"Din… Kaodin… Kaodin…"
A voice echoed in the dark, distant, stretched thin, as if slipping through water.
"Y-Yes… I'm here… I'm huuhhh…"
He jolted awake with a gasp.
For a moment, he felt as if he'd plunged off a cliff, that sickening drop from a dream that abruptly yanks the world out, yet when he touched his arms and legs, nothing hurt. No bruises. No scrapes. His body was whole.
He blinked slowly, trying to steady his breath.
He was lying beneath an enormous, dried tree, its twisted branches clawing at a colorless sky. The soil around him resembled scorched earth, cracked and lifeless. This wasn't his dojo. This wasn't anywhere he knew.
"That voice… someone was calling me. But… from where?"
A low, wet growl rolled through the ruins.
"ngaaa… ngaaa…"
The sound carried across broken stone and twisted metal, settling along his spine in a thin vibration.
He pushed against the ground to rise. The motion tilted the world sideways. Light smeared into shadow, edges bending out of shape before snapping back. He forced himself upright anyway, one palm braced against the debris behind him.
Heat collected low in his abdomen, just beneath the line of his navel. It moved in steady intervals, contracting and releasing with a rhythm that aligned too closely with his breath to be random. The sensation felt old, as though it had always existed there beneath muscle and bone, waiting for him to recognize it.
The interval shortened.
The contraction tightened until the space inside his abdomen felt reduced to a fist-sized knot.
Pain followed, it pressed inward first, a dense compression that forced his spine to arch slightly. Then it expanded outward in a hard circle, radiating through muscle and rib, forcing the air from his lungs before he could draw it back in.
"Ah…"
His hand snapped to his abdomen. He pressed through the fabric, fingertips digging in, tracing for torn skin, raised flesh, anything that would explain the surging heat he had felt.
The surface held firm beneath his touch. Skin stretched clean over muscle. No heat, not even warmth from blood. No swelling pushing back against his palm.
The pain continued beneath it, lodged deeper than his fingers could reach. It burned inside the muscle itself, steady and contained, with no visible wound to answer for it.
Another growl rolled through the ruin, closer now, its vibration traveling across the ground before the sound reached his ears.
Shapes shifted behind the collapsed wall. Their outlines bent in uneven angles, shoulders raised, heads dipping and lifting in short, erratic motions. Something lay at their feet. Their hands moved toward it, then away, then back again. He could not tell whether they were tearing or searching.
His eyes strained to separate motion from shadow, as if they had betrayed him.
His ribs tightened around his lungs.
He had never trained for this. There was no stance for figures that moved with pure animalistic instinct, no drill for something this otherworldly.
The habit formed in childhood surfaced before thought caught up. Years of repetition resurfaced.
He endured the pain, he kept his breath to be under his control, then he let his heartbeat find a steadier cadence.
He folded his legs beneath him, crossing them with care. His palms settled one over the other at his lap. His spine straightened against the broken concrete.
His eyes closed, yet the noise did not recede, but it drew nearer, scraping across the air.
"ngaaa… ngaaa…"
The sound dragged along the barricade, metal scraping against concrete in uneven strokes. It reached him in vibrations first, then in the thin echo that followed.
His breath caught halfway in. The air stalled in his throat. He pressed his tongue lightly against the roof of his mouth and released it slowly through his nose, smoothing the rhythm before it broke apart.
He breathed in slowly, and let it out as slow, in a constant tempo.
He let his focus settle low in his abdomen, where the tension gathered first.
Another growl cut through the corridor, sharper this time. The sound carried moisture in it, a wet rasp pulled through damaged tissue.
His shoulders jerked before he stilled them, muscle tightening and then easing by degrees.
He drew in another breath, thinner than before.
He let it out even slower, reducing the sound until even his own ears struggled to catch it.
The world flickered around him, a distortion between outer terror and inner stillness. His senses wavered. One moment he felt himself sinking into the dark within his chest; the next, the chorus of gnarling surged again, scraping against the concrete, closer now.
He clenched his jaw, breath trembling despite him.
"Focus… focus… please…"
The pain in his belly pulsed like a molten knot.
