Looking back, I can still remember the first time I met Raf. A middle-aged man, of average height, unremarkable in appearance save for his complete and utter lack of motivation. His beard was a tangled mess, his hair even worse, and his eyes hung low, as if weighed down by years of disappointment.
At first glance, he looked like a man who had given up. And in many ways, he had.
But if there's one thing I learned in those days, it's that appearances lie.
The insignia on his arm marked him as a second-phase warrior, the Rank of Fang with three stripes. A man in his fifties, yet no stronger than Nisrin, who was barely in her twenties at the time. A testament to his lack of talent—or so I assumed.
I was wrong.
That day, in the empty training yard, he raised his hand. He launched a punch so fast I could only see its blur.
Crack!
The air itself seemed to split apart. A sharp, whip-like sound echoed across the space between us.
"Do you hear that?" Raf had asked me, his voice as dry as sandpaper. He didn't care if I was impressed or not. In fact, he seemed annoyed to even be explaining. "That… is the sound of a strike that moves faster than thought. That is the wind slap martial art. Common, but almost never mastered."
'He's strong, way stronger than Nisrin,' I remember thinking, impressed by his speed.
"This is the only martial art that doesn't rely on muscles," he continued. "But on your tendons. Your tendons are patient. They store energy. They wait. And when the moment is right—"
Crack!
This time, I actually felt the wind rush past my face.
"—they strike like a whip."
I had frowned then, still skeptical. "But isn't power about strength? Shouldn't we hit harder?"
"This martial art isn't about brute force. It's about speed. The Tendon Snap is not about forcing power. It's about storing it, then releasing it at the perfect moment in one strike," Raf explained.
'So this martial art is not strong like strength martial arts and not fluid as normal speed arts. It's all about that one strike. It does have a lot of problems for normal warriors, but for me, it will be perfect,' I remember thinking back then.
"The first step in learning this art," he had told me, "is to forget your muscles. Forget the idea of hitting with force. Your body is not a hammer. It is a whip—loose, fluid, waiting to snap at the right moment. Just mastering this step alone will take you months—maybe even years. Are you sure you want to learn this?"
Even now, I can still hear the certainty in my own voice when I answered:
"Yes. I'm sure."
At the time, I knew that learning this art would give me an understanding of my own body. A way to control Vahl more effectively, focusing it where I needed it most.
But more importantly—
I knew that when I concentrated Vahl into a single point, my body would become completely vulnerable. No defense. No protection.
In that moment, my only chance at survival would be to move faster than the strike meant to kill me.
And so, I trained.
Three months after that first lesson, Raf stood in the training yard with his arms crossed.
For the first time since I'd met him, his usual weary, beaten-down look was nowhere to be seen. The depression that had been etched into his face for decades had lifted, replaced by something I never expected to see—awe.
And pride.
I moved across the training ground, my strikes a blur, each attack leaving behind a sharp, snapping sound like a whip cracking through the air. I could feel his eyes on me, watching every movement, but he wasn't calling out corrections anymore. He wasn't sighing in disappointment.
He was sitting there, completely silent.
I remember catching a glimpse of him as I moved. Raf, the man who once looked like life had chewed him up and spat him out, sat with his arms on his knees, his expression lost in thought, in disbelief.
He had spent years mastering the Tendon Slap. It was a low-level martial art, dismissed by most because of its limitations. It relied on the natural elasticity of the tendons rather than brute muscle strength, allowing for explosive speed.
In theory, it should have been impossible to use effectively in real combat. The human body simply wasn't built to control tendons at will. You needed Vahl—not just to move them, but to protect them from the strain of each strike. But Vahl isn't very flexible in the human body—barely impossible to control it fully at will, which made the method have so many restrictions.
But because I can fully control the Vahl in my body, I never faced those problems.
But Raf never figured that out. But he knew in my hands, the Tendon Slap wasn't weak anymore.
Raf finally stood up and walked toward me, a rare smile on his face.
"I don't know how you did it," he said, shaking his head, "but you actually mastered the art that took me years in just three months. You have an unmatched talent in martial arts. I never thought anyone could push the Tendon Slap beyond its limits… but you did."
For the first time, I saw genuine respect in his eyes.
"With this, you might not reach the top ten in the trial, but you will rank up for sure."
"Thank you," I replied, emotionless as always.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a moment. Then, without another word, he pulled something from his pocket—a small, black stone.
I barely noticed it at first. It looked ordinary, unremarkable. But as soon as he extended it toward me, I felt something. A strange, unfamiliar energy pulsing within it.
"Take this," he said.
I accepted the stone, turning it over in my palm. It looked like nothing more than a simple rock.
