Jiro's body ached with every breath. The bruises from Tao, Lei, and Han hadn't faded; purple marks crawled across his ribs and jaw like ugly reminders of defeat. He sat by the broken window of the workshop, the faint hum of machinery in the distance mixing with the whispers of wind through Ash Lane's metal skeleton.
Rein stood nearby, arms folded, gaze steady.
"You're lucky to be alive," Rein said flatly.
Jiro frowned. "They were just thugs. I could've beaten them if—"
"No," Rein interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut through the boy's defiance. "They weren't just thugs."
Jiro looked up, confused.
"They're prodigies," Rein continued. "Once part of the Zhāng Martial Lineage, one of the most feared elite families from the Eastern district. The one with the Phoenix Seal."
Jiro blinked. "You mean… those guys?"
"Yes. They stole a forbidden combat technique — the Scarlet Feather Art. They were caught and branded as traitors. The family severed their status, burned their crests, and threw them out into the Lawless Sector. Now they survive by scavenging and robbing anyone weaker." Rein's tone darkened. "And unlike you, they've already formed their Aetherion cores."
Jiro's eyes widened. "They have cores already?"
Rein nodded. "That's why you couldn't sense their strength. They've stabilized their energy flow — hidden it behind a suppression field. Even if you'd gone all out, you wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds if they were serious."
He turned away, his coat brushing against the dust-covered floor. "Be grateful they didn't burn you to ashes. Those with active Aetherion cores can ignite their energy — and you, boy, would've been nothing but smoke."
The words hung heavy in the air.
For the first time, Jiro felt the sharp line between potential and reality — between the weak and the awakened. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"…Then I'll just catch up," he muttered.
Rein smirked faintly. "That's the spirit. But you'll do it properly. No reckless fights. No hero acts. Train. Strength isn't a rush — it's a foundation."
Days passed like blades grinding against stone.
Jiro's mornings began before dawn — sprinting across the cracked streets of Ash Lane, his breath forming mist under the chill air. He lifted rusted machinery, carried barrels of sand through the alleys, and practiced the Ryushin Ken stances until his muscles trembled.
Each night, when the city lights flickered weakly from distant towers, he meditated. The mark on his abdomen glowed faintly, drawing in particles of aether that drifted invisibly through the air.
He guided the energy through his meridians — slow, precise, and painful.
At first, it was like forcing molten iron through glass tubes. But with each session, the flow became smoother, faster, deeper.
Sometimes, he could feel the energy branching like rivers beneath his skin. Other times, it burned so much that blood seeped from his nose, yet he kept going. Rein's words echoed in his head:
"Your body must remember pain — so your core never fears it."
•••••
One evening, while Jiro was training in the courtyard, Rein watched silently from a distance. The boy's movements were sharper now — his punches left faint trails of air pressure, and his strikes carried the rhythm of someone beginning to understand balance between body and flow.
Rein noticed something else too. A soft shimmer followed Jiro's movements — like faint threads of light weaving under his skin. His meridians weren't just active; they were alive.
"That glow…" Rein murmured. "His channels are over-saturated. He's absorbing more than his body should handle."
He stepped closer, studying Jiro's breathing pattern. Each inhale pulled in visible wisps of energy from the surroundings — faint motes of light entering his pores, sinking into his bloodstream.
Jiro collapsed to one knee, panting. "I… can't stop it. The energy keeps moving on its own."
"That's because your body's nearing its limit," Rein said. "You've filled your meridians, your nerves, even your marrow with energy. Any more, and you risk bursting them apart."
Jiro wiped the sweat from his face. "So what now?"
Rein's eyes narrowed. "Now comes the next step — Core Formation."
---
Night deepened. The ash-filled sky outside the workshop glowed faintly from the city lights in the distance. Jiro sat cross-legged again, surrounded by silence except for the faint hum of the egg resting near him.
Rein stood nearby, arms crossed. "Listen carefully, Jiro. You've saturated every vein and meridian in your body. The next phase requires precision — not strength. The energy you've gathered must condense into a single focal point, where it will crystallize and form your first true core."
Jiro nodded, focused. "The Essentia Core… right?"
"Correct," Rein said. "The one that defines life and spirit. If you fail, it will rupture your heart or burn your internal pathways. But if you succeed—"
"I'll finally know what kind of power I have," Jiro finished quietly.
Rein's gaze softened, just a little. "Exactly. Every Awakening's ability reveals itself only when their core stabilizes. Until then, you're fighting blind."
He turned away, heading for the door. "Rest for tonight. Tomorrow, we begin the formation process. And avoid those prodigies — they won't show mercy twice."
Jiro exhaled slowly, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He looked at his hands — the same hands that had once trembled in fear. They were scarred now, tougher. He could feel the energy thrumming under his skin like a second heartbeat.
He looked out the cracked window, where the ash-gray sky loomed endlessly over the district.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll form my core… and I won't lose again."
The egg Mark in his stomach pulsed once, faintly — a silent acknowledgment, or perhaps a warning.
*****