Chapter 1: The Waking Dream
The impact was a shard of pure, white-hot pain, followed by the sickening crunch of metal on bone. Damish's world spun, a dizzying carousel of asphalt, streetlights, and the blinding glare of headlights. Then, nothing but the void.
Damish's eyes snapped open.
He was gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sterile smell of the city was gone, replaced by the faint, earthy scent of old wood and medicinal liniment. He was lying not on cold pavement, but on a simple, firm bed draped with rough-spun linen.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his body aching with a deep, familiar soreness centered on the large, faded bruise on his ribs. The dream—the memory—clung to him, cold and vivid. The screech of tires. The jarring impact. The certain, terrifying knowledge that it was the end.
He ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair, trying to steady his breathing. It was just a dream, he told himself, but the words felt hollow. It had been too real. His gaze drifted around the small, spartan room—the wooden walls, the single window showing a sliver of misty, predawn sky over a mountainous peak. This place was not his comfortable rental room near the university.
A familiar, dull ache, one that had nothing to do with the dream, bloomed in his chest. Mom. Dad.
His parents. Their faces, worn with pride and the typical worries of a middle-class family, flashed in his mind. He pictured their tidy, loving home, the empty chair at the dinner table. To them, he was probably dead. A hit-and-run. A body never found. The police would have called them. He could almost hear his mother's shattered cry, see his father's stoic collapse. They had worked hard to give him a good life and supported his decision to go to university. The part-time job was his way of standing on his own two feet, of contributing. The thought of the pain his disappearance must have caused them was a wound deeper than any from the accident.
A sharp, rhythmic knocking at the door shattered his morbid thoughts.
Before he could call out, the door swung open. A boy, maybe a year or two younger than Damish, bounded into the room. He had a mop of cheerful brown hair and eyes that crinkled with immediate concern.
"Damish! You're awake. I heard you tossing and turning. Another bad dream?" the boy asked, his voice light and friendly. He was dressed in a simple, practical training uniform of loose-fitting pants and a canvas jacket.
Damish just nodded, still finding his voice. "Kai. Yeah, just… a dream."
Kai studied him for a moment, his head tilted. "The one about the car again?"
"Something like that," Damish mumbled.
"Well, you'd better shake it off," Kai said, his tone turning more serious. "The Headmaster summons you. He wants to see you in the main hall. Now."
A cold trickle of apprehension ran down Damish's spine. The Headmaster. The words, and the weight they carried here, always sent him spiraling back. Back to the night everything changed.
He nodded slowly, swinging his legs out of bed. As his feet touched the cool wooden floor, the memory washed over him, pulling him under its tide.
---
Three Months Ago
The air was thick with the smell of greasy food and exhaustion. Damish wiped down the last table at the diner, his back aching from the long shift. The clock on the wall read 2:17 AM. It was a decent job that helped him pay his own bills and ease the financial load on his solidly middle-class parents, who had given him every opportunity they could. All he wanted now was to get back to his modest rental room and collapse into bed for a few hours before his early morning lecture.
He tucked his tips—earned money that felt good in his pocket—into his wallet, shrugged on his jacket, and stepped out into the chill night. The city was never truly silent, but at this hour, its heartbeat was a low, distant hum. He started the walk back, his mind already on the thermodynamics equations he needed to review.
He was crossing a quieter intersection, lost in thought, when the roar of an engine ripped through the night. It was too loud, too fast. He turned his head.
Twin headlights. Blinding.
There was no time to react. The world exploded in a symphony of screeching rubber and shattering glass. The force lifted him off his feet. Agony, sharp and absolute, erupted in his side. His head cracked against the pavement, and the world began to dim.
This is it, he thought, a strange, detached calm settling over him. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad.
Consciousness was a fragile, flickering thing. He was aware of movement, of voices speaking in low, urgent tones. He was being lifted. The world swayed and jolted. The smell of the city was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of pine and cold air.
He forced his eyes open to slits. He was in the back of a rugged, off-road vehicle. A man with a grave face and the lean, powerful build of a seasoned athlete was leaning over him. Damish cried out as the man pressed firmly on his ribs, his skilled fingers probing the injury with a precise, clinical pressure.
"Hold him still," the man grunted to someone else.
Damish felt a cold, pungent liquid being slathered thickly over the painful area on his side. It was a lotion or a salve, and for a moment, the cold was a shock. Then, a deep, warming sensation spread from it, a powerful analgesic that cut through the sharpest edges of the pain. It was strong, herbal, unlike any medical cream he'd ever known. The man then efficiently wrapped his ribs in a tight, supportive bandage, stabilizing the injury. Another person held a canteen to his lips, giving him a few sips of water that tasted faintly of herbs and minerals.
He faded in and out, catching glimpses of a winding mountain road, of passing through a heavy, wooden gate set in a high wall.
When he finally woke properly days later, the pain was a dull throb. He was in this very room. A stern-faced man in a traditional jacket stood at the foot of his bed.
"You are at the Cloud Peak Academy," the man had said, his voice calm and authoritative. "Our students found you. The driver did not stop. Your injuries were severe. We applied our methods to stabilize you. You are safe here now."
---
Present
"Damish? You coming?" Kai's voice pulled him back to the present.
Damish blinked, the memory receding. The pain of the impact, the unexpected rescue, the bewildering recovery—it was all as fresh as yesterday.
He looked at his hands. They were the same hands that had wiped down tables and held textbooks. But now, they were also hands that were learning new forms and drills.
He was Damish, the university student from a world of cars and concrete. And he was also Damish, the recovering patient and unexpected guest of the Cloud Peak Academy, a remote school dedicated to the practice of ancient physical arts.
Taking a deep breath, he stood up. "Yeah," he said, his voice firmer now. "I'm coming. Let's not keep the Headmaster waiting."