"It's for your birthday. Happy birthday."
I froze. My birthday?
"I wasn't sure which day exactly, but I know it was last month," Raf continued. "Your mother always made a big fuss about it this time of year."
I blinked. My birthday had passed?
I hadn't even noticed.
I had been too caught up in training. Too focused on pushing forward. No one had reminded me.
For a moment, I just stared at the black stone. "Thank you, Raf… but what is this?"
He smiled. "You'll know when you reach the third stage. I wasn't able to reach it myself, but I'm sure you will."
I studied him carefully then, trying to understand what he was thinking. At the time, I didn't realize how much my progress had meant to him.
Back then, I didn't understand that, to Raf, this wasn't just about me.
It was about his life's work—a martial art that everyone had dismissed as weak, meaningless. A technique he had dedicated his entire life to mastering, only to be told it would never amount to anything.
But now, he had seen proof that he wasn't wrong. That his art wasn't useless.
And that meant everything to him.
The day of the trial had arrived.
The Zalagh woods stretched before us— a massive forest in the southern outskirts of the tribe, known for being used for all the trials that had been held before. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of damp earth and fresh leaves clinging to the morning mist.
Hundreds of children had gathered, including me. But no one was here to greet us.
No trainers.
No guards.
No instructions.
Just us.
Murmurs spread like wildfire among the children, whispers of confusion and unease. Some glanced around, expecting an elder or a warrior to emerge from the trees at any moment. But the longer we stood there, the clearer it became—we were on our own.
I stood still, arms crossed, my expression unreadable as I scanned the gathered crowd.
Most of them I recognized. Either from the rite of passage or because they belonged to the great families—children raised from birth to be warriors, trained in martial arts, Vahl manipulation, and, in some cases, killing.
Now unlike before, I could sense their power.
And many of them… intrigued me.
Especially the children of the great clans. Some bore the scent of spilled blood on their souls, a presence so thick that even I felt out of place among them.
Then, suddenly my attention was drawn to the trio standing at the edge of the clearing, silent and unmoving. Two boys and a girl, each wearing a mask that concealed most of their faces.
The Kazath Clan.
The warriors of the Eastern Castle.
They were known for their merciless, assassin-like techniques, warriors raised in the blood, trained not just to win fights—but to end them.
The girl stood with her arms folded, a long braid falling over her shoulder, her posture sharp and calculating. One of the boys stood just behind her, lean and quiet, his stance too relaxed—the mark of someone who could strike without warning.
But the last boy…
The moment my gaze landed on him, I knew.
He was the most dangerous one here.
His presence was heavy, he stood still, unmoving, his mask hiding whatever expression he might have had. But then, as if sensing my attention—he turned.
His eyes met mine.
Emotionless. Cold. Unshaken.
"He's strong. The strongest one here."
Movement in the crowd pulled my attention away. My gaze landed on a golden-haired boy surrounded by admirers—Lucas.
Lisa stood among them, her presence a quiet but undeniable force. It was obvious—Lucas had become the talk of the tribe after the rite.
"Of course. After him."
I exhaled through my nose, pushing the thought aside.
Suddenly, two of the children standing with Lucas broke away and walked toward me, smirks plastered across their faces.
I knew them.
The first was chubby, his face round and flushed with arrogance. The second was skinny, his head shaved, his dark eyes brimming with bad intentions.
"Look who it is," the shaved-head boy sneered. "Anazor, the prince of the Sorina Tribe."
I said nothing. I simply stared, my expression unmoving.
I knew who they were— Ron and Brael, sons of a second-ranked clan that follows the Chief of the tribe directly.
"Tell me, Anazor, do you remember the day you bullied us? At the Chief's birthday party?" Ron, the chubby one asked, his voice cold.
Bullied them?
I actually remembered saving a little girl from them that day.
"If it wasn't for your mother, we would've found a way to break your legs in the trial." Breal, The skinny one smirked.
Then, with a chuckle, Ron added, "Wait… isn't his mother already dead?"
A slow grin spread across the Breal's face.
"Oh, right! I forgot. She's dead." He let out a loud, mocking laugh, and the other joined in.
I remained silent.
"Just pray to the gods you don't run into us out there." One of them snickered. "We might just end your warrior career before it even begins."
I didn't even register which of them said it.
Because I wasn't listening anymore.
They turned and walked away, still laughing.
And then—
A roar filled the sky.
A gleaming, metallic shape emerged from beyond the trees, soaring above us. The children's murmurs turned to gasps, heads snapping upward to watch in awe.
"Is that… one of the Ancestors' machines?" someone whispered.