The old man told me his name only after several days had passed.
"Call me Argen," he said, as if the name itself carried little meaning now.
His voice was calm and steady, but behind his eyes, I saw shadows of a past heavy with loss and regret.
He never raised his voice. He never wasted a movement. Every step he took felt deliberate and measured, as if the world still followed rules only he remembered.
I watched him closely, copying the way he stood, the way he breathed, the way he moved with a quiet purpose that seemed almost impossible in the harshness of the Waste Land.
"You already know the first step," Argen said one night as we sat beside a weak fire flickering against the cold darkness. "That warmth you feel inside is refined mana. Your body remembers what your mind does not."
I stared at the small flames, unsure what he meant. "Why me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, full of both hope and doubt.
Argen stared deep into the fire. "Because blood remembers longer than history," he answered quietly.
From that night on, my life changed.
Training did not begin with punches or strikes. It began with breathing. Slow, controlled breaths that sank deep into the chest, filling every corner of the lungs and calming the mind.
When I failed, Argen struck me with a stick. Not hard enough to injure, but sharp enough to remind me to focus.
"Light Fist is not about power," he said. "It is about control. Lose that, and you become no different from beasts."
Days turned into weeks. My body burned constantly, muscles screaming as Argen pushed me beyond what I thought possible.
He made me stand under the relentless sun without moving, balance on broken stone, and strike the air until my arms went numb and my hands trembled.
I fell many times, but each time I got up, feeling the strange warmth inside me grow stronger and steadier.
At night, when the world fell silent, the light pulsing in my chest glowed brighter. I could almost see it through my skin, a soft, pure flame burning from within.
Sometimes, I dreamed.
I saw a kingdom bathed in radiant light. Warriors training in silence, their movements fluid and precise like flowing water. A massive door pulsing with mana stood before them, ancient and unbreakable.
Blood stained stone floors beneath their feet, and cries of betrayal echoed through the dream like a distant storm.
When I told Argen about the dreams, his face darkened.
"They are memories," he said quietly. "Not yours alone."
I wanted to understand, but the meaning slipped through my fingers like smoke.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in shades of blood and gold, we heard footsteps.
Not monsters.
People.
Argen's hand tightened around my shoulder. "Do exactly as I say," he whispered urgently. "From this moment on, your life will never be quiet again."
In the distance, steel armor glinted under fading light.
Knights had entered the Waste Land.
The knights moved with purpose, their heavy boots crushing the cracked earth beneath them. Their armor reflected the dying sun, shining cold and unwelcoming.
I had heard stories from Argen about their cruelty, how they hunted the last survivors of the Light Kingdom without mercy, how they destroyed everything that reminded the world of what once was.
Now, they were here, in the place I called home, and I was powerless to stop them.
Argen pulled me into the shadows. "Stay quiet, and do not show your light," he warned.
I watched as the knights spread out, their eyes sharp and unrelenting. They searched for something, or someone, and I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.
"What if they find me?" I asked, fear twisting my voice.
Argen shook his head. "They won't, if you control your power and keep your heart steady."
His words offered little comfort, but I trusted him.
That night, as the knights made camp nearby, I practiced breathing and controlling the mana inside me. The warmth in my chest was no longer just a flicker; it had grown into a steady flame, strong enough to light the darkest corners of my soul.
I struck the air with clenched fists, imagining my energy flowing like water, smooth and unstoppable.
Argen watched silently. "The Light Fist is more than martial arts," he said. "It is the soul of our people, our strength, and our hope."
The following days passed in a blur of training and fear. The knights' presence brought a tense silence over the Waste Land, but I focused on my lessons.
Argen taught me to listen to the mana, to feel its flow and guide it like a river.
He said that with enough control, the energy could be shaped into powerful strikes, shields, or even used to strengthen weapons like swords.
"It is like haki," he explained, referencing the ancient tales of warriors who could imbue their weapons with their spirit. "But more than that, it is the bond between your soul and your skill."
I was beginning to believe that I could become something more than a scared child in the wasteland.
One evening, as the moon rose high and the knights settled into uneasy sleep, Argen handed me a small, worn scroll.
"This is your heritage," he said. "The history of the Light Fist, passed down through generations. Study it well, and remember that the path ahead will test you beyond your limits."
I took the scroll with trembling hands, feeling the weight of generations resting on my shoulders.
The world outside was dark, cruel, and unforgiving. But inside me, a light was growing.
A light that would not be extinguished.