But the rhythm of his breath finally began to sync with it — slow, steady, deliberate.
And then, for a fragile second.
Silence.
His presence thinned, dimming like a candle behind glass.
The world seemed to overlook him.
But the silence didn't last.
A sudden thud, something hitting the barricade.
A dragging sound.
Feet? Hands?
He couldn't tell, but froze, as if he ever let out a faint air from his nose, if he let even a sliver of fear escape, they would hear him.
He drew himself inward, spine settling, shoulders easing down until even the smallest shift in muscle was deliberate.
Air entered through his nose in a thin stream. It left the same way, measured and steady. Each cycle shortened, tightened, until the movement of his chest barely disturbed the fabric over his ribs.
The growling returned. It scraped along the corridor walls, no longer driven by appetite alone but by something else.
Shadows edged closer to the barrier. Their outlines wavered against the dim light. Heads tilted. Nostrils flared. The air carried his scent in fragments, thinning with each controlled breath.
They paused. Steps dragged against grit. One figure leaned forward, inhaled sharply, then withdrew.
His pulse settled deeper beneath the surface of his skin.
A shape passed along the far side of the concrete slab, close enough that dust shifted from the vibration of its movement. Another step, a fraction faster, and the barrier would have meant nothing.
Behind his closed eyes, darkness thickened. Within it, a faint circular warmth gathered low in his abdomen. The sensation remained contained, a fist-sized current turning slowly in place. Each breath aligned with it, tightening the rotation, holding it steady without letting it rise.
What… is that?
He thought, then memory surged, not gently, but like a wave crashing through his mind.
He remembered the marble hall. The floor carried a coolness that settled through his shirt and into his spine. The space stayed quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if even footsteps avoided echoing there.
After long drills, he used to slip inside without asking. He would lie flat against the stone, arms folded beneath his head, letting the chill draw the ache from his lower back.
He told himself it would be a brief rest.
The ceiling patterns would blur as his eyes closed.
When he opened them again, light had shifted across the tiles. Hours had passed.
Back then, he didn't know the entire dojo had erupted into chaos.
"Din! Din, where are you!?"
"Check the storage room!"
"Look behind the old bags!"
"Has anyone checked the backyard farm!?"
Senior disciples sprinted across the training yard — some barefoot, some still half-wrapped from sparring. Hand-wraps, gloves, and towels were scattered everywhere from the frantic search.
Father moved from room to room with sharp, trembling steps, calling his son's name in a voice that tried to stay firm but cracked under worry.
"Kong, check the back field!
Prayuth — you're always with him. Did he say anything earlier?"
Prayuth swallowed hard.
"No, Master. I thought he'd come to ask for sparring like usual… but he was gone when I looked."
Kong nodded nervously, confirming it.
Even the younger students ran beside the older ones, voices shaking:
"Din! Din! Where are you!?"
Outside the dojo gate, his mother questioned every passerby, desperation creeping into her tone.
"Have you seen Kaodin come out during lunch?"
"No, ma'am… is he missing?"
Her breath trembled as she replied,
"He disappeared during the lunch break. That's not like him… he always lines up on time only after his senior disciples…"
The entire dojo commotion had expanded across the surrounding alleys. Disciples ran in different directions, calling his name. Older students moved door to door. Family members scanned alleyways and courtyards, their sandals striking pavement in uneven rhythms.
By the time the sun dipped lower, the neighborhood carried the strain of it. Light stretched long across the road, catching on anxious faces and drawn brows. Voices overlapped. Someone called toward the river path. Another checked the market stalls.
The market street would have thinned out if it was any other usual evening congestion day, yet, now, it felt more crowded than ever, almost erupted into a small chaos. Voices collided in the open air. Some called out his name. Others argued. A few apologized in strained tones as they brushed past one another.
Every movement carried urgency. Every face turned toward another street, another corner, as if the answer might be waiting just out of sight, and under their nose.
Inside the dojo, his father forced the doors open. The wood shuddered against the frame before giving way. His hands trembled as he stepped through.
"Din… where did you run off to…"
His voice barely carried past his own chest.
