The silence that followed Nala Kyoshi's departure was heavier than her words.
Abel sat motionless, the echo of her voice still vibrating somewhere deep inside his ribs. Sheshy returning with some water
She lingered for a moment beside him, her presence soft and uncertain, she pass me a cup that i refuse.
"She didn't mean—" she began.
"Yes, she did," Abel cut her off, his tone sharper than he intended. "And she was right."
Sheshy's lips pressed into a thin line. For a heartbeat, it seemed she wanted to say more, but instead, she only whispered, "Don't let her decide what you are," and walked away.
The sound of her steps faded down the corridor, leaving Abel alone with the smell of incense and the faint flutter of his pulse.
Outside, the courtyard was gray, clouds hanging low like stone. He stepped out into the cold air and drew a long breath.
"Still brooding?"
The voice came from behind. Abel didn't need to turn — he knew it too well.
Stipo stood there, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
"Get up," the man said.
"I am up."
"Then fight."
Abel blinked. "Now?"
Stipo didn't answer — he simply moved. A flash of motion, a blur of fabric and muscle. Abel barely managed to raise his arm before the first blow hit, slamming into his forearm like a hammer.
Pain bloomed instantly.
"What—" Abel started, but the second strike came even faster, catching him in the ribs.
"Think less. Move more," Stipo barked.
Abel stumbled back, gasping. "What are you doing?"
"Reminding you who you are," Stipo said, his tone low and calm — which somehow made it worse.
The next series of strikes was merciless. Simple, controlled — the basics, as Stipo called them. Every hit tested Abel's defense, his breath, his will.
Abel parried, slipped, fell, rose again.
"You think words break you?" Stipo asked, circling him like a wolf. "Then you've learned nothing."
Abel's vision blurred. He swung — a clumsy arc — easily deflected.
"Stop holding back!" Stipo shouted, slamming his palm into Abel's chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
For a long moment, Abel didn't move. The ground was cool beneath him, grounding, almost soothing.
"I can't," he muttered.
"Can't what?"
"Use it. My energy. It's like... it doesn't listen."
Stipo crouched beside him, his voice lower now. "You think the world listens to anyone, boy? You command it. You make it listen."
Abel met his gaze. "And if it never does?"
Stipo's expression didn't change. "Then you find another way to make it kneel."
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rustling wind. Then Stipo stood and offered his hand. Abel took it reluctantly, his fingers trembling.
"Again," Stipo said simply.
And so they fought.
Not as master and student — but as two forces clashing in rhythm. Each hit carved something out of Abel — pain, fear, doubt — leaving behind something rawer, sharper.
When Abel's knee finally buckled, Stipo stopped. "Better," he said, voice gruff but approving. "You're remembering what your body already knows."
Abel spat blood onto the dirt. "It remembers pain well."
"Pain is proof you're still worth teaching," Stipo replied.
He turned, walking toward the edge of the courtyard where the first rays of light filtered through the mist. "In a few days," he said, "the clan will hold the Rankings."
Abel frowned, breathing heavily. "Rankings?"
Stipo nodded. "Once every five years. The young and the old are measured, tested. Those who rise earn privilege, position — sometimes command. Those who fall…" He paused. "They learn humility. Or they disappear."
Abel wiped the sweat from his brow. "And you expect me to participate?"
"I expect you to survive, nothing more," Stipo said, glancing over his shoulder. "And if you can't do that, at least make them bleed before they bury you."
Abel couldn't tell if that was a threat or encouragement. Probably both.
He sat down again, this time not from exhaustion, but because the weight of what Stipo said sank deeper than the bruises.
"The Rankings," he repeated softly. "So it's just… fighting?"
Stipo chuckled — a sound more like gravel than laughter. "If it were just fighting, half this clan would be dead already. No. It's control, strategy, energy discipline. And something more—"
He crouched again, meeting Abel's gaze. "It's about blood. How it responds under pressure. How it listens when everything else stops."
Abel looked down at his hands, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying the truth he didn't want to face. "Mine doesn't listen."
"Then make it," Stipo said. "You've been handed something strange, unique, whether it's good or not. Use it, or it will use you."
Abel looked away. "You sound like her."
"Good," Stipo said, standing. "At least she got something right."
Abel winced at the mention of Nala, a flicker of anger cutting through the fog in his chest. For the first time, the emotion felt… useful.
He rose to his feet again, fists clenched. "Again."
Stipo's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Now you're talking."
The next round was brutal. Abel's movements grew faster, more instinctive. He stopped thinking — stopped questioning. The strikes still hurt, but he began to read them, to anticipate the flow of Stipo's attacks. For brief flashes, it almost looked like he was able to fight, not just resist.
Then Stipo's fist hit his stomach like a hammer. Abel dropped to one knee, gasping.
"Good," Stipo said again, his tone unreadable. "Now stop breathing like a dying animal and stand up."
Abel obeyed.
Somewhere between the blows, the frustration began to shift. The words of Nala, the pity of Sheshy, the weight of failure — all of it condensed into a single point of focus.
He didn't notice when the faint shimmer ran along his arm — a flicker of energy, faint as a candle flame. Stipo saw it, though. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Abel struck again, and this time the impact carried something more. The air cracked faintly between them.
Both froze.
Abel looked down, panting, disbelief written across his face. "What was that?"
Stipo tilted his head. "The beginning," he said quietly.
But the flicker vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo. Abel collapsed again, the light gone, the exhaustion crashing over him.
Stipo stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy. "You see? It's there. It's always been there. You just haven't suffered enough to claim it."
Abel's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's your solution for everything, isn't it?"
"Pain is the only teacher that never lies, it will make you stronger if you can carry is weight" Stipo replied.
He turned, hands behind his back. "Rest. Tomorrow, we start again. You'll need more than endurance if you plan to survive the Rankings."
As Stipo walked away, Abel remained kneeling in the dirt, watching the faint line his energy had burned into the ground.
It wasn't much — barely a whisper of power.
But it was his.