Rakan winced as he moved through the Mazanka's run-down training compound, a sharp throb rippling through his side. He pressed a hand against his abdomen. The blood soaked through the white of his white button-down. Damn thing hadn't stopped bleeding since his run-in with the corrupt back in the alley.
"Uh, excuse me?!" Mazanka called behind him, casually twirling a piece of what may or may not have been a rice cracker seeming to have appeared out of thin air. "You planning to leak Ka'ro juice all over my floor?"
"I'm fine," Rakan grunted.
Mazanka narrowed his eyes with a dramatic gasp, stepping in close like he'd just discovered some great cosmic horror.
"Fine?" he rushed as if the world was collapsing, grabbing the edge of Rakan's shirt with flair. "You call this fine?! God, You're haemorrhaging! Bleeding out! A tragic end to a promising youth—struck down in the prime of life by his own stubborn silence."
Rakan yanked his shirt back. "You knew I had this injury already! You saw it."
"Yes, but I thought you had the common sense to ask for a fix before we started throwing Ka'ro around like confetti!" Mazanka crouched, pretending as if he, himself, hadn't forgotten about the wound's existence as he peered at the wound with a squint of his eye, as if it were a riddle only he could solve. "Tch. Honestly. If this keeps up, I'll have to carry your limp corpse home to your mother. That'd be awkward. 'Sorry, your only child bled out because he didn't want to look weak in front of me. You're a chronically bereaved now. My bad.'"
Rakan's eye twitched. "Can you just fix it already?"
"Oh, sure, now he wants my help." Mazanka stood, popped his knuckles with a flourish, and then pointed two fingers at Rakan's gut like he was about to cast a deadly spell. "Hold still. This may burn, itch, sting, twist your insides, or make you poop uncontrollably. Depends on your Ka'ro sensitivity. And, hey, maybe if I'm lucky, you won't die. That would suck, a lot. If you died, I mean. Duh."
"What?"
Mazanka didn't answer. His hand hovered dramatically over the wound. A soft, golden-blue light pulsed from his fingers, faint as a whisper but warm, tingling deep into Rakan's skin. Rakan tensed, but the pain dulled almost immediately. The bleeding stopped. The wound tightened. Within seconds, it was gone—just faint scarring left beneath the dried blood.
"There." Mazanka dropped his hand like he'd just healed a dying god. "You're welcome. Saved your life. Again."
"…That's it?" Rakan blinked. "That's all it took?"
Mazanka stepped back, flipping the imaginary cape of his tattered overcoat. "I mean, yeah. I already figured your Ka'ro was self-repairing, it just needed a kick. Your body does all the work, I'm just the gorgeous switch that flips it on."
Rakan stared at him, deadpan. "You made it sound like I was going to explode."
"You might have!" Mazanka shot back, walking ahead and waving him to follow. "I don't know everything, Rakan. I only know most things."
"There's something seriously wrong with you."
"You say that now," Mazanka said cheerily. "But one day you'll cry tears of joy thinking of this moment. 'Thank you, O Great Mazanka, for mending my flesh with your divine touch!'—you'll write poetry about me."
Rakan gave him a murderous glare. "You're lucky I don't punch you in the mouth."
Mazanka grinned, not turning around. "You're lucky you don't try."
The air crackled with an unnatural tension as Rakan stood on the cracked earth, his body tense and bracing against the overwhelming presence of Ka'ro that surged through the land. Mazanka's eyes gleamed with anticipation, and his posture was relaxed, almost as if he were observing a casual sparring match.
"Now, ready to rumble, kid?" Mazanka's voice echoed through the charged silence. His tone was light, teasing even, but there was no mistaking the power that simmered beneath it.
Rakan's heart pounded in his chest as he locked eyes with Mazanka. Every instinct screamed at him to act, to retaliate, but something held him back—something deep within him. The Ka'ro was all around, like an invisible ocean, and he had no idea how to navigate its depths.
Mazanka raised his hand, and with a sudden motion, the ground beneath Rakan's feet exploded upward, sending jagged rocks hurtling toward him like missiles. Rakan's reflexes kicked in, and he leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding the rocks as they shattered on impact behind him. His pulse quickened, his senses sharpening.
"You're slow," Mazanka said with a knowing smile, his fingers twitching with the flicker of power. "Faster. Keep up."
Before Rakan could react, Mazanka moved, blurring in and out of existence in a flash. Rakan's eyes barely had time to track him as Mazanka reappeared behind him, a twisted grin spreading across his face.