He crossed the main hall in quick, uneven strides and pulled the meditation chamber door aside. The wooden panel dragged along its rail with a dry scrape that echoed more loudly than it should have.
The chamber stood quiet. Incense ash rested undisturbed in its bowl.
His eyes scanned the pillars one by one.
Then he saw it.
A small foot protruded from behind one of the wooden columns, toes pale against the marble floor.
His chest tightened, the next breath catching halfway before he forced it through.
"Kaodin…?"
He moved forward quickly, nearly slipping on the polished floor.
Kaodin lay flat on the marble, one arm tucked beneath his head. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. The cool stone had drawn the heat from his skin. His face remained calm, untouched by whatever noise had shaken the rest of the compound.
Outside, voices carried across the courtyard.
Inside, Kaodin lay on the marble, breathing evenly, a faint smile lingering at the edge of his mouth as if whatever dreams had held him, they were gentle and far removed from the noise.
"Din. Din, wake up."
His father crouched and gripped his shoulders, giving him a firm shake.
"Don't sleep on the marble. It pulls the warmth from you. You'll collapse like this."
Kaodin's eyes opened slowly. He squinted against the light and focused on the familiar outline above him.
"Dad…? I was just resting. I'll get back to practice…"
He pushed one palm against the floor and tried to rise.
His legs buckled at once. Muscle tremored along his thighs, forcing him back down. His arms felt weighted, elbows reluctant to lock. When he lifted his hand, his fingers moved stiffly, as though the joints had tightened in the cold.
His back throbbed with a deep ache, the kind that settled into the spine after hours on stone.
"I feel… drained," he said, blinking hard as if that might clear it. "More than this morning."
His father let out a long breath that carried both relief and irritation.
"You're exhausting your circulation, Din. Marble pulls heat from the body. When your internal flow weakens, you lose strength." He adjusted his son upright, supporting his back. "How many times have I told you not to sleep on the floor?"
Kaodin tilted his head, still trying to steady his balance. "Qi? What's Qi?"
His father lowered himself so they were eye level. He kept his voice even, not wanting the other students to hear the worry in it.
"Qi isn't magic, Din. It's the warmth inside your body. It carries your breath, drives your muscles, keeps you upright when you're tired. Everyone has it." He tapped lightly at his son's chest. "Some call it 'Qi Gong'(气功). In Thai, some say 'Lom Pran'—Different words, but it's the exact same."
Kaodin blinked, curiosity pushing past the fatigue.
"Internal power? Like in those Chinese dramas?"
His father closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his fingers to his forehead.
"You'll know the difference when you feel it yourself," he said. "Today should tell you enough. Now go to your mother and get something warm to fill your belly before you started getting real sick."
"Sorry father."
Kaodin nodded, apologetically despite still somewhat contend to the remark, and as he tried to stand himself up, his knees wavered. His father, as if anticipated, offered his arm as a support for Kaodin to catch on and slowly steadied himself back up.
Or was it real, he thought, but before he could think further, the approaching footsteps pounded toward the hall entrance, had interrupted him.
"You found him?"
"Where was he?"
"Is he hurt?"
His father slipped an arm around Kaodin's shoulders to quickly lifted him upright.
"He's fine, he must, he's my son after all." he said while gazing smilingly at the boy, "Just careless".
The strain eased from the faces gathered at the doorway. Shoulders lowered. Hands that had been clenched at their sides loosened.
He became noticeably panting, as if he had returned to heavy drills after days of neglect, he thought, as each inhale came almost not fully, and each exhale carrying a faint tremor.
The pressure that had tightened the hall moments earlier eased, though scattered murmurs lingered. A few voices carried teasing remarks edged with relief.
However, when he stood up, his body became slightly warmer, yet bare feet paced across the marble floor sent shivered through his internal frame. Thus, the room gradually returned to its ordinary rhythm as students drifted from the meditation area back toward the Muay Boran practice section, each returning to their assigned station, some in pairs, others to their individual drills—leaving the boy fully convinced by every word of his father's remark, without a trace of further defiance.
The memory thinned before it had slipped away into his own subconscious.
