Kale stood there, his chest heaving with exhaustion, staring at his glowing fist. The red light flickered in his eyes, a brief but exhilarating flash of power. His heart raced, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration flooding through him. He had done it. For a moment, he had tapped into strength far beyond his own, a power that felt both thrilling and terrifying.
"I... I did it!" Kale exclaimed, his voice a breathless mix of disbelief and elation, his eyes wide with amazement as the red hue slowly faded from his hand.
The hermit remained silent, his expression unreadable. His usual stoic demeanour made it difficult for Kale to gauge whether the old man was impressed or indifferent. After a long pause, the hermit spoke in his calm, almost philosophical voice. "That was but a glimpse of the technique's potential. With your current power level, you can only sustain it for a few fleeting seconds."
Kale's chest puffed with renewed hope, his determination burning brighter than before. "I can do it again, right? Just a little longer, and—"
"No," the hermit interrupted, his voice sharp, but not unkind. "You have just seen the tip of the iceberg, Kale. This technique is not something that can be mastered in a single night. For a normal person, it would take years of effort just to reach a fraction of its potential. For someone with high potential, perhaps a few months. But you... You did it in one night?"
Kale's heart sank a little. "But... But that means I can keep getting stronger, right?" His voice trembled, the excitement in his tone matching the newfound hope in his heart.
The hermit's gaze grew distant, though his face remained unchanged. In his mind, he pondered, This boy… Could he really be the one? His thoughts flickered to the possibility that Kale was not just a child with potential, but someone destined for something far greater than he could comprehend. The hermit knew better than to voice this, but doubt crept into his mind. How far can he really go?
Out loud, the hermit spoke again, his voice stern. "Kale, you're not done yet. Practise it until your body can no longer move. Push yourself. You can't just stop now, not after tasting this small fragment of what you're capable of."
Kale, though his body screamed in protest, wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded, determination shining in his eyes. "Yes, Master," he said, his voice firm, though his muscles ached with the weight of exhaustion.
Without waiting another moment, he resumed his punches, slower now, but still focused. Each strike felt heavier than the last, but he couldn't stop. The burn in his arms, the ache in his shoulders, was nothing compared to the fire that now blazed in his heart.
Hours passed. The sun began its descent, sinking below the horizon and casting long shadows across the desert. The Westland stretched out before him, its barren landscape painting an eerie, haunting picture in the dimming light. The winds whispered through the cracked earth, carrying with them the scent of sand and the promise of danger. Kale's punches grew weaker, his movements more sluggish. His legs wobbled, and his breath came in shallow gasps as his body began to give way under the strain.
His fists, once powerful and sharp, began to slow, losing their force with each strike. The world around him seemed to blur, his vision narrowing, until his legs finally gave out beneath him. His body crumpled to the ground, and darkness swirled at the edges of his consciousness.
The hermit observed the scene from a distance, his gaze calm as always, but there was something almost approving in the way his eyes lingered on the boy's unconscious form. He walked over to Kale, who lay motionless in the sand, sweat plastered to his skin. With a soft sigh, the hermit bent down and retrieved a small vial from the folds of his robe. He uncorked it, revealing a shimmering liquid that glistened in the fading light.
"This potion will restore your stamina and health," the hermit murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. He gently tilted Kale's head back and poured the contents of the vial into his mouth.
The potion had a bitter taste, but within moments, the boy's exhausted body began to relax. His breathing evened out, and the weight of fatigue that had once gripped him seemed to lift, replaced by a soft, tranquil sense of relief. The hermit stood over him, contemplating. "You're lucky, kid," he muttered under his breath, "but I wonder… How far can you really go?"
Kale's dreams were chaotic, swirling in a mix of nightmarish visions and strange fragments of memories.
He found himself standing in the midst of a vast, barren wasteland. The sky above was a dull, oppressive grey, and the ground beneath his feet was cracked and dry. Shadows moved around him—unseen, ominous figures that whispered cruel things. The voices cut through the silence like daggers, mocking him for his failures, his weakness, the things he could never change.
"Pathetic," one voice sneered, "You couldn't even protect her."