"Ka'ro isn't about strength," Mazanka said as he launched forward. His hand, glowing with dark energy, aimed to strike Rakan in the back. "It's about connection. It's about feeling the world around you, not just fighting it."
Rakan's instincts kicked in, his body moving of its own accord as he twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding Mazanka's strike. The ground beneath his feet cracked again, and the air grew thick, saturated with Ka'ro, swirling around him like a living thing.
"I—" Rakan gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "I can't feel it! How are you—?!"
Mazanka's grin widened. "You're not supposed to feel it right now, not like me though. I'm too great, you can't replicate great. But you can find your own off brand version. You just need to find your own connection. Your own thread."
The air rippled, and Mazanka's figure shimmered. Suddenly, the world around them twisted. Dark tendrils of Ka'ro shot out from the ground, lashing toward Rakan with incredible speed. He barely had time to react, raising his arms to shield himself. The tendrils wrapped around him, squeezing tight, their sharp edges pressing into his skin.
"Focus, Rakan!" Mazanka's voice rang out from somewhere above, a distorted echo. "You're not going to break free by brute strength. Don't think like an ape. You're not going to overpower it. You have to find your thread—your connection to Ka'ro."
Rakan's mind raced. His chest was tight, the Ka'ro pressing in on him from all sides. It felt like he was suffocating, drowning in an ocean of power.
"Find my thread," Rakan muttered under his breath. The words didn't make sense to him, but something inside urged him to try. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, shutting out the world around him. He let go of everything—the fear, the panic, the doubt.
At first, nothing changed. But then… something began to stir. Like a faint whisper on the wind, Rakan could feel it—a pulse, deep within his chest. A faint thread of Ka'ro that hummed quietly beneath the surface. It was barely a flicker, but it was there.
The tendrils tightening around him suddenly felt… different. No longer were they a threat. Instead, they felt like a part of him, like a pulse in the very fabric of his being.
That's it.
Rakan's eyes snapped open, and for the first time, he could see it—a dark thread of Ka'ro, thin but glowing, connecting him to the land beneath him. It was unlike anything he had ever felt, like a part of him that had always been there but hidden, waiting to be uncovered.
Without thinking, Rakan reached out with his own energy, pulling on the thread, and the tendrils of Ka'ro around him began to shift. They stopped tightening, their grasp loosening as the power of Ka'ro flowed into him, not as a weapon, but as a connection. The tendrils turned, twisting and shifting into something new—something Rakan could control.
Mazanka's voice rang out from above. "Not bad, kid. You found it, didn't you? I can finally add proud mother hen to my resume now. I can die happy. Pfft. How about trying to control it now?"
Rakan felt the surge of power within him, the thread of Ka'ro glowing bright in his chest. The tendrils responded to his will, twisting and warping like snakes around his form. He concentrated, his hands moving with the rhythm of Ka'ro as he guided the threads in the air. For a moment, he felt the connection, the pulse, and it felt right. He wasn't fighting the Ka'ro anymore—he was a part of it.
Then, the Ka'ro moved on its own, surging out of him like a living force, lashing out at the air with wild abandon.
"No, no, control it!" Mazanka shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.
Rakan's eyes widened in panic. The Ka'ro was out of his control, wild and untamed. He yanked on the thread, trying to pull it back, but it was like trying to stop a storm. The Ka'ro lashed out again, ripping through the ground and tearing the air apart in a chaotic frenzy.
Mazanka appeared in front of him, his eyes hard. "Focus! This isn't a game. You're not controlling Ka'ro—it's controlling you."
Rakan's heart slammed in his chest. The Ka'ro was overwhelming, consuming him, like it wanted to swallow him whole. The thread in his chest burned, and he could feel his control slipping. His mind raced, trying to find a way to steady it, to rein it in.
And then, it clicked.
His thread was a connection. It wasn't something he could simply bend to his will—it was a bond, a flow. He didn't have to fight it; he had to guide it.
With a deep breath, Rakan closed his eyes once more, centering himself. He let go of his control—not surrendering, but allowing the Ka'ro to flow through him. The wild energy around him settled, slowly, like a raging river calming under the touch of a steady hand.
For the first time, he felt the Ka'ro as it truly was—a part of the world, a pulse of life, and a bond. The tendrils curled and shifted at his command, responding to his will with a gentle power. His heart steadied, his breath slowing as he realized he wasn't fighting anymore. He was one with it.
Mazanka's grin returned, broader now. "Good. Much better. But you're still a long way from mastering it."
