Morning came.
Zeke and Julie tried one last time.
They spoke softly, careful with every word. They told the kids it wasn't necessary. That they didn't want this. That no one needed to give anything up for them.
It didn't work.
Their words went in one ear and out the other.
They couldn't change a thing.
The weight of it settled on their chest.
It was not just expectation. It was responsibility.
So they trained.
Their training was grueling. Unlike before, there were no pauses, no jokes, no room for failure. They ran until their legs could no longer support them, pushed through bodyweight drills until muscles burned and joints screamed in protest.
When they collapsed, lungs heaving, minds barely clinging to consciousness, they did not lie back.
Dirt pressed cold beneath them. Backs straight. Hands resting on their knees.
Meditation instead of rest.
Their essence barely answered them, faint and distant, but they forced themselves to focus anyway. Again. And again. Like it was a full time job.
Because in a way, it was.
By the time training ended, the yard was already clean. Water had been drawn. Meals were halfway prepared.
The kids had taken over their chores without being asked.
Then came dinner time.
The portions were barely smaller. Anyone looking closely would say nothing had changed.
But to them, it seemed halved.
The food tasted different. Zeke could not tell if it was because he no longer helped make it, or because his tongue was crushed by the weight of those glances.
The kids stole glances at them not accusing.
Just hopeful.
That night, neither of them slept much.
The next day followed the same rhythm.
No chores. Only training.
At least for Zeke.
Julie trained with him, pushed herself just as hard, but when it was time to cook, she went back inside. The kitchen had felt wrong without her the day before. Even the food had tasted a little worse without her touch.
Even the clothes the kids wore today seemed a little less crisp. So she used it as an excuse and worked until her arms almost fell off.
Zeke tried to do the same.
He got turned down.
He was not as competent as Julie. He was not clumsy, but he had no place there, the chores he could do had already been taken care of.
So he went back outside.
The hours he trained alone were the worst.
The yard felt too large. Too quiet. Even when the kids were nearby, the space around him felt hollow. Even when they gathered for meals, and the sound of laughter and joy filled the room, to him it still felt empty.
He was not alone anymore.
And yet, the feeling creeping up his chest was loneliness.
So he drowned it.
He trained harder.
Hard enough that his movements lost their flow. Hard enough that even Julie felt concerned.
He poured everything into training. The guilt, the frustration, and the dark thoughts that crept into his mind.
He needed to be useful again.
He could not be a burden.
His body was strong for his age. He knew that, but it was not enough.
Compared to grown men, he was still weak. That gap would not close quickly through physical training alone.
But essence was a different matter.
That gap could be bridged faster.
So when his body finally gave out that evening, when his muscles refused to respond, Zeke did not stop.
He sat. Closed his eyes. And reached inward.
The next day, he tried again.
And the day after that.
He sat alone, back straight, breathing slow, just as the books described. He reached for a thin presence inside him. And as always, his essence barely answered.
So he pulled the little amount he could conjure toward his chest.
Pain bloomed instantly. It was not like any pain he ever experienced, it was something deep and instinctive, like his body was rejecting something that it couldn't handle yet.
He stopped.
For a long moment, he did nothing but sit there, listening to the rhythmic sound of his heart thumping loudly into his chest.
Then he tried again. Not his chest.
His right arm. Slowly and carefully.
The essence resisted him, it felt like forcing something through a space too narrow for it.
Pain followed, but this time it was bearable. So he pushed harder.
The pressure became wrong. Twisted. His arm felt numb and heavy so he bit his tongue and continued. When it finally gave out, he collapsed to the ground, gasping, sweat dripping from his forehead.
He told himself it was normal.
Training hurt. Pain meant progress.
He repeated it the next day.
And the next.
Each time, the pain came faster. Each time, he ignored it.
On the sixth day, something broke.
The pressure spiked all at once. Blood poured from his nose, splattering against the ground. Heat surged through him as his vision blurred and he lost consciousness.
Antonio found him.
The boy had come to call him for lunch. He froze at the sight of blood pooling dark beneath Zeke's face. So he called Sis Mari.
She arrived as fast as she could. She dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she wiped the blood away. It looked far worse than it was.
She did not know that.
She knew nothing about essence.
She called for Julie, Neil and Sophia.
She told them to take care of the kids while she takes Zeke to the doctor.
Julie and Sophia nodded immediately after seeing Zeke's condition, but Neil refused to stay behind.
They descended to the village, and reached the doctor's office. It was the same one who treated Neil.
The doctor recognized it immediately. He
checked Zeke's pulse, pressed two fingers to his wrist. His surprise was brief, but unmistakable.
"Essence vein exhaustion," he said quietly.
Sis Mari stiffened.
"Don't worry, it is not dangerous," he continued. "at least for the first time. But to have it at his age is very rare."
Zeke slept through it all.
The instructions were simple. He needed rest, plenty of it.
They paid and returned to the orphanage in silence. Even Neil couldn't find words to say. His eyes kept forward the entire walk back.
He felt responsible for what happened to Zeke.
Zeke stirred awake in the middle of the night.
The room was dim. Most of the kids were asleep.
Sis Mari sat nearby, a small lamp in her hand, reading a book. The worn cover read "On Human Solitude" but Zeke couldn't see it clearly.
Neil slept beside the bed, slumped forward, exhaustion carved deep into his face.
"He just fell asleep," Sis Mari said softly. "He was worried about you."
Guilt settled in Zeke's chest again. He was a burden even when he tried not to be. Then the emotions overflowed out of his mouth.
He told Sis Mari everything.
He spoke quietly. About the training. About the pressure. About the fears he never said out loud. How he felt lonely these past days even though he was surrounded by people who cared for him.
Sis Mari listened like she always did.
When he finished, she closed her book.
"Loneliness does not mean you lack people," she said. "It means you lack connection."
Zeke frowned, the words did not make much sense to him.
"A man can laugh with everyone and still be lonely," she continued, "if his inner self was left unseen."
She tucked Neil in his bed and turned toward the door.
Before leaving, she added, "You are not the only one who feels that way." Her eyes lingering on Neil.
Zeke lay awake long after she left.
For the first time, he thought about Neil. How he felt, how after the injury, he always tried to ease his physical burden but he never addressed his mental one.
He felt stupid.
But maybe after today, neither of them would have to carry their loneliness alone.