Kale's heart thudded painfully in his chest, the words striking a deep, familiar chord. But then, through the sea of darkness, a new voice emerged—a commanding voice, powerful and full of authority.
"Rise, Kale," the voice echoed, "Prove them wrong. Show them your strength."
The scene shifted abruptly, and Kale found himself standing in the village where he had grown up. His sister was there, standing by the gate, ready to leave for the capital. Her face was blurred, her words distorted, but Kale could feel the weight of her departure, the crushing loneliness that followed.
Before he could reach out to her, the ground trembled beneath him. The village was under attack—monstrous rats, their eyes gleaming with malice, swarmed the streets, tearing through the villagers with ruthless speed. Kale was frozen, paralyzed by fear, unable to move or act.
Kale awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as the remnants of the nightmares clung to him, like shadows that wouldn't let go. He lay there, trying to shake off the haunting images, the oppressive weight of fear pressing down on him. He couldn't remember much, only fragments—glimpses of his past, things he wished he could forget.
But when he opened his eyes to the dim morning light, something felt different. His body was no longer heavy with exhaustion. The fatigue that had plagued him the previous day had vanished, leaving him strangely refreshed. The nightmares still lingered, but they no longer felt as vivid.
"Good. You're awake," the hermit's voice broke through his thoughts, calm and matter-of-fact. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, his gaze steady as he looked at Kale.
Kale rubbed his temples, trying to clear the fog in his mind. "What… What was in that potion?" he asked, his voice hoarse from sleep.
The hermit's expression remained unreadable. "Something to keep you alive," he replied cryptically. "Now, stop wasting time. Gather wood, fetch water, and find some desert fruit. Your training continues."
Kale sighed, but this time he didn't protest. He had no energy to argue, nor the will to question the hermit's methods. Instead, he nodded silently and set off to complete his tasks.
As the day wore on, Kale noticed something strange. While the hermit appeared completely relaxed, leaning against a rock and chewing on a piece of dried fruit, his eyes never left Kale. The old man watched him closely, observing every movement, every step. It was as if he were studying him, gauging his growth, though he never once gave a word of praise or criticism.
Kale, for his part, began to realise that the hermit's constant observation wasn't about micromanaging him. The hermit wasn't just watching to see if he would succeed or fail; he was teaching him, even in the simplest actions. Each chore, each task, was a lesson in itself. Kale was learning to move with purpose, to take ownership of his actions, even when they seemed mundane or repetitive.
Days turned into a blur of routines. Every morning, Kale would wake up, gather the supplies the hermit requested, and then spend the rest of the day practising his punches. The technique—the glow in his fists—grew stronger with each passing day. By the end of the week, he could sustain the red glow for nearly a full minute. It was small progress, but it was progress, and that was enough for him.
One afternoon, as Kale returned from the oasis with water, something caught his eye in the distance. Squinting, he saw the broken remnants of a horse cart, scattered across the sands. Curiosity pricked at him, and he moved toward the wreckage cautiously.
When he reached the site, his stomach twisted into knots. Bloodstains marked the ground, and the wreckage of the cart was scattered across the desert like the remnants of a forgotten tragedy. A broken wheel, torn cloth, and deep claw marks were all evidence of a brutal attack.
"Desert rats," Kale muttered, recognizing the signs. His blood ran
Among the chaos, he spotted footprints leading away from the cart. They were uneven, suggesting someone had fled in desperation.
Maybe there's a survivor...
Fueled by a mix of hope and fear, Kale followed the trail. It led him to a rocky area where a massive crack split the stone, resembling the maw of a beast.
The air was thick with tension. Kale's instincts screamed at him to turn back, but then he heard it—a faint, desperate cry.
A child's voice.
Kale froze. The sound came from within the crack, faint but unmistakable.
"This... This is a desert rat nest," Kale whispered, his blood running cold. The child's cries echoed again, fragile and filled with terror.
For a moment, Kale stood rooted in place, his body trembling. Logic told him to leave, to fetch the hermit and avoid certain death. But the thought of abandoning someone, especially a child, gnawed at him.
He clenched his fists, the faint reddish glow flickering around them.
I can't leave them. Not like this.
Taking a deep breath, Kale stepped into the darkness of the crack, the cries guiding him forward.