Rakan opened his eyes, his body trembling from the exertion. The Ka'ro pulsed within him, settling into a rhythmic beat, and he knew, deep down, that this was just the beginning. Mazanka's test wasn't over. This was only the first thread.
But Rakan was no longer the same person who had stepped into this strange, new world. He had found his connection. Now, he had to make it his own.
Mazanka chuckled darkly, his voice carrying an almost predatory edge. "You're finally free from the womb, kid. Now, let's see how long you can hold on."
The training room was silent after a few hours of trial, the hum of Ka'ro slowly dissipating into the air like the last vestiges of a fading storm. The floor was cracked from the force of their earlier sparring, bits of the stone scattered across the floor like remnants of a shattered world. Rakan's breath came in quick, sharp bursts as he stared at the man across from him, his mind racing. Mazanka was already striding toward the door, hands tucked lazily in his pockets, clearly unfazed.
"I'm starving, kid," Mazanka said with a yawn, stepping out of the wreckage with an air of total indifference, as if the chaos they'd just unleashed was nothing more than a casual stroll in the park. "You're not gonna keep me here all night, are you? Hope not. I don't think I can survive that."
Rakan's fists clenched, his temper simmering just below the surface. "We're not done!" he snapped, his voice sharp, and he felt the familiar flare of annoyance. "I can keep going! I'm not stopping until I—"
Mazanka didn't turn around as he stepped into the hallway. "Yeah, yeah. You're all fired up. But you need food more than you need another round of punching the air, kid. It's good energy. I sure as hell do. Waking up takes up some serious energy."
Rakan's face reddened, his gaze locked onto Mazanka's back as he caught up. "I'm not a kid," he muttered. "You think I'm some kind of joke?"
Mazanka, without breaking stride, waved a hand over his shoulder dismissively. "You're exactly what I think you are, Rakan. A snotty-nosed kid who thinks he can take on the world. If you think I'm letting you aimlessly run yourself into the ground, you're wrong." A bothered frown broke his face. "Ugh, now I get why people always say kids are too much, I can already hear the doorbells of my nursing home. Lame."
But Rakan wasn't backing down. He matched Mazanka's pace, his chest tight with that strange, gnawing hunger for more—more power, more Ka'ro, more answers. "You keep saying that! 'You're not ready,' 'you need rest,'" he mimicked in an exaggerated tone, crossing his arms. "I don't need rest. I need to—"
Mazanka stopped abruptly, just outside the door of the bakery shop Rakan always passed on his way to school, spinning on his heel with a grin that could only be described as cocky amusement. "Jeez, look around you, will you, Rakan."
Rakan's frustration twisted into confusion as he glanced around the night-darkened world. The street outside the building was bathed in the cold glow of moonlight, the night air heavy with the silence of an unbroken sky. Somewhere far off, the lights of the city flickered faintly, but here, in the middle of nowhere, the world felt suspended—still, tranquil.
"Where's the fire, kid? Got somewhere to be?" Mazanka's voice broke the tension, laced with an all-too-knowing smirk. "It's late. Do you want to come eat with me or something? Is this what this is about? I don't do charity but if you're paying, I don't mind. Probably the only time you're gonna see me actually getting some real food in my stomach." Rakan scowled, resisting the urge to snap and tell the older man that he had paid for Mazanka's meal a few hours ago. The glutton just wants me to pay for his food again. He wasn't falling for it. "Your mother's probably waiting for you to get your act together, huh?"
Rakan's heart stuttered. A sharp pang of guilt struck him—he had completely forgotten about her. How long had they been at this? His mother would be worried by now, probably pacing in the kitchen, waiting for him to come home.
Rakan's jaw tightened, but his pride held strong. "I don't want to stop," he insisted, his voice lower, tinged with the familiar irritation that always came when Mazanka dismissed him. "You said it yourself—I have to push past my limits. You've been teaching me to reach higher. To find my thread of Ka'ro. I'm not giving up just because it's dark out!"
Mazanka raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Kid, you're gonna burn yourself out if you keep this up." He stepped forward, leaning in with exaggerated seriousness. "Now, I get it. You've got that whole 'I'm not giving up' thing going on. Very heroic." There was a snort and Rakan swore could feel his veins heating up in vex. "Yeah, yeah, very noble. But even heroes need to eat. I mean, look at me. I'm the greatest of the great and even I need to eat. Ever heard of dinner?"
The older man let out a long sigh, his gaze turning away as he continued walking. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're so much more than just worked up. You're 'special,' right?" His voice was sarcastic, laced with a playful bite that Rakan could never quite get used to.
