The next dawn broke clear and soft, gold light spilling through the bamboo thickets behind the Kelivin estate. The smell of dew and tea leaves filled the courtyard as the brothers prepared for training.
Kevin stretched quietly, his movements disciplined even as sleep lingered in his eyes. Kris slammed his fists together, testing his strength against the wooden post that had split three lessons ago. Dylan, late as usual, stumbled into the courtyard mid‑yawn, sparks chasing his hairline as faint static rippled from his arm.
Kevin smirked. "Still charging yourself like a lantern before breakfast?"
Dylan shrugged, grin bright. "If speed had a price, I'd pay it every day."
Before Kris could retort, their father appeared.
Kelivin's silent arrival no longer startled them. Yet that morning something about him felt different—the way his shadow lagged faintly behind, as if unwilling to move with his body, and the light in his eyes burned with an edge of resolve they had never seen before.
"Form drills," he said simply. His voice lacked its usual calm weight—it cut through the air like tempered stone.
They obeyed instantly.
Shifting Currents
The exercises began as usual. Kevin led the stealth sequences, his motions fluid, his aura darkening the edges of the yard. Kris followed, fists shattering training blocks with each blow. Dylan traced lightning arcs along the posts, leaving afterimages flickering like ghosts.
But the rhythm felt off. Kelivin didn't correct them. He watched without expression, arms folded, gaze distant.
Kris struck one final block and paused. "Father?"
No answer.
Dylan exchanged a confused glance with Kevin, who cleared his throat. "Are we—"
"Again," Kelivin interrupted, snapping back to the moment. "You're still separated."
"Separated?" Dylan asked, wiping his brow. "We're standing side by side."
"Your energies aren't aligned," Kelivin said sharply. "You move like three stray rivers instead of one current."
He stepped forward, drawing a faint sigil in the air. Energy flared—shadow, stone, and lightning mingling into a swirl. It hovered above his palm, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"This is what you must become," he said. "Many elements. One rhythm."
Kevin frowned. "That technique—"
Kelivin silenced him with a look. "Focus. There are things the world will not forgive if you remain divided."
Something in his voice made them uneasy, a note of loss tucked behind command.
The Subtle Change
As the morning went on, Kelivin pushed harder than usual. He forced Kris to balance raw power with precision, striking small stones mid‑air instead of solid targets. He made Dylan hold lightning within his body until it hummed through his bones instead of bursting outward. And he blindfolded Kevin, challenging him to fight by sensing energy flows rather than sight.
Hours passed before he dismissed them. When it ended, none of them could tell if they'd improved or if they'd simply survived.
Dylan dropped into the grass. "I thought training was supposed to build stamina, not drain souls."
Kris leaned back, panting. "He's hiding something."
Kevin looked toward their father, who stood at the far end of the yard staring at the horizon, every muscle taut even in stillness. "He's not hiding it." Kevin's tone softened. "He's worried."
Kelivin turned at the sound of their voices. For a heartbeat, he seemed about to explain—then his expression hardened again.
"The three of you are bound by what you do not yet understand," he said. "Until you do, strength means nothing. Tomorrow's lesson will begin at dawn."
He left before they could respond, the faint swirl of shadow trailing behind him like drifting ink.
The Quiet Afterwards
For a long time, none of them spoke. The usual banter after training had vanished. The only sound was the whisper of leaves and the drip of water from the eaves.
Kris planted his fists on his knees. "Did anyone else feel that?"
"His energy?" Kevin asked.
"No," Kris said. "The fear."
Dylan nodded quietly. "I've never seen him afraid of anything."
Kevin turned toward the mountains. The mist hung heavier today, glowing from within as faint flickers danced in the air—touches of Ryuma dust rising from somewhere deep in the woods. Each shimmer pulsed like a heartbeat, too steady to be natural.
He narrowed his eyes. "The air's different. Like the world's holding its breath."
Neither brother answered, but all three felt it. Something unseen, restless, waiting for their next move.
The Shadow Between
That night, Kevin woke to the sound of wind rattling the shutters. He saw his father's silhouette in the courtyard below, standing perfectly still, gazing at the mountain's ridge where the mist glowed faintly purple—an unnatural color.
Kelivin's voice, barely audible, carried upward. "Not yet," he whispered. "They're not ready."
Then the wind swallowed the words, leaving only silence and that strange light pulsing like memory.
Kevin watched until the figure faded back into the house, knowing this was the start of something their father could no longer hide.