The circulation that had once felt faint now gathered weight. It tightened low in his abdomen and brightened, like a coal stirred back to life. Warmth spread outward from that center, pressing into muscle and bone.
The heaviness in his limbs eased. The ache along his spine receded. Air entered his lungs more fully, expanding his chest without strain.
His hearing clarified. The scrape of grit across stone, the faint shift of debris in the distance, each detail separated itself from the blur it had been moments earlier.
The current inside him held steady and strong, aligned with his every breath instead of fighting it.
It felt active, more responsive, in a way it had never been before.
Then a rupture of color cut across the blue current.
It did not glow warmly. It refracted.
A thin filament of prismatic distortion crossed the circular rotation in his abdomen, bending light instead of emitting it. The blue-Qi aura wavered as the streak passed through, its surface splitting into faint angular fragments before resealing.
What was that?
He tried to trace it across his body, but he couldn't find it anymore.
So perhaps, it was his own imagination, he thought, it wasn't uncommon; the monk teaching which he could still remember so well, always had repeated the same lesson for years: anything that intruded upon emptiness carried the weight of stray thought.
Unbeknown, the streak had contracted inward, leaving behind a faint irregularity within the rotation of his internal Qi. The current for a-fraction-of-a-second fractured into fine, angular refractions before settling back into a steady loop. The distortion blended into the circulation, leaving only a faint prismatic flicker that thinned quickly and withdrew beneath the surface which couldn't be seen from his eyes.
As he remained seated, the air shifted. The stench had hit his nose, thick and damp, layered with the metallic tang of old blood. It pressed against his nostrils and settled at the back of his throat.
His breath stumbled.
Something in the dark began to shift.
Whether they sensed the faint rise in heat from his body or caught the sudden faltered in his breathing, the change did not go unnoticed.
Feet struck debris, then concrete. The cadence broke into mismatched steps, one landing flat while the next sounded like something like weighted fabric or something heavy were dragged on bare concreate. Another figure advanced with a knee that bent late, forcing the foot to skid along the floor before it found purchase. The sound stayed uncoordinated, staggered, corrected, then resumed as it crept nearer through the corridor.
Behind the rubble, movement shifted in response to the slight change in air and heat around him.
One figure pitched forward on unsteady legs, torso swaying before catching itself. Another dropped to all fours, palms slapping against concrete as its limbs drove in a harsh, uneven rhythm. Dust shook loose from fractured edges as their weight pounded across the floor.
The sound became too close to him, it had become too terrified for him to stay idle any longer, he thought and immediately, his eyes snapped open.
The ache in his abdomen had thinned to a distant warmth. In its place, a tight current ran along his spine, shoulders drawing back, fingers curling before he consciously willed them to move.
The boy carried habits shaped by a gentler world, where bruises came from sparring rounds and discipline followed structure. This place demanded something harsher. The ground answered mistakes with torn flesh, and hesitation lingered only long enough to be punished.
"I—I'm sorry! Where is this!? Can someone, anyone, help!?"
The silhouettes lunged forward, feet and hands striking concrete in accelerating bursts as the distance closed.
He forced himself upright, knees trembling, then steadied. The weakness that had weighed on him moments earlier had lifted, now his limbs felt light and unfamiliar, and no dizziness in his sight, but clearly see a crowd of unknown terrifying threats that filled the place with stench of death were approaching him with fierce and frighteningly swift motion.
And once everything started to sink in; his senses in measured waves, rising from the tight glow in his abdomen. The current gathered in his legs as if it had been one of his ordinary daily drills, but now with his life on the line: then muscles aligned before he throttled himself out.
He ran!
He passed the dried tree, bark split and hollow. He vaulted fractured concrete and angled toward the only stretch of open ground available, a battered barricade still wedged in place between collapsed slabs.
Behind him, the silhouettes shrieked, their strides breaking into a full charge, hands and feet hammering against the ground in uneven bursts.
Air tore through his throat as he pushed harder. The glow within him fed his steps, each contact landing quicker, yet with greater momentum than the last.
He carried no understanding of what hunted him, no sense of how he had arrived here, only the narrowing fact that distance meant survival.