The training arena echoed with emptiness the next morning. Caleb stood at the far end, barefoot on the cold metal floor, eyes closed, staff resting loosely in his hands.
He didn't think of power. He didn't think of the voice. He focused only on breath and movement.
Jian Mei had told them that skill was repetition made conscious. Mastery, she'd added, was repetition made sacred.
He didn't fully understand what that meant yet. But he wanted to.
The forms came easier now—not fast, not precise, but smoother. Less like flailing, more like motion with intent. His body still ached from the day before, but there was a strange satisfaction in that ache, as if every sore muscle was proof of progress no one else could see.
"Move your back foot an inch forward," came Jian's voice behind him. "You're leaning too far. You'll lose balance in combat."
He adjusted without turning.
"Good," she said. "You remembered."
He lowered the staff and faced her. "You watching me every morning now?"
Jian gave him a look. "You think you're that interesting?"
"A little."
Her lips almost twitched into a smile. "You're still terrible. But you're less terrible than you were."
"Thanks. I think."
"Come."
She turned and walked toward a smaller room adjacent to the arena—one Caleb hadn't been in yet. He followed, a little wary. Jian wasn't known for casual strolls.
The room was circular and dimly lit, with a faint hum in the walls. The center held a small pedestal, atop which rested a smooth black cube pulsing with faint white lines.
"What is that?" Caleb asked.
"It's called a Core Memory Scanner," Jian said. "It reads energy resonance from the Rift."
"That sounds… unsafe."
"It is. That's why we're starting at the lowest setting." She stepped aside. "Touch it."
Caleb hesitated. "And if it explodes?"
"Then I'll consider it an upgrade."
He sighed and stepped forward, placing his hand on the cube. It was cold. Then—warm.
Then—
Images.
Not clear ones. Blurred flashes, like light through water. A burning field. A shadow with many arms. A child running through falling ash.
And then—his own face, younger. Crying. Reaching for someone unseen. And the Rift. Always the Rift.
He jerked his hand away, heart pounding.
Jian was watching closely. "You saw something."
"I don't know. I—" He shook his head. "Memories? Dreams? It was all jumbled."
"Some people never see anything. Others see too much. What you get from the Rift isn't always what you expect."
He rubbed his hands against his pants, trying to shake off the lingering cold. "So what does that mean for me?"
"It means the Rift marked you. You felt it before. Now it's clearer."
"Clearer? I saw a burning field and myself as a kid crying in smoke."
"And yet, you're still standing." She crossed her arms. "You're starting to change, Caleb. Slowly. Not in strength—yet—but in resonance. That's more important."
He looked down at his hands again. This time, they weren't trembling. Just warm.
Jian stepped closer. "Listen to me carefully. Some people get strong from training. Others from pain. But the rarest get strong because something inside them wakes up—something that's always been there, just waiting for the right fire."
She looked him in the eyes.
"I don't know what's inside you yet. But the Rift does. And it's watching."
Caleb nodded, silent.
That night, as he lay in bed, Riley snored quietly two bunks down, and the room glowed faintly from a moon half-hidden by clouds.
Caleb stared at the ceiling, remembering the burning field, the arms of shadow, the child crying out.
He didn't know what it mean
t.
But something was waking up. Slowly. Quietly.
And it had his name on its tongue.