Rakan's fists clenched tighter, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not some weakling who needs a break. I'm not—"
Mazanka chuckled, a sound that could have been condescending if it wasn't so genuinely entertained. "I'm not saying you're weak, kid. But you're not gonna get stronger by running on empty. I'm all for your stubbornness, but sometimes you gotta know when to walk away and come back."
Rakan didn't reply immediately. Instead, he took a step back, his eyes scanning the night, the moonlight bathing everything in a ghostly sheen. It was then that he realized: the world around him had shifted into night without him even noticing. The familiar warmth of the sunset had long disappeared, leaving only the chill of the night air.
Mazanka's voice broke through his thoughts. "See? Told you. You've been so obsessed with training that you didn't even notice it's already night."
Rakan's gaze snapped to Mazanka, irritation flickering across his face. "I'm not done yet," he muttered stubbornly, but the edge in his voice was softening, the weight of his responsibilities pulling at him. His mother… she wouldn't let him off easy if he stayed out any longer.
Mazanka shrugged, turning as if the conversation were over. "We'll pick it up a different day. You're not gonna master Ka'ro overnight, you know. It takes time. Personal time." He turned to meet Rakan's eyes. "And if you want to walk that path, you'll have to learn to be patient. Learn to breathe between the lines."
Rakan stood there for a moment, unsure whether to argue or just accept it. But as his gaze lingered on Mazanka, something else caught his attention. It was subtle at first—just a flicker beneath the man's hair. But when the moonlight hit it just right, Rakan saw it: a strange, luminous patch, faint cracks running beneath it like the skin of a damaged stone. The skin around it was oddly cracked, the glowing patch an unnatural light in the dark.
Rakan swallowed, the question itching at his tongue. He took a cautious step forward.
"Wait…" Rakan muttered, his eyes narrowing. "What's under your hair? What happened to your—"
But the words died the moment Mazanka's movements stilled. The playful energy drained from his face for a brief moment, and Rakan could have sworn he saw a flicker of something darker, something heavy in his gaze. The smile he wore so effortlessly dropped, leaving an expression that was cold, distant. Something in the air shifted, and Rakan hesitated, unsure whether he should press further.
But before he could say anything else, Mazanka let out a quick, loudly dismissive laugh, his voice too bright. "What, that? Pfft. Nothing but the product of a bad trip. Right over a little pebble. Funny cause that pebble kinda reminded me of you, annoying, small—had me—plat—just like that on the floor," His eye glinted as he motioned out the apparent fall using his hands, though the twinkle of his eye it didn't quite reach his words. "Real clumsy, right? Don't demote me from being your teach though, yeah? It's hard to get meals these days, I'll cry nonstop, hungry and red-eyed. You don't want me like that, right, Rakrak?"
Rakan stared at him, still not quite buying it. The lie hung heavy in the air, as thin as the thread Mazanka always seemed to be walking on. The older man's visible eye flickered to the ground, almost nervously, before he chuckled again—this time louder than before, crazed and rich enough to wake all the sleeping occupants of the houses they passed, like he was trying to shake the conversation off.
But Rakan wasn't fooled. Something about the way Mazanka had dodged his question didn't sit right. He knew it wasn't the full story.
Mazanka noticed his lingering silence, his lips curling into that knowing smile again, but this time, there was something cold about it. "What's wrong, kid? Shocked the great Mazanka was bested by a wittle peeble? Join the party."
Rakan opened his mouth to argue, but before he could Mazanka's finger shot out, pointing behind him with a mock of dramatic alarm, his theatric gasp cutting the air. "BEHIND YOU! SOMETHING'S BEHIND YOU!"
Rakan whipped around, his pulse quickening, his muscles tightening for action—but there was nothing. Only the empty stretch of road behind him, the darkness stretching out with no sign of life.
When he turned back to snap at Mazanka, the man was already long gone. Vanished without a trace.
"Bastard," Rakan hissed under his breath, his frustration bubbling over.
He stood there for a moment, alone in the silence of the darkened road, the night stretching out ahead of him. His anger flared briefly, before it turned into quiet annoyance. There was no point in chasing Mazanka—he knew that by now.
With one last glance around, Rakan turned, shoulders heavy, and began the long walk home. His mind was still whirling—his thoughts clouded by the strange conversation, the odd glow beneath Mazanka's hair, and the nagging feeling that something was being kept from him.
But he didn't stop walking. He couldn't. He wasn't going to quit. Not now. Not ever.