The sky was overcast as Kairo stepped off the beaten sidewalk and onto the dirt trail that led beyond the academy walls. His bag, slung over one shoulder, held nothing more than a bottle of water, a sandwich, and a borrowed book titled Foundations of Flow: Breathing as the Martial Core.
He'd read it three times already.
The city buzzed behind him—towers, floating monorails, awakening academies with neon banners for upcoming tournaments—but out here, beyond the polished courtyards and televised duels, the world was quieter, older.
He needed quiet.
Because something inside him was beginning to stir. Not just Vaultspace. Not just the training. Something deeper.
Two Days Earlier
The second Vaultborn had spoken cryptically before disappearing:
"Seek the ones who walk the forgotten steps.
The path is not yours alone.
Some truths cannot be earned through time.
Only transmission."
At first, Kairo thought it was just a riddle. But after returning to the real world, those words gnawed at him. He couldn't learn everything alone, even in Vaultspace.
So he searched. Quietly. Discreetly.
He visited old martial libraries and hovered at the back of street spars. He spoke to elders who used to be martial artists, now forgotten by society in favor of flashier Awakened. He checked antique stores for martial scrolls.
And that's when he heard about Old Man Doran.
Present Moment — Village Outskirts
The trail led him to a mist-draped hill town, quiet and half-forgotten. Wooden houses lined the path, each with slanted roofs and vegetable gardens. A few children ran by, laughing with sticks shaped like swords. A woman stirred a steaming pot outside a small home and nodded politely at Kairo.
"Excuse me," he asked. "I'm looking for someone named Doran?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Fossil?"
Kairo blinked. "Maybe?"
She chuckled. "Follow the stone steps up. If he throws a chicken at you, don't take it personal."
The steps twisted up to an old house, barely clinging to the hillside. Wind rustled through hanging prayer flags. The house looked like it was made of driftwood and stubbornness.
Kairo stood at the gate. Hesitated. Then knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again. "Hello? I heard you might be—"
The door swung open so violently, it nearly snapped off the hinge.
Out hobbled an ancient man in a stained robe, holding a wooden ladle like a blade. His hair was long, wild, and white, and one of his eyebrows looked like it had fought a lightning storm and lost.
"You're a day early," the man barked.
"W-What?"
"I saw you in a dream. You were late in the dream. You're early now. That's worse." He poked Kairo with the ladle. "What do you want, Vaultspawn?"
Kairo stiffened.
"How do you know—"
"Bah! You reek of inside-time. I can smell the stillness on you. Like mothballs and arrogance."
"I came to learn," Kairo said quickly. "I've trained in my own way, but—"
"You think because you have your own little pocket cave of time that you're ready for real training?" Doran interrupted. "You don't even know how to breathe properly."
Kairo frowned. "I've practiced. I've read the manuals."
"And I've eaten soup made by monkeys. Doesn't mean it's food."
Kairo didn't know how to respond to that.
The old man stared at him for a long time. His eyes were sharp—too sharp for someone so frail-looking. "You want to learn? Fine. Bring me water from the Whispering Stream. Before sunset. And don't fall in. The stream doesn't whisper to fools."
He shut the door.
Kairo's First Trial
Kairo stood at the edge of the forest stream, panting.
It had taken hours to find it. The path wasn't marked, and the locals said it "moved with the wind." But he'd followed the sound—a faint humming, like wind and water singing together—and found it just before dusk.
The stream glowed faintly with soft blue light. Leaves danced across its surface without sinking. The water was crystal clear, but something about it felt... wrong. It didn't flow with gravity. It curved upward, sideways, even in place. Time itself felt strange here.
Kairo dipped a wooden cup into the water—and the stream recoiled, pulling away like a living thing.
"What the—"
The stream suddenly lashed out, forming a watery shape—a silhouette of Kairo himself—and lunged at him.
He rolled back, heart hammering. Was everything in this world testing him now?
He fought without powers, relying on the Iron Root Form, grounding his feet and redirecting force. He dodged, twisted, and managed to slip past the liquid mimic to dip the cup again.
This time, it allowed it.
As he turned to run back, the stream's voice whispered faintly:
"Stillness isn't silence. Stillness is intent."
Doran's Test
By the time he returned to Doran's house, soaked and scraped, the old man was carving a turnip with a dagger.
He sniffed the cup. "You didn't lose a toe. Good."
Kairo collapsed into a sitting position. "That wasn't water. That was a demon."
"Everything worth drinking is," Doran muttered.
Then, surprisingly, he handed Kairo a small scroll.
It read: "Breath Form Zero: The Pulse."
Kairo opened it slowly, reverently. The breathing technique was unlike anything he'd read. It wasn't about stamina or power—it was about listening. Each breath built sensitivity to aura, movement, and intention.
Doran didn't explain further. He just said: "Come back when you can hear my heartbeat from across the mountain."
Then he laughed and shut the door.
Later That Night — Vaultspace
Inside the endless field of Vaultspace, Kairo practiced the Pulse.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Listen.
Breathe out.
He sat still for hours. The silence of Vaultspace was absolute—but now, he was starting to hear through it.
Somewhere deep beneath the ground, a thrum.
Above, in the stars, a faint hum.
And—faintest of all—his own aura. Skipping, erratic, uncertain.
But it was there.
Kairo was changing. Slowly. Gently. Relentlessly.