Arion returned to training, muscles still warm from the earlier session and Recall balanced perfectly in his grip, the smooth wood already familiar against his palms.
WACK!
BOCK!
CRACK!
Each impact rang through the clearing, sharp cracks echoing off the surrounding trees and sending small flocks of birds scattering from the branches overhead.
He stood inside the scar of obsidian, Recall flashing through arcs that shattered bark and ice alike, wood chips and frozen fragments flying in chaotic sprays that glittered in the slanting light.
The pulse of the Opening throbbed faintly behind him, rippling through the frozen ground like a heartbeat that refused to die, sending subtle tremors up through his bare feet with every slow beat. A reminder: the wound in the world was still open.
The Dog Flap to Hell, as he'd named it.
He exhaled and focused, the cool air filling his lungs and steadying his core as he rolled his shoulders once.
A retreat step—back foot first, staff between him and an invisible foe, weight shifting smoothly to maintain perfect balance on the uneven terrain.
Thrust—straight snap, maximum reach, the tip cutting forward with a sharp whoosh that parted the air right in front of his face.
Push-step—short, aggressive, all his weight came forward, hips driving the power from the ground up through his legs.
Overhead strike—downbeat from high to low, torso twisting sharply, rear hand driving the motion with controlled force that made his shoulders burn.
Underhand sweep—rising from below, cutting through the brittle ice with a crisp crunch that sent shards skittering across the ground in every direction.
Pivot—change angle, shift rhythm, never stay still, his feet adjusted lightly to the new direction with quick, precise shuffles.
Horizontal strike—wide, fast, a blur carving through the air in a wide arc that stirred up fallen leaves into a brief whirlwind around his ankles.
The motions blurred into a single dance—a storm of rhythm and control, the old Master's teachings alive again through muscle and sweat that soaked his shirt and made his grip slightly slick on the staff.
When the pattern ended, he stepped back, breathing steady, steam rolling from his shoulders in thin wisps that caught the filtered sunlight and drifted away.
He moved deeper into the forest, where space opened between the trunks, the ground softer with layers of moss and grass underfoot that muffled each step.
This round was for accuracy.
He threw her high—she spun, humming as it sliced the air with a low thrum—
"Recall."
—then curved back toward him in a graceful arc. He caught one-handed toward her metal fittings, twisted at the waist, and sent her again with a smooth flick of his wrist that felt more natural each time.
He recalled her again. His foot snapped upward, meeting the shaft cleanly.
A snap of a branch—The impact sending a shower of leaves raining down.
"Recall."
Then, a spear throw.
Recall flew straight and true, embedding lightly in a distant trunk with a solid thud.
"Recall."
She twirled back, straight into his spin-kick.
Her trajectory sent her colliding into a fruit, smashing it open with a wet smack.
"Recall."
His leg extended fully, muscles burning with the effort as his foot connected cleanly with a high kick.
A startled bird let out a surprised squawk as Recall flashed by.
Each throw, kick and return built trust between them, pulse to pulse, the connection growing stronger with every successful catch and the faint hum of Vitalis syncing between them.
They sparred like partners—sometimes he caught her cleanly with a solid thump against his palm, sometimes she caught him off guard with a playful clip.
Once she clipped his shoulder hard enough to make him laugh through a hiss of pain, the impact leaving a dull throb that faded quickly. She seemed to enjoy that, vibrating warmly in response like a shared joke.
He kept this up for a while, taking the time to get to know his new partner-in-crime, adjusting his grip and timing with each exchange until the movements felt like breathing.
…
Next came deflection drills.
He created a Heat Coil—a human-sized disc that shimmered with rising heat waves distorting the air around it, then immediately used Frost Snap, aiming right at it with focused intent.
The ice exploded and shot in all directions. Shards glittering coldly as they launched outward in a deadly spray, streaking toward him like jagged needles.
He couldn't dodge—by design, he had restricted himself to a tiny space.
Recall became a shield and partner both, spinning in his hands with blinding speed, smashing each projectile aside in a blur of frost and ice crystals that exploded into fine sparkling powder on impact.
A few snuck through; cold bruises bloomed on his arms, the sudden chill biting deep into muscle and making him grit his teeth. He grinned through them, teeth flashing white.
By the time the last ice projectile cracked against the ground, shattering into fragments, his body thrummed with exhaustion and satisfaction, arms burning pleasantly and chest heaving.
…
Back at the campground, he resumed simple strike work against a thick trunk.
TONK!
CONK!
TONK!
Each hit against the trunk carried rhythm—a mechanical beat that dug into memory, the shock traveling up his arms and into his shoulders with every solid connection.
BONK!
The clearing dissolved around him, the sounds pulled him under into a deep resonating memory.
KONK!
…
TONK!
A towering older man stood before a young man—white hair and beard matched with sharp eyes, calloused hands wrapped around a staff.
The sound was the same, wood cracking against wood in that familiar steady tempo.
The young man struck again, faster, angrier. His balance faltered, frustration boiling up through his chest.
"Kid, stop—you're losing focus." The older man said, his voice rough like gravel.
Yet the young man didn't. The strikes kept coming, wilder now, sweat flying from his brow.
"Arion!"
The old man caught his next swing, twisted, and swept Arion's legs with practiced ease.
He spun mid-air and hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of him, his back slamming against the training mats.
"What's the matter with you?"
