4.2.25 - The One to Become the Third pt 5

PARABLE V: The Weight of the Field

Three days passed in a blur of foraging, training, and chasing dox through alleys. The clan had eaten sparingly. Hunger became a rhythm.

With five days left until the mission, Zarash led them to the far eastern reach of the Isle. The journey was long, filled with silence and the occasional laugh—but tension lay underneath. They all felt it.

Zarash and Soet reached the edge of the meadow first. Boulders the size of Soet littered the field, too smooth to be natural. Winds from the eastern coast blew fiercely here, kicking dust across their faces.

Epsul caught up, winded.

“You two need to slow down,” she said, collapsing onto the nearest mound. “We’ve got three days out here. Don’t waste all your energy.”

“Punching rocks before fighting egg-eating monsters,” Soet muttered. “Perfect.”

He rolled down the slope with a groan. Zarash smirked and followed, one foot leading, hand tracing the dirt, letting the speed pull him. The wind howled past his ears. For a moment, he felt weightless.

Epsul joined them moments later, sitting up slowly. “Okay, Zarash, let Soet in on what we’ve been working on before I die of exhaustion.”

Zarash nodded. “Focus. Breathe. Store. Release.”

Soet looked unimpressed. “Helpful…ish. Epsul, maybe you can show me the form he’s been practicing?”

Zarash dropped his pack and jacket, standing barefoot on the dirt. He took a wide stance, pinched his fingers, and held them near his face and stomach.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

Then exploded into movement: forward, back, sweeping leg, sudden strikes—dirt flew with each hit. On the final punch, his fist collided with a stone. A small indent appeared. Not cracked, but marked.

“Good,” Epsul said. She stood slowly, sipping from her water hose.

Soet scratched his head. “So… he focused, breathed, then what? Isn’t he just enhancing his punch? Can’t Cauma already do that?”

“Yes, but Cauma eats emerald dust to stay alive,” Epsul replied. “He’s wrecking his body every time he fights. This method channels medra more safely—more sustainably.”

She stepped into stance herself—one foot raised, hands clasped, forming the runic bridge.

“My master told me to master the first four principles before learning anything else. Focus. Breathe. Store the medra. Release it through action. We channel the rune’s warmth—remember the shimmer-dirt? That glow? It’s the byproduct of stored power.”

Zarash nodded.

Soet still looked unsure. “But in a real fight, won’t we die before the dance finishes?”

“Not if you prep beforehand. The stance can start the flow. The trick is where you store it. Legs. Fists. Even skin.”

She dropped her foot and drove her knee into the same stone Zarash struck.

The rock cratered.

Dust spiraled upward like smoke.

Zarash blinked, his heart pounding. “Teach me more,” he said.

“I want in too,” Soet added. “If I can store medra in my arms, I’ll be the wall while you two strike.”

The three stood over the cratered stone, awe humming in their bones.

Zarash knelt, touched the fragmented surface. The stone glistened black.

“Kamak,” he whispered. “We can cook with this.”

Soet picked up a shard. “These don’t sell for much, but they’re rare. And this field... it’s full of them.”

They looked out.

The meadow was endless. Boulders and dust. Craters within craters.

Suddenly, a screech tore across the sky.

The wind stilled. Then reversed.

A massive shadow crossed above.

Zarash squinted. A flying beast—soaring, distant, mythical.

A blur dropped from its height—a black shape hurtling toward them.

Soet tackled the others as a boulder of kamak slammed into the ground where they had stood.

Dust erupted.

And the hunt had truly begun.