Fear is not weakness.
Anyone who believes that has never faced the First Spinjitzu Master.
The moment the battle ended, the moment his presence vanished beyond the fractured horizon, I did not celebrate. I did not linger. I vanished. Power means nothing if it is exposed, and right now, exposure meant death—or worse, containment. That man was not simply powerful. He was inevitable. Even exhausted, even wounded, even forced to split his own world in desperation, he remained terrifyingly beyond reason.
So I hid.
Not underground, not behind armies or barriers or walls of stone. Those things were obvious. Predictable. Instead, I buried myself beneath normalcy.
The shapeshifting spell was elegant. Simple. Effective. I stripped my aura down to a whisper, folded my magic inward, wrapped my true form in layers of illusion and misdirection. My height changed. My posture softened. My presence dulled. Where once shadows bent toward me, now they ignored me entirely. I became forgettable. A traveler. A scholar. Just another face among thousands.
And for the first time in a long while… I stayed still.
I chose a remote settlement, far from major landmarks, far from ancient temples and dragon energy flows. No grand ley lines. No obvious magic saturation. A place so unimportant that even destiny would overlook it. I rented a modest dwelling—wood, stone, nothing ornate. The kind of place no god, master, or monster would ever bother to look twice at.
I kept my staff hidden, dismantled, sealed within a dimensional fold woven into my shadow. My spellcasting ceased entirely unless absolutely necessary. No lightning. No forbidden magic. No dramatic gestures. I breathed like a mortal. Slept like one. Ate like one. It was… unpleasant.
But effective.
The First Spinjitzu Master did not understand magic the way I did. His power was instinctual, elemental, cosmic. Creation and destruction. Dragons and balance. He felt power, commanded it through will and legacy. But subtle, academic, ritualized magic? The kind that layered intent beneath intent, that disguised itself as mundanity?
That was my advantage.
And while I hid, I studied.
Ninjago's magic was… strange. It was not like the structured spellcraft I knew, nor the raw chaos of forbidden arts. It was contextual. Environmental. Woven into history, belief, and balance. Magic here responded not only to power, but to meaning. To stories. To symbols. To roles people played in the world.
Fascinating.
I spent days, then weeks, gathering fragments of knowledge. Old texts written by monks who barely understood what they were recording. Folktales passed down through generations, distorted but still potent. Symbols carved into shrines, half-eroded by time, still humming faintly with residual intent. Even children's stories—especially children's stories—contained echoes of true magic.
Ninjago's magic was narrative magic.
That realization alone changed everything.
Power here was not merely accumulated. It was earned, acknowledged, recognized. The First Spinjitzu Master was strong not only because of his abilities, but because the world itself accepted him as what he was. A creator. A protector. A foundational force. The land responded to him because it believed in him.
Which meant… belief could be manipulated.
I began careful experiments. Minuscule ones. I crafted charms so small they barely registered, anchoring them to local stories, local fears, local myths. I let rumors spread—quiet ones. Not about me, never about me, but about ideas. Shadows that moved strangely. Places where luck failed. Old spirits that watched but did not interfere.
I observed the results.
The magic responded.
Slowly. Subtly. But undeniably.
I realized then that Ninjago's magic could be rewritten, not through brute force, but through influence. Through shaping perception. Through guiding belief. If enough people accepted a truth, even unconsciously, the magic bent to accommodate it.
That was dangerous knowledge.
I kept it close.
Each night, I expanded my understanding, carefully integrating this new system into my existing spellcraft. I did not replace my magic. I adapted it. Layered Ninjago's narrative magic atop forbidden spells, using it as a stabilizing matrix. Where my old magic consumed and corrupted, this new framework anchored it.
For the first time, my power grew without screaming its presence into the world.
And still… I remained afraid.
Not panicked. Not desperate. But aware.
The First Spinjitzu Master haunted my thoughts. The way he stood against armies. The way creation and destruction obeyed him like extensions of his will. The way he endured attacks that should have erased gods. I replayed the battle endlessly, analyzing every movement, every response, every weakness revealed.
He was not invincible.
But he was relentless.
If he ever discovered my survival—my presence, my growth—he would not hesitate. He would come for me with finality. No warnings. No mercy. No second chances.
So I hid deeper.
I began masking not just my aura, but my intent. I trained myself to think smaller thoughts when near others, to suppress ambition, to dull the sharp edges of my will. I practiced becoming invisible not just magically, but socially. Forgettable. Unimportant. Harmless.
It was infuriating.
But necessary.
And in that stillness, in that enforced humility, I learned more than I ever had while conquering. I learned restraint. Timing. Patience. I learned that power unused could be power refined. That silence could sharpen a blade better than constant warfare.
My enemies believed I was gone.
The Overlord was fractured, reforming somewhere beyond reach. The First Spinjitzu Master was rebuilding his world, his balance, his confidence. No one hunted me. No one watched for me.
Good.
Let them forget.
Because when I emerge again, it will not be as a warlord announcing my return with armies and storms. It will be as something far more dangerous.
A truth Ninjago has already begun to believe.
And when the First Spinjitzu Master finally senses me again…
It will be far too late.