Blessing Of The Sky looked the same: dark brown hair, golden eyes. Today he wore a four-piece suit that matched those eyes, and a small smile lingered on his face as he faced the camera. The interviewer's voice came from off-screen.
"So, Mr. Sky, you stopped a rampant Walker about a day ago with frightening ease. While they might not be of any significance to you, they pose a large threat to mundane people—citizens who can't afford a Beast Art. Are there any new implementations to limit their movements? The Walkers, that is."
Blessing Of The Sky's smile faded. He fixed the lens and spoke with a measured calm. "We, at the Global Anti-Walker Program, G.A.P, try our best to detect the dimensional tears from which these Walkers emerge."
His gaze tracked invisible lines in the air, distant as if replaying maps only he could see. "We're working to perfect this method, but we ask everyone for patience while we continue our efforts," he replied confidently, eyes locked on the camera.
For a second Alex had the ridiculous sensation that Blessing Of The Sky was looking straight at him. He leaned in, ready to devour the rest of the interview, but the bell sliced through the classroom and ruined the moment.
He groaned and stood, trailing into class.
"Alexander Song!!" Mr. Tyson barked, again. "Did you hear me?"
Alex's mind was still elsewhere but he bobbed his head like an over-caffeinated parrot.
"Good. It's best you start to prepare for the exchange program the school signed you up for." The words pulled Alex back into the room like a hook.
His eyes grew into saucers. "What?!! Exchange program??" he blurted.
Mr. Tyson scowled at the interruption. "See, I knew you weren't listening — and yes, you have been signed up for an exchange program to a different city in another part of the country. Great Eulon City." He tried to make it sound exciting.
A bright bubble of joy swelled inside Alex at the memory of Blessing Of The Sky obliterating the Walker, but the feeling popped the instant fear slid in. Cold, sharp panic coiled in his gut.
"I could die!!" he protested. Legends might save the day, but someone still could be the cost, and to Alex that possibility felt personal. He pictured being overlooked amid headlines and heroics.
He stared at Mr. Tyson scowl, then forced himself steady. "When am I leaving?"
Mr. Tyson smiled softly. "In two days. You'll be staying there for a week." The class snickered at his expense.
"Oh don't feel too bad, you'll have some company. Tony is going as well." At that Alex wanted to cry.
'You have got to be kidding me. He must set this up.' Alex shot a look at Tony and found the same displeasure mirrored back.
The rest of the period blurred into a gray haze; only the final bell snapped him out.
—
Back home, Alex fished the book from under his mattress and opened it where he'd left off. He forced himself to replicate the previous day's attempt—but this time the energy he drew from his core behaved. A sliver of control, a hint that it could be channeled.
Following the diagram's red lines, he coaxed the energy into the prescribed pathways. Resistance met him at every turn—like a non-newtonian material —but he kept pushing. The harder he pressed, the harder the pathways pushed back.
At one point a sharp burst of pain lanced through him. "Shit! I can't force it," he groaned, and paused. Then he tried again, this time using a subtler, passive-aggressive pressure—less brute force, more coaxing. Finally, a whole line completed but he was drenched in sweat, shaking from exertion.
His muscles ached as if he'd run a marathon, and he couldn't understand why his body felt so taxed. He forced himself up and staggered toward the shower.
When he dried off and returned, the book was gone.
Anger flared hot. He found his father slumped against the wall, a premium whiskey bottle in hand, the alcohol smell a sharp, sour cloud.
"Dad, have you been in my room?" Alex demanded, trying not to choke on the stench.
"Don't you mean my room? And yes."
Alex held on to a sliver of hope, "And did you see my book—a faded, red one?"
"Yes and I traded it for this priceless bottle of premium booze. Hehehe. Come have a sip." His father chuckled through hiccups.
Alex felt blood rush to his head and his fists clenched to prevent him from attacking his dad.
He exploded from the house like a madman, eyes scanning the street like a predator searching for prey.
At the end of the block a tall figure turned a corner, the unmistakable shape of the book tucked under their arm.
'Is that an IOA agent? No— they wouldn't buy it. If anything, we'd have been killed or arrested. Maybe both.' Alex swallowed his fear and took chase.
As he closed the distance, the figure stopped and turned. A glint of metal—knife in hand—made Alex skid to a halt.
"Who tha fuck er 'yer?" the man slurred, pointing the blade. "My book, give it." Alex almost laughed at the audacity—until fear spidered up his spine.
The knife made him want to run. Any organization tied to the Beast Art would be looking for the delinquent who sold it, not him. Let it go and vanish—stay safe. But the thought of surrendering what had become his—his path—was unbearable.
"'Yers? 'yers?!" the man sneered. "Hahaha. I traded 'dis right here 'fer a good bottle of me premium whiskey. Go play with sommon else, kid." He waved Alex away and started to turn, but Alex refused to back down.
He planted his left foot, spun clockwise, and drove his right shin into the man's temple.
The attacker staggered and the book slipped free, thudding to the pavement. Anger sharpened into something fierce. The man recovered quickly, brandished the knife again—this time with clear intent to kill.