Dawn had barely touched the plateau when Kalu woke Chuka with a simple word:
"Rise."
The younger man stirred, his body still aching from the night before. The air was cool, heavy with mist that rolled through the grass like ghostly rivers. But beneath that calm, the ground still thrummed faintly, as though the earth had not yet recovered from the previous night's disturbance.
Kalu stood at the center of the clearing, facing the east. His robes shimmered faintly in the pale light, the sigils stitched into their hem pulsing with quiet rhythm. "Today," he said, "you will no longer imitate the Divine Steps. You will walk them."
Chuka frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought I already was."
A slow smile crossed Kalu's face. "You've been tracing their shadow. The Steps aren't movements, Chuka — they're transitions. They shift the boundary between matter and the unseen. Until now, you've danced around the threshold. Today, you cross it."
The words sent a shiver through Chuka. "And if I don't come back?"
Kalu's eyes held his. "Then it was never your path to begin with."
He gestured for Chuka to step into the sigil circle — the same one scorched into the ground by his training. The lines glowed faintly, golden light swirling like mist around his feet.
"Breathe," Kalu instructed. "Let your heart match the rhythm of the earth. The pulse you feel — it is not separate from you. It is you."
Chuka closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. The plateau faded. He heard the hum again — that deep, resonant vibration that lived under everything, older than time.
Kalu's voice echoed distantly. "Now, step."
Chuka lifted his foot and placed it forward.
The world folded.
There was no sensation of falling — only of being unmade. The ground dissolved beneath him, and light shattered into countless strands. His body was weightless, his mind adrift in something vast and alive.
When he opened his eyes, the plateau was gone.
He stood within an endless plain of white and gold mist, the air shimmering like liquid glass. Shapes moved at the edges of his vision — faint outlines of figures, each glowing with soft radiance. Some were human, others far less so. The ground beneath him pulsed with the same sigil he'd trained upon, but here it was immense — a circle that stretched to infinity.
A whisper surrounded him, countless voices speaking as one.
"The Heir of Breath walks again…"
Chuka turned slowly, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
The mist shifted, coalescing into a figure — tall, robed, face hidden in radiant shadow. "We are the Echoes," it said. "Remnants of those who shaped the first stones. Guardians of what remains."
"The relics?" Chuka asked.
The figure inclined its head. "Fragments of the Maker's memory. They remember creation as it was meant to be — unbroken. Each relic carries a note of that song. But the song has been twisted."
"You mean the relic in the Pacific," Chuka said quietly.
At that, the mist darkened slightly. The figure's tone grew heavy. "A false voice binds it now. One who believes command equals mastery. But power without harmony devours its wielder."
Chuka's stomach turned. "Can it be stopped?"
"There is balance in all things," the Echo replied. "As he binds one relic, another awakens its counter. You, child of breath, are that counter."
The ground beneath Chuka's feet began to pulse faster, matching his heartbeat. Streams of light rose from it, weaving into his chest. "What's happening?"
"You are remembering what you are," the voice said. "The Maker's light does not reside in the relics alone. It sleeps within the blood of those who bear the mark of origin. The Steps are not a technique — they are the memory of creation itself. Walk them, and the world will answer."
Suddenly the mist convulsed, ripples tearing through it like shockwaves. The voice fractured.
"He feels you… he watches through the chain he forged…"
The golden light dimmed, replaced by a deep, cold blue. The plain shook violently. A new presence was intruding — vast, foreign, oppressive.
Through the haze, Chuka glimpsed a dark shape forming: the dictator's silhouette. His image flickered, distant but unmistakable — eyes burning like coals.
"You are not meant to be here," the voice said — not the Echo's voice, but his. "The relic obeys me now. Stand aside, child of the old blood."
Chuka's instincts screamed. He stepped backward, raising his hands. The world around him bent, gravity warping. But the dictator's shadow reached forward, its tendrils curling through the mist.
Then Kaku's voice thundered through the void — ancient, commanding.
"Return!"
A surge of force yanked Chuka backward. The mist shattered into blinding white light — and then he was back on the plateau, gasping, his knees striking the ground.
Kalu knelt beside him, hand pressed to his chest, eyes glowing faintly. "You went too far," he said softly. "You brushed the eyes of the one who should not see you yet."
Chuka struggled to catch his breath. "He saw me. He spoke to me."
Kalu's expression darkened. "Then the link is complete. The relics are now aware of one another — and of their chosen bearers."
He helped Chuka to his feet. "From this moment on, you are no longer hidden. Every step you take will echo across the unseen. You must learn to walk without leaving footprints."
Chuka looked toward the horizon, where dawn's first light spilled over the hills. "And if he comes for me?"
Kalu's gaze hardened. "Then the Maker's echoes will rise to meet him. But first, you must learn to command the Path Between Worlds. Only then will you stand against those who think they've mastered the light."
The air around them shimmered faintly, golden dust swirling in slow, graceful arcs. For a heartbeat, Chuka thought he saw shapes moving in the sunrise — vast wings, silent and ancient, fading as the light grew stronger.
He exhaled slowly. "Then let's begin again."
Kalu smiled faintly. "Now you're speaking like a Keeper."
And as the first full rays of morning broke across the plateau, Chuka took his next step — one that left no shadow behind.
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