—but kind of addictive.
When my turn came, I focused on staying present. Not trying to activate Insight, just being completely engaged. Three minutes of continuous feeding left me drenched and gasping.
"Nice effort, Velasco," Coach B said. "Your footwork still needs work, but you're reading the shots well."
It was high praise from him, apparently. Dhyne gave me a congratulatory pat.
After an hour of drills, Coach B divided us into practice matches. "Dhyne versus Mhymel on court one. Honey Grace and Laureen, practice your doubles rotation on court two. Kenshin..."
He paused. My stomach dropped.
"Kenshin, you're with Velasco on court three. Singles. First to eleven."
Oh no.
Kenshin looked up from his water bottle, expression unreadable. Then nodded once and walked to court three.
I followed, legs suddenly unsteady like I'd just finished a five-k run.
"Don't worry," Mhymel whispered as I passed. "He goes easy in practice. Usually."
The "usually" didn't help.
I took my spot. Kenshin stood across, casually bouncing the shuttle on his racket—left-handed. Up close, he looked even more intimidating, built like someone who's lived on a badminton court.
"Service, Velasco," Coach B called from the sideline.
I served—simple flick serve. Kenshin returned with a casual drop shot I barely reached. I lifted it back, and he smashed.
The sound nearly shocked me out of my socks.
I got my racket up on pure reflex. Somehow the shuttle bounced off my strings and sailed back over. Kenshin was already there, putting it away with a precise kill.
1-0.
"Again," Kenshin said quietly, voice steady, almost calm.
We played. And I was completely, utterly outclassed.
Kenshin didn't just beat me—he destroyed me. He was positioned for every shot I made. Every weakness was exploited ruthlessly. His clears sent me scrambling deep into each corner. His drops left me diving on all fours. His smashes were devastating.
But what struck me most was the pattern. As rallies continued, his shots gained intensity. The first smash was hard. The third smash was harder. By the seventh, I struggled to even see the shuttle.
Kinetic Resonance. I was sure of it now.
The score reached 10-1. My lone point came off a lucky forehand slice that caught the net before tumbling down on his side. Everything else was pure dominance.
On match point, Kenshin served. I returned, and we began the longest rally of the match. Back and forth—clear to drop to drive to lift. Twenty shots. Thirty. My lungs burned, vision blurred, but I refused to quit.
I tried to activate Insight. Present moment. Just this rally. Just this shot.
But nothing clicked. My mind was all noise.
Kenshin smashed. I dove desperately and somehow got my racket on it. The shuttle looped back, weak and high. Kenshin jumped—impossibly high—and put it away with a smash that echoed across the gym when it hit the floor.
11-1.
I lay flat on the court, gasping. Every muscle felt like it was on fire.
A shadow fell across me. Kenshin, offering his hand.
I took it. He pulled me up, surprisingly gentle for someone who'd just destroyed me.
"You have some skill," he said quietly, speaking directly to me for the first time. "Don't waste it… Like I did."
Before I could ask what he meant, he turned and walked away.
"Good effort, Velasco!" Coach B called. "Go wash up—you're done for today."
I stumbled off the court. Dhyne handed me a towel and water.
"You lasted longer than most against Kenshin in their first match," she said encouragingly. "I tapped out at seven-zero."
"He's... incredible," I managed between gulps.
"He is. But he's also...' She hesitated. 'It's like he's running from something. You can feel it when he plays—like he's fighting someone who's not even on court."
I thought about Kenshin's words. *Don't waste it like I did.* And I thought about the video I'd watched. Kristoff destroying an opponent 21-0 in Japan.
Had that opponent been Kenshin?
I sat the rest of practice out, just watching. Then I noticed something that made the hairs on my neck rise.
Someone was outside the gym—a man in his twenties wearing a red and gold Gen-X jacket, standing near the entrance. He was not doing anything suspicious. He was just there—standing, occasionally checking his phone. But watching. Always watching.
During the water break, I approached Coach B. "That guy outside. Is he—"
"Yes," Coach B cut me off quietly. "Gen-X scout. Been showing up for two weeks. Ever since Kenshin joined."
"They're after him?"
"They're after everyone with talent. But yes, they are especially interested in Kenshin." He glanced at me. "And now, probably you too."
My mouth went dry. "How would they know about me? I just awakened yesterday."
"Scouts have ways of spotting talent—even before you do," he said, one hand firm on my shoulder. "That's why I told you to keep quiet. Once Gen-X knows for sure, they'll come. And they're not always polite about it."
Practice ended at noon. As we filed out, I couldn't help looking for the Gen-X scout. He was still there, leaning against a tree, still watching.
Our eyes met.
He smiled.
Then pulled out his phone and seemed to make a call. His eyes remained fixed on me the whole time. I bolted at that point.
I ran home with my heart pounding, glancing over my shoulder every few strides. The familiar streets of my neighborhood suddenly felt exposed. Every parked car could contain a watcher. Every pedestrian could be a scout.
When I finally reached home and locked the door, I leaned against it and closed my eyes.
One day. I'd been a Resonant for one day, and already my life felt like it was spiraling out of control.
My phone buzzed.
A text popped up—unknown number. My heart thudded.
"Nice practice today. You show promise. We'll be watching your progress with great interest. - A Friend"
I deleted the message immediately, my hands shaking.
They knew. Gen-X knew about me.
And somewhere out there, the Emperor was building his collection.
And it's just a matter of time before he finally comes for me.