Arion's hands clenched around the staff. Hesitation catching as he exhaled.
"It's Mum, Unc. She's been away again… work, she says, but she's acting strange and never tells me what's wrong. Even Oline keeps asking."
Unc sighed, resting his staff across his shoulders, the wood creaking slightly under the shift.
"Listen, boy. Adult lives are… complicated. Especially a woman's. Especially a mother's. Give her time. She's thinking of you, even when you think she isn't."
Arion looked down at the staff across his knees—anger, worry, love tangled tight inside him.
He blinked.
The training room faded. The black scar returned. The staff had turned red, now Recall replaced it.
His grip on her loosened. Muscles trembled, breath shallow and ragged.
He drew her back into shard form and slid her into his robe, the weight settling familiarly against his side.
Evening had fallen; shadows stretched long across the clearing, painting the obsidian scar in deeper blacks.
With aching hands and a fatigued body, he turned to head towards his little personal spring, boots crunching softly over fallen needles.
Time to soak.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Warm sunlight flickered like fireflies through plants and leaves, as purple hues washed over the once clear blue sky and painted the water's surface in shifting colours.
Arion sprawled in his personal spring bath, soaking the day's exhaustion away, the warm water lapping gently against his chest and easing the deep ache in his shoulders and arms.
The thin stream feeding the spring kept tugging at his sense of sound; a constant, soothing trickle that filled the quiet space. He looked down at his reflection. The ripples blurred, and another memory began to form.
Blip.
Blop.
…
Blop.
Blop.
The sound of a tap squeaking shut, a reflection of a young man, black hair, light brown eyes stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, face pale under the harsh light.
C'mon, don't puss out now.
He gripped the sink bowl with a shaky grip, thinking to himself, acting as his own absent consciousness, knuckling white against the cold porcelain.
After a while, he picked up the flowers and made his way down the corridor.
Machines and noises could be heard from every room he passed, until he came to another like all the rest, the door slightly ajar and humming with mechanical life.
He took a deep breath, took the handle with shaky hands and walked inside. He saw what he'd see each time he visited, the sight hitting him like a punch to the gut.
His Mother.
Surrounded by machines, she seemed less human and more machine, tubes and wires crossing her pale skin and the steady beep of monitors filling the heavy air.
He put the flowers he bought next to her, the bright petals a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets and the faint chemical tang in the room.
"Hi Mum, Happy Birthday…"
He sat beside her, silence stretching thin between the beeping monitors and the low hiss of oxygen. Then he started talking—about his scores, his papers, how she'd been right about every lesson she ever forced on him. The words came easy at first, then cracked halfway through, voice growing thick and unsteady.
…
"I–I have something else to share with you as well…"
A slightly crumpled piece of paper was held in his hands, he gripped it tight. The edges cut his palms.
Then he started to read out loud.
"Dear Arion Numen,
We are thrilled to invite you as an official member to the Institute of National Science and Anomalies, The INSA–"
Droplets hit paper, once, then twice, darkening the ink in small spreading blots.
"The results of your science certification reward, along with your proposed papers have impressed all of us, including the Head Chairmen. We show neither favoritism nor bias, but we have all agreed that your presence will bring the Institute incredible insight and invaluable knowledge."
A shaky pause.
Then his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the slightly wet paper.
"Bu-but unfortunately, due to you still being under the age of 21, we cannot legally invite you under as an Official Member, but as an institutional assistant, the pay, unfortunately, will not reflect the funding of an Official Member of the Institution. "
Shaky breathing could be heard while droplets fell, rolling off the paper onto his lap and leaving dark spots on his trousers.
"...Training and any necessities will also be deducted by your first three months of pay.
We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause you.
Please do reach back as soon as possible, positions are rare and thousands of other bright minds are standing behind you.
We cannot guarantee to hold this rare opportunity for you for too long.
We hope to hear from you soon,
Alyn Corzat,
Vice-Chairman of INSA."
Arion let out a long and tense exhale.
"I–I know you'd be so thrilled for me, it was your dream after all, you deserve it more than me…"
His chest tightened as his shoulders hunched forward.
"I rejected it."
Eyes watered, tears continued to flow, soaking both paper and the floor beneath in quiet drops.
"I don't care how amazing this is… I have to support your treatments, medical bills, caretakers…"
His hands grasped the damp, crumpled letter, now pressed up against his face, almost like he was trying to hide his emotions.
"I–I can't lose you too, Mum…"
"I steeled myself, like you did for all those years. But no matter how hard I try, I always feel one bad moment away from breaking."
The smell of disinfectant clung to his throat; the air felt heavier every time he breathed, thick and impossible to escape.
"I'm trying, but I'm not you, Mum."
"Don't leave…" The words barely left his throat. Then, he turned to her. "You can give me lectures all you want, I won't—I'll behave, I'll carry it, your legacy, just don't…"
"Just… don't leave me."
Silence, only droplets hitting the hospital floor could be heard.
Bop.
…
Blip.
The mute of sound lifted, spring water resumed to trickle down, lukewarm against his skin.
With a leaf covering his face, his emotions were hidden, like they always had been.
A slight chuckle escaped his mouth, bitter and tired, the sound barely louder than the droplets.
"Fuck… new body, a different world, another opportunity. Yet, I'm still a god damn mess."
Spring water seemed to trickle more that night under the darkening sky.