The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears and made every breath feel louder than it should. Moonlight bathed the training grounds of Four Stars Academy in a pale silver glow, casting long shadows across the empty field—empty save for three figures seated in a loose triangle at its center.
Itekan Lie sat cross-legged, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. His presence was unnervingly calm, as though the silence itself bent around him rather than the other way around.
Across from him, Itoyea Pilton Tou paced back and forth in slow, measured steps. His boots crunched softly against the gravel, the sound rhythmic, controlled. His tail flicked restlessly behind him, betraying the frustration he kept carefully leashed. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight.
Kutote Tuo sat off to the side, legs stretched out before him, arms braced behind his back as he stared up at the sky. His gaze was unfocused—not empty, but distant. His mind was elsewhere, running calculations, testing theories, dismantling ideas only to rebuild them again.
They had been at this for hours.
Nothing.
No kanji.
No response.
No authority.
Itoyea stopped pacing abruptly.
"This is pointless," he muttered. "We're doing everything right."
Kutote didn't look away from the stars.
"That's the problem," he replied calmly.
Itoyea turned sharply toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Kutote exhaled slowly. "It means if 'doing everything right' was enough, then everyone would succeed."
Itekan opened his eyes.
They glimmered faintly in the dark.
"You're both still trying to use the rune," he said quietly.
Itoyea scoffed. "That's the whole point."
"No," Itekan replied, his tone even. "That's the mistake."
Itoyea's jaw tightened. "Then explain it."
Itekan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice wasn't condescending, nor was it authoritative. It was simply honest.
"When I went to see Headmaster Kime… I wasn't looking for instructions. I was looking for confirmation that I wasn't missing something obvious."
Kutote's gaze finally shifted toward him.
"And?" he asked.
"And he told me a story."
Itoyea frowned. "A story?"
Itekan nodded.
He told them the story exactly as Kime had told him.
By the time he finished, Kutote had gone still, eyes narrowed in thought. Itoyea, on the other hand, still looked confused—but there was something different in his expression now. He was trying to piece it together.
"A blind boy and his blind father," Itekan said. "The father described the color of his Tekler as bright blue—because that's how he remembered it. Even though time had changed it."
Kutote's eyes sharpened slightly.
"He wasn't wrong," Kutote said slowly.
"Exactly," Itekan replied. "And neither was the boy. The mistake wasn't in perception. It was in assuming perception was static."
Itoyea crossed his arms. "And this has something to do with power?"
"Everything," Itekan said.
He stood.
The night seemed to lean toward him.
"I realized something while I was standing there," he continued. "I wasn't failing to activate the rune because I didn't understand Power. I was failing because I was trying to understand Power as it exists in the world—not as it exists in me."
Kutote straightened, fully attentive now.
"So what changed?" he asked.
"I stopped asking what Power is," Itekan said. "And asked what Power means."
Itoyea let out a slow breath. "And your answer?"
Itekan raised his hand and moved through the seals.
The air responded.
A kanji manifested above his palm, steady and precise.
変力
"So… adaptation?" Itoyea asked quietly.
"Yes."
The word lingered between them.
"Power, to me, isn't domination," Itekan continued. "It isn't overwhelming force. It's the ability to respond. To evolve. To become what the moment demands."
He lowered his hand.
"Every fight I've survived—I didn't win because I was stronger. I won because I changed."
The kanji shimmered once more, then faded.
Itoyea stared.
Kutote's breath caught.
"That's… authority," Kutote murmured.
"No," Itekan corrected softly. "That's the beginning of it."
Silence returned.
Then Itoyea laughed.
A sharp, humorless sound.
"My entire life," he said quietly, "I've been chasing strength."
Kutote glanced at him.
"I watched my entire village get run down by a demonic horde," Itoyea continued. "I couldn't do anything. They all sacrificed their lives trying to save mine."
His fists clenched.
"Everywhere I went, power was something you had to prove. Something you took."
He stopped pacing and turned back to them.
"But every time I got stronger… it wasn't enough. There was always someone above me. Another wall. Another ceiling."
His teeth clenched harder.
"I hate that feeling."
The air around him began to stir.
At first, subtly.
Then heavier.
Pressure built—not outward, but inward. As though something was being compressed, refined.
Kutote's eyes widened slightly.
"Itoye—"
"I know," Itoyea snapped. Then he steadied himself. "Let me finish."
He closed his eyes.
"When I fight… when I win… it's never because I outthink my opponent. It's because I refuse to yield. Because I keep moving forward even when my body breaks."
His breathing deepened.
"Power, to me… isn't change."
The ground beneath his feet cracked.
"It's persistence."
The air thickened violently.
"Power is continuity. The refusal to stop. The will to continue regardless of pain, fear, or loss."
The kanji did not form gently.
It tore itself into existence.
進力
Advancing Force.
