Samye stood frozen inside the temple.

  Silent.

  Shaken.

  Overwhelmed.

  The monk’s words echoed inside his mind again and again.

  Your ability is devouring your soul.

  Slowly, Samye lifted his head.

  “…Is there a way I can be healed?” he asked quietly.

  The monk looked at him for a long moment.

  “There is no healing for what you are becoming,” he said calmly. “Only acceptance.”

  Samye’s brows furrowed. “Acceptance… of what?”

  The monk’s voice remained steady.

  “Of him.”

  Samye’s confusion deepened. “Who are you talking about? How can I accept something I don’t even understand?”

  The monk’s expression softened slightly.

  “That,” he said, “is something you must figure out yourself, my boy.”

  No further explanation came.

  Samye stepped out of the temple slowly.

  The sunlight felt too bright. The world too loud.

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  His thoughts tangled inside his head.

  An ability… devouring my soul?

  A version of myself watching me?

  Accept him… before it’s too late?

  He clenched his fists.

  He didn’t have answers.

  But he knew one thing—

  Standing still would kill him.

  “Samye!”

  He turned.

  Kayal was standing nearby, armor partially removed, sweat still on his brow from training.

  “You alright?” Kayal asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Samye hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  Kayal studied him for a second, then changed the subject.

  “Want to see the training grounds properly?” he asked. “Not the festival show — the real thing.”

  Samye nodded. “Yes.”

  They walked toward the outer training grounds.

  This time, Samye didn’t watch casually.

  He observed.

  Warriors trained relentlessly—strength drills, breathing control, balance exercises, endurance runs through uneven forest paths. Some practiced weapon forms with brutal precision. Others trained bare-handed, striking posts until their knuckles bled.

  Mind and body were honed together.

  Not for show.

  For survival.

  Samye’s chest tightened.

  After a long silence, he spoke.

  “Kayal… can you teach me the secret arts?”

  Kayal turned slowly.

  Samye met his gaze fully.

  “To this day,” Samye continued, voice steady but heavy, “I’m barely surviving. I’m clinging to life. I don’t want to live like that anymore.”

  Kayal searched his eyes.

  Then he exhaled.

  “You saved my sister,” he said. “And other children.”

  He placed a hand on Samye’s shoulder.

  “I owe you more than words.”

  Kayal nodded once.

  “I’ll train you.”

  Samye’s breath released slightly.

  “But not immediately,” Kayal added. “Weapon training comes later. First — your body and mind must survive the basics.”

  He pointed toward the open grounds.

  “For one week, you train fundamentals only.”

  Samye listened carefully.

  “Daily 10-kilometer runs through forest terrain.”

  “Weight lifting and body conditioning.”

  “Sit-ups. Push-ups. Balance drills.”

  “And meditation — to calm your mind and stabilize your spirit.”

  Samye nodded without hesitation.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Kayal’s lips curved faintly.

  “Good. Because the secret arts break weak bodies — and unstable minds.”

  Samye looked back at the warriors training under the sun.

  This wasn’t power.

  This was preparation.

  And for the first time—

  he wasn’t running from himself.