The dojo floated silently above the twisted waterfall, mist curling around its edges. Jiro knelt on the polished floor, palms pressed lightly to the stone, eyes closed. His body trembled with the effort of sensing the dormant core.
"Focus," Darius reminded him. "Feel the threads of Essentia. Let your heartbeat guide the flow. Do not force it."
Jiro inhaled, exhaling slowly. His chest pulsed, blue sparks faintly tracing under his veins. He tried to channel the energy, but the threads were stubborn, slipping through his awareness like water between fingers. Sweat beaded along his temple.
Hours passed. Still, no breakthrough. Each time he felt even a whisper of the First Pulse, it collapsed under his unsteady focus. A week would pass before the threads began to stabilize — but for now, frustration gnawed at him.
Darius sighed, watching the boy struggle. "Patience, Tensai. This is the hardest lesson. The world may demand action, but Essentia waits for those who understand it."
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By midday, Jiro was led from the floating dojo to the Academy's Central Hall — a massive structure of glass and polished metal, suspended above a valley of floating mountains. Holographic pathways twisted through the air, connecting classrooms like streams of energy.
Inside, a classroom of the privileged awaited. Rows of students in immaculate uniforms — insignias of corporations, government ministries, and powerful sects — stared at him with undisguised contempt.
"From the Rust District," one girl whispered, silk sleeves brushing holographic data pads. Her eyes glimmered with amusement and disdain. "A scavenger? What are you doing here?"
Another, a boy with the emblem of a major energy corporation, smirked. "Don't even try to touch the threads. They say he stole something to get here. Probably can't even wake his core."
Jiro's fingers itched at his side, but he held his tongue. He had learned from Old Gin — survival here required observation first, reaction second.
The instructor, a tall woman with silver hair named Selene, cleared her throat. "Quiet. Tensai, take the front row. Observe. Learn."
The elite students hissed in response, exchanging glances that spoke of hidden agendas. Some openly plotted to discredit him. A few, however, watched with curiosity, noting the faint blue glow along his veins — a rare sign of untrained but potent Essentia.
Darius whispered as they walked past. "Do not underestimate them, Tensai. They are not your friends. Many seek to exploit instability for personal gain… and some, for destruction."
Jiro nodded silently. His attention, however, remained inward. Every movement, every glance, every ripple of energy in the hall, he analyzed. His core was still dormant, but he could feel threads — faint, fragile, promising.
For the next week, Jiro practiced in secret, in the dojo and late at night in hidden corners of the academy. Each attempt at First Pulse ended in failure — energy dispersing, threads collapsing, frustration mounting. Yet he persisted.
And as the week drew to a close, unseen by the arrogant elites, the faintest spark of mastery began to shimmer within him — a whisper of the First Pulse.
The world above Neo-Tokara had not broken him. The Rust District boy was learning to endure… and eventually, to rise.
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