The symbol burned above Itoyea's head, heavy and brutal, radiating pressure so dense Kutote had to brace himself. The night air vibrated under its weight.
Itoyea staggered—then steadied.
His eyes snapped open.
They burned.
"…So this," he whispered. "This is what it feels like."
Itekan exhaled slowly.
Kutote said nothing.
The rune flickered once—then stabilized, sinking into Itoyea's presence like a brand etched into the soul.
Silence returned.
Itoyea laughed again—this time breathless, disbelieving.
Kutote rose to his feet.
"I think," he said carefully, "I understand why mine hasn't manifested."
Itekan turned toward him.
Kutote clasped his hands behind his back, posture straight.
"I've been approaching Power as a structure," Kutote said. "Something to analyze. Something to optimize."
He shook his head faintly.
"But Power was never about force for me."
The wind stirred.
"When I was injured… when my body failed me… what saved me wasn't strength. It wasn't persistence."
His gaze sharpened.
"It was control."
The space around him aligned.
Not compressed.
Not surged.
Aligned.
"I survived because I understood limits. Because I respected balance."
Glyphs formed around him—precise, deliberate.
"Power, to me… is regulation."
A kanji emerged.
安力
Stabilizing Force.
The pressure was subtle—but absolute. Like standing at the center of a perfectly balanced scale.
Kutote inhaled.
And for the first time, smiled.
"So this," he said softly, "is authority."
Itekan watched them both.
Three interpretations.
Three truths.
None of them wrong.
The night felt… smaller now.
As though the world itself had leaned back, reassessing them.
The Next Day…
All fifteen trainees filed into Headmaster Kime's office.
The room had returned to its former grandeur—towering ceilings, walls adorned with ethereal paintings that seemed to drift rather than hang, and the subtle pressure of presence that made even seasoned warriors straighten unconsciously.
Itekan noticed it immediately.
So that's what he meant…
The previous blankness hadn't been emptiness—it had been a state of null. A place stripped of imposed meaning, forcing the observer to project their own understanding. Kime hadn't removed the décor out of indifference.
He had done it deliberately.
To teach.
With a small, knowing smile, Itekan turned his gaze back to the Headmaster.
Kime waited patiently until the last trainee entered and the doors shut behind them. Then he rose from his seat and lifted both hands—not in command, but in acknowledgement.
Reality folded.
The office dissolved into white.
They emerged high above the world, standing upon the jagged spine of a vast mountain range. Clouds rolled beneath their feet, slow and heavy, obscuring the land far below. The air was thin, sharp, alive.
This time—
Not everyone collapsed.
The warping pressure that had once crushed them now passed through like a familiar tide.
Itekan Lie.
Itoyea Pilton Tou.
Kutote Tuo.
Chiem Nell.
Korimer Ransthrol.
Binturu Binturu.
Nuelle Ness.
Tendo Kech.
Bukanami Ao.
Nine.
Kime's eyes moved calmly across the group.
This pleased him.
Not because of numbers—but because of understanding.
What he was teaching them had never been about effort alone. Nor persistence. Nor talent.
It required a shift in perspective so fundamental that even attempting it would permanently change how one viewed power, reality, and self.
He turned fully toward them.
"Tomorrow is your final day of rest," Kime said evenly. "The second round of the Tatum–Deru Tournament begins on Monday—two days from now."
The weight of that statement settled in.
"Any preparations you intend to make," he continued, "must be finalized today or tomorrow."
His gaze sharpened.
"How many of you were able to form a personalized interpretation of Power?"
There was a brief hesitation.
Then—
Ten hands rose.
Kime noted it instantly.
All nine who had withstood the dimensional disorder had succeeded.
The tenth—
His eyes shifted slightly.
Tobi Fustavo.
Kime allowed himself a faint smile.
Of course.
"Lower your hands," he said.
They obeyed.
"Those of you who have awakened authority," Kime continued, "will come with me."
The mountain seemed to respond to his words, the air tightening with expectation.
"For those of you who have not," he said, turning his gaze to the remaining trainees, "you will stay here."
No disappointment. No reprimand.
"Continue trying. Reflect. Discard assumptions."
His voice hardened—not cruelly, but firmly.
"Do not follow us until you succeed."
He turned back toward the summit.
"When you awaken it, meet us at the peak."
Without another word, Kime stepped forward—
And leapt.
He rose impossibly high, piercing through the cloud layer in a single bound, the sky folding around his ascent.
Korimer followed immediately, laughing as he launched himself upward.
Itekan went next, the ground fracturing beneath his step.
Itoyea right being him.
Kutote followed, controlled and precise.
One by one, the others ascended.
Tobi lingered half a second longer than the rest.
He glanced back at Konacho who stood with the remaining four who had not succeeded yet, scratched the back of his head, and grinned.
"Don't fall behind, yeah?"
Then he jumped.
The wind swallowed the sound.
The mountain was quiet once more.
Below them, the world waited.
.
.
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