Haku barreled forward, enveloping Aldrich in a fierce hug, his laughter ringing like a bell.
"Jesus, it really is you!" he exclaimed, his voice thick with joy.
Aldrich returned the embrace, a grin breaking across his face as he nodded. Haku was a fellow disciple of the Monarch's dojo. He was not just any random member, he was ranked eighth among its top fighters. Although he was not one of the friends Aldrich was looking for, it felt great to see a familiar face from back home once again.
"How've you been, Haku?" Aldrich asked, pulling back slightly.
"I've seen hell, my man," Haku chuckled, a shadow of hardship flickering in his eyes.
"So, I take it you two know each other," Kartika chimed in, slightly smiling.
"Of course!" Haku boomed. "You are looking at one of the best fighters I have ever met."
"For Haku to say that, you must be a damn beast," Hokon remarked, his scarred face creasing with intrigue.
"He's only exaggerating, I'm just about decent," Aldrich demurred, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
"Still as modest as ever," Haku laughed, slinging an arm around Aldrich's shoulders. "Come, my friend, we've got plenty to catch up on." He steered Aldrich toward a quieter corner of the tent.
Haku sat crosslegged on the faded old spread, absently picking at a loose thread on the hem of his trousers. His back was slightly hunched, shoulders relaxed, one knee rocking slowly.
"Are you the only one from the dojo here?" Aldrich asked, settling onto the makeshift bed, a spread that probably used to belong to the squad's former member.
"No," Haku replied, shifting closer. "Ceila's here too."
Aldrich furrowed his brow, sifting through his memories for the name. Then, he shook his head slowly. He could not remember her.
"You might not know her. She's not one to mingle, and she falls pretty low on the dojo's rankings, so she probably slipped under your radar," Haku clarified with a shrug.
"What about Herman, Bernard, Julia, or Beebee?" Aldrich asked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, thumb rubbing slow circles over his knuckle
Haku shook his head, regret softening his features. "Haven't seen them. I'm sorry."
Aldrich sighed, a headache brewing as he sank back into the spread, the weight of uncertainty pulling him down. Haku fell silent.
The tent was not silent, however, Aldrich could hear nothing at that moment. He rested one arm across his eyes, his other hand still twitching occasionally in his lap, opening and closing into a fist, like he was trying to hold something that kept slipping through. His breath came out slow and shallow, the kind that spoke of quiet exhaustion. Slowly, he drifted to sleep.
***********
Aldrich's eyes blinked open. He wasn't in the tent anymore. He stood now in a quarry mine, a faint echo of dripping water bounced somewhere beyond the reach of his sight. The place was dimly lit, shadows pooling in corners, but the layout was unmistakable, its rough walls familiar from his recurring dreams.
A younger Aldrich shuffled past him, oblivious to his presence, like he was like a ghost. The boy's knees were scabbed, and one of his shoelaces dragged behind him, untied. He clutched a worn rundolph ball tightly to his chest, the yellow paint chipped and flaking from use. His small eyes darted side to side, scanning the ground as though searching
Aldrich frowned, his usual dream had shifted. It was different this time. No longer seeing through his child self's eyes, he now observed as a detached witness, trailing the boy who couldn't see him.
They soon reached an opening where Aldrich's father, clad in his orange core armor, spoke with a cloaked figure towering over him. Aldrich stepped closer, past young Aldrich, as he tried to listen in the conversation. However, an invisible force resisted him. The pressure came like a slow vise closing around his skull, not painful at first, just… wrong. Each step forward made it worse. It was a force he couldn't see, but it pressed against his chest and eyes, like the air itself was thickening into concrete.
The cloaked figure's voice cut briefly through the weight, distorted like it came through water.
"Your mission is over. Retrieve the core and kill Alberman."
Aldrich fell to his knees, the pain searing through his head. Ahead, his father whipped around, not toward him, but to young Aldrich.
"You shouldn't be here, Baby Al," he trembled, his voice tight with fear.
His hands trembled as he scooped the boy up in one fluid motion. Dust kicked up around his armored feet as he moved, his orange core armor hissing at the joints with each step.
Aldrich collapsed, his vision blurring as the agony overwhelmed him. And still, something told him to look.
He forced his head up, just barely, lids fluttering with effort.
The cloaked form turned slowly to leave, robes dragging with a low whisper over the rocky ground. The motion caused the cloak to shift just for a moment.
And there it was.
A gap beneath the folds. A glint of color. The unmistakable, refracted shimmer of blue core armor catching the pale light from the lights.
Aldrich's eyes widened a fraction and everything went dark.
Aldrich jolted upright, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His hands trembled slightly as he braced himself on the bedding, the coarse fabric wrinkling beneath his palms.
His squinting eyes darted around, pupils adjusting slowly to the darkness. The dark tent interior came into his focus, the walls shifting slightly in the breeze as they cast restless shadows from the single dying flame torch in the corner.
