Chapter nineteen — Fragment Of The Previous
Bam!
Azeroth's feet slammed against the hardened earth as he launched himself forward.
Garet had already settled into a stance—body slightly reclined, knees bent, legs spaced apart.
The horse stance.
Azeroth didn't hesitate.
"Ahhhh—!"
He closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Whoosh.
His right leg snapped upward the moment he entered range, arcing toward Garet's neck. Under normal circumstances, the strike would've fallen short due to his height—but Garet's lowered stance placed his neck just perfectly within reach.
Bam!
Garet's left palm rose.
Slow.
Almost lazily.
Yet somehow perfectly timed.
The strike was redirected with a casual push. Azeroth's momentum twisted aside, his foot sliding off course as his body spun—his back turning to Garet.
The same move.
The same opening that had ended him again and again the day before.
But Azeroth didn't freeze today.
He had already anticipated the outcome.
The instant his foot touched the ground, he shifted his weight and fired a straight back kick—hard—aimed squarely at Garet's chest.
Impact.
The kick was intercepted—but not cleanly.
Not enough.
Force rippled outward.
Garet slid back two steps, boots grinding against the dirt before he steadied himself.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Very good," Garet said, genuine approval slipping into his voice. "You're adapting well."
Azeroth didn't answer.
He was already resetting his stance, chest heaving.
This was already the third hour today, and he barely had the strength to process Garet's words—though part of him noted, with grim satisfaction, that he'd managed to push Garet back.
—however small the distance.
"Again!" Garet called, sounding almost excited.
It was unnecessary as Azeroth was already moving.
He stepped in and threw a punch straight toward Garet's grinning face—one of his primary goals since the spar began.
Of course, it didn't land.
A swift redirect, followed by subtle shove. A moment of unsteady footing—helped along, generously, by Garet.
And Azeroth went airborne for a split second before gravity reclaimed him.
Thud.
"Ah—!" he winced as he hit the ground, the pain briefly shocking life back into his fading awareness.
"You did well," came Garet's voice, followed by, "now on your feet!"
Azeroth didn't move.
He lay there staring up at the open sky as thoughts began to crowd his mind—too many, too fast—until moisture gathered at the edges of his eyes without him realizing.
It was just as he remembered.
Him.
On his back.
Instructor09 standing above him.
"On your feet, boy."
The words didn't belong here.
They didn't belong to this sky, or this forest, or this world Infact.
And yet—
They echoed all the same.
Azeroth's vision blurred.
The blue of the sky fractured, splintering into sterile white lights overhead.
Cold concrete pressed against his back.
Not the hardened dirt of the forest.
No. It was actual reinforced concrete.
A child's hands—too small, shaking—curled against the floor as breath tore painfully from his chest. Every muscle screamed. Every nerve burned. His body refused to move.
A shadow loomed into view.
Tall. Straight-backed. Faceless beneath the harsh glare.
Instructor 09.
"On. Your. Feet."
The voice was flat. Not angry. Not cruel.
Worse.
Indifferent.
The kind of voice that didn't care if you broke trying—only that you stood.
The boy—Sam—pushed.
Arms shaking. Vision swimming.
Pain flared sharp and immediate, but he ignored it—he always did.
He barely made it to his knees.
Then something slammed into his side.
The world spun.
He left the ground.
Concrete rushed up to meet him.
Then the impact.
Once.
Then again.
His body skidded, bounced, and finally stopped.
He lay still.
Blood spilled from his mouth, warm and metallic, pooling against the floor. His chest rose—barely.
That was enough.
A pause.
Then the voice again, already bored.
"Winner decided."
With that the sounds of departing footsteps echoed.
Another child's.
The word drifted back, careless and quiet:
"Pathetic."
Darkness folded in—
—and tore back open.
In the clearing, Garet had been calling his name for several seconds now.
"…Azeroth?"
The boy suddenly sat upright.
Too fast.
One moment he was on his back.
The next, he was on his feet.
His eyes were open—yet empty. Focused on nothing in particular. But something was wrong.
—very wrong.
The world felt… narrower.
Quieter.
Garet was already moving. Approaching Azeroth with the intent to check on him.
"Oi. You with me?" He asked with his palm coming down on Azeroth to shake him awake when his pupils suddenly constricted.
Garet's muscles flexed with restrained force as he tried to leap backward.
But it was too late.
Azeroth lunged.
Without any warning and without a sign.
His body moved on its own, muscles snapping into place with terrifying precision. His stance all wrong—too efficient, too precise.
His empty gaze, fixed on Garet's vital points like a mark already measured.
He struck.
Fast. Sharp. Lethal.
A killing blow aimed straight for Garet's liver.
His pupils shrank.
With his attributes suppressed to match Azeroth's, this could no longer be considered a lesson.
It was danger.
Garet knocked the punch aside—
Only for Azeroth to withdraw, pivot, leap—
A kick tore through the air toward Garet's neck, filled with unmistakable killing intent.
"The hell—?!" Garet cursed, narrowly dodging.
"Kid—stop this!"
The only response he got was yet another strike to his heart.
Then another—this one to the temple.
Garet finally looked.
Really looked.
And saw it.
Those eyes.
His eyes were wide, unfocused, reflecting nothing of the world in front of him—yet empty all the same. Not just blank, but hollow, as though something had been scraped clean and replaced with function alone.
Shock tore through him.
"Young master…?" he breathed, the word slipping out unbidden.
Still, no answer.
Finally Garet exhaled.
Then lifted the restrictions he'd placed on himself.
Just for a moment.
The world blurred for Azeroth—
—and then went black.
Garet stood over the collapsed body for a long second. His brows furrowed.
"…Did I push too far?" He muttered.
Then bending down, he lifted the boy with care that didn't match his usual roughness, and turned toward the tent.