The encounter with the would-be robber solidified Mani's new reality. He wasn't just a boy with a strange ability; he was a warden of the peace, a silent guardian operating in the spaces no one else could see. The power was no longer a curse or a gift—it was a duty. And duties required discipline.
His training intensified. The quiet clearing in the state forest became his dojo, his monastery, his laboratory. He went there every day after school, a solitary figure moving with a new sense of purpose through the dappled autumn light.
He started with physical conditioning, pushing his body to its absolute limit. He ran through the dense woods, his feet a blur, leaping over fallen logs and dodging branches at speeds that would have made an Olympic sprinter weep. He wasn't just fast; he was precise, his mind calculating trajectories and footfalls in microseconds. He practiced until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned, then he pushed further, tapping into the wellspring of energy that lived in his core to repair the fatigue, to push past the pain. He was forging his body into a weapon that would never fail him.
The strength training became more refined. He no longer just lifted boulders; he sculpted with them. He would find a large slab of granite and, using only his fingers and focused application of force, carve intricate patterns into its surface—spirals, interlocking knots, the face of Bali as he remembered him. It was an exercise in control, in making the immense power obey the slightest whim of his will. A single misdirected thought could pulverize the stone to dust. A moment of lapsed focus could send a shard flying like a bullet. He learned the weight of responsibility in every movement.
But it was the mental training that was the true battleground. He graduated from squirrels and birds. He sought out larger, more complex minds. A curious fox became his subject for a week. He didn't control it, but he walked alongside its consciousness, feeling its primal urges, its sharp instincts, learning to speak the silent language of intention. He learned to project feelings of safety or warning, to guide without force.
One afternoon, he found his greatest challenge yet: a massive black bear, foraging for berries near a stream. Its mind was a vast, slow-moving river of sensation—the smell of ripe fruit, the feel of the sun on its fur, the deep, placid rhythm of its own heartbeat. It was powerful, ancient, and utterly alien.
Mani sat on a rock downstream, perfectly still, and reached out.
The bear's consciousness was a fortress. He pushed gently, but it was like trying to move a mountain with a whisper. The bear paused its feeding, its huge head lifting, nostrils flaring as it sensed the foreign presence in its mind. A low, questioning growl rumbled in its chest.
Mani didn't retreat. He didn't push harder. He simply… coexisted. He let his own consciousness rest against the bear's, not seeking entry, just acknowledging its presence. He sent a wave of pure, benign curiosity, a feeling of shared space, of peace.
The bear stared at him across the water, its dark, intelligent eyes locked with his. For a long, breathless moment, they were the only two beings in the universe, a boy and a bear, connected by a thread of silent understanding. Then, with a soft huff, the bear dropped its head and ambled back into the woods, its thoughts returning to the simple pleasure of berries.
Mani slumped forward, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. The effort of that simple connection had been more draining than lifting a ton of rock. But he had done it. He had touched the mind of a wild predator and parted from it in peace. He was learning the true scope of his power—it wasn't about domination; it was about connection, about resonance.
As the weeks turned into months, a new awareness began to dawn on him. The power wasn't just a tool he used. It was a sense, as fundamental as sight or touch. He could feel the life around him—the slow, patient consciousness of the trees, the frantic buzz of insects, the sleeping energy in the very rocks. The world was alive in a way he had never imagined, and he was a part of its silent, thrumming conversation.
He began to experiment, combining his abilities. He would lift several large rocks at once, not with his hands, but with his mind, holding them in a complex, orbiting pattern in the air while simultaneously maintaining a mental conversation with a family of raccoons. He was becoming an orchestra conductor, his mind the baton, directing multiple streams of power in a perfect, harmonious symphony.
One evening, as a early winter sunset painted the sky in shades of violet and orange, he stood in the center of his clearing. He closed his eyes and extended his awareness. He could feel every root in the earth for a hundred yards, every creature in its burrow or nest, every leaf trembling in the breeze. He was the center of a web of life, and he could feel every vibration.
He had thought he was hiding his power, training in secret. But he realized now that he wasn't hiding it; he was honoring it. He was learning its language, its rhythms, its ethics. Bali's warning was always with him, a solemn mantra: a shield, not a sword.
He opened his eyes, the last light of day glinting in their depths. He was fourteen years old, but he felt centuries old. The lonely, bullied boy was a faded photograph in the album of his memory. This—the strength in his limbs, the vast, quiet landscape of his mind, the profound connection to the living world—this was who he was now.
The hidden power was no longer hidden from him. He was learning to wear it, not as a disguise, but as his own skin. The training wasn't about becoming someone else. It was about becoming fully, completely, himself.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him even as it filled him with purpose, that the time for solitary training was coming to an end. The world, with its storms and its shadows, would soon come knocking.