The others were still fast asleep, undisturbed. Running a hand through his hair, his mind shifted. This dream differed from the rest, peeling back new layers.
My father was on a mission, but that cloaked figure had ordered him to retrieve a core and kill Alberman.
A frown creased his brow as a chilling thought took root in his mind. What if this wasn't a dream, but a buried memory?
If this were true, the cave's events were real, and his heart raced with the implications. Who was Alberman? Was the core the cloaked man sought the same as the one within him? What was his father's mission?And what blue core user hid beneath that cloak?
Aldrich agreed that chasing answers to these questions might unravel the mystery behind his father's death.
Rising, he stretched his stiff limbs, he could not sleep anymore. He dropped to the cold grass for push-ups, his first since he arrived here.
Aldrich grabbed his sword, the grip slick beneath his fingers, his palm damp with lingering sweat. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed, not from anger, but from focus that had been simmering beneath the surface all night.
He stepped out into the crisp air, letting the cool breeze wash over his skin like a slap awake. The world beyond the tent was still veiled in darkness, the sky just beginning to pale at the edges.
He found a quiet patch of open ground just beyond the tents. Without hesitation, he drew his blade in a slow arc, metal whispering against its sheath. There was something he'd been meaning to test, time now permitting.
Closing his eyes, Aldrich inhaled once, deep and steady.
When he opened them, a semi-transparent figure flickered to life before him, barely there, like breath on glass. It was Alan.
Sword slung casually across his back, the spectre's faint smirk curled as if amused to be summoned. Aldrich had spent countless battles watching Alan move, studying him in chaos and desperation, filing away every stance, every shift of weight, every feint that left enemies grasping at nothing.
And now, he brought that imprint to life.
But something was different.
The figure looked… denser than before. The lines of his ghost summons no longer fluttered like smoke. They held, faint but definite. He could feel it now, his energy slowly sapping. He summoned the hologram screen instinctively, searching. His gaze fell upon Core Force, and he could see it was dropping in value slowly. He could not help but wonder, as he dismissed the screen, if the increase in his Core Force was slowly affecting his strange ability.
"Hello, Aldrich," the spectre said, voice low, almost fondly.
It smiled, drawing its sword. It adopted a stance, hilt pressed to its abdomen, blade aimed at him, left knee bent, right leg extended with heel grounded and toes up, left hand raised for balance. The Muka Art
Exactly what Aldrich intended to learn.
Aldrich's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his own blade, the blade humming as he mirrored the spectral Alan's Muka Art stance. Hilt pressed to his abdomen, blade aimed forward, left knee bent, right leg extended with heel grounded and toes up, left hand raised for balance.
Their blades met with a shimmer instead of a clang, a strange ripple that passed through the air without sound. Alan's spectre deflected the thrust with effortless grace, pivoting into a feint, left shoulder dipping, blade appearing to the side before lashing right.
Aldrich twisted back just in time, his blade meeting nothing but cold air, and nearly lost his footing. He reset, his heart pounding with excitement.
The spectre pressed forward, each motion fluid and sly, his attacks layered with deception. An overhead strike melted into a low sweep that skimmed Aldrich's thigh. It did not harm him, but was enough to jolt adrenaline through him.
He gritted his teeth, countering with a wild slash, but the ghost ducked and spun, its blade arcing around in a clean circle, grazing his chest and sending another jolt of adrenaline through him. It was always like that whenever he got hit by these spectres. They never physically hurt him but they were able to cause those electrifying jolts.
Ten minutes bled away in a blur of movement. Aldrich's breath came harder, chest heaving, arms burning. Each strike he threw was blocked. Each feint he read turned out to be bait. His defenses cracked under the weight of the spectre's cunning rhythm until, at last, a final thrust slipped past his guard.
The blade's point halted at his chest. There was no pain, no mark, but the intent landed like a blow.
He stumbled back a step, panting, sweat stinging his eyes.
The specter grinned, then flickered, fading like a mirage breaking apart.
Aldrich rested for a bit, regaining his Core force. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his grip, and returned to the stance. Again, hilt to abdomen. Blade steady. Legs aligned. This time, he didn't just mimic Alan's posture, he mirrored the deception.
When the ghost reformed and lunged, Aldrich moved differently. Less brute force, more suggestion. He threw a feint high, then slipped low, almost catching the phantom's flank. But Alan adapted fast. A misjudged flick let the spectral sword tag his ribs,sending him another jolt.
Still, Aldrich rose again. He circled, recalibrated, tried anew. Each exchange honed him further. He began to bait the ghost, offering false openings, setting traps with his posture. The style was built on lies, and Aldrich was learning to lie better.
The ghost's patterns began to show. Its rhythm, once unpredictable, revealed gaps.
By the time the first light cracked over the horizon, staining the tent flaps pink and gold, Aldrich's Muka Art held. Thirty full minutes. His blade danced with feints and counters, his movements synced to the specter's rhythm like notes in a duel.
The Spectre remained untouchable.
But now… not by much.