Kaelen stared at his own wrist. The spot where the creepy brat had touched him didn't even look red. But the ghost of that feeling—the sudden, total disconnect, like his arm just decided to stop being part of his body, lingered like a bad dream.
"What was that?" he muttered, flexing his fingers. The strength was back, but the memory of weakness was terrifying.
In the kitchen, the air was thick with the smell of good food and thick confusion. Lyra was slowly, reverently, eating the fried rice, as if each grain held a secret. Aeliana leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at the door Zaireon had just walked out of.
"He's lost it," Kaelen finally declared, his voice loud in the quiet room. "Completely. Totally. The hunger, the stress, the heat—it finally cooked his brain. Teacher? Master? Consultation rates?" He let out a harsh laugh. "He's been watching too many bad martial arts streams on the Aether-Net."
Aeliana didn't answer. She was remembering the eyes. They weren't Ian's eyes. Ian's eyes were always downcast, watery, hiding. Those eyes… they'd looked through Kaelen. Like he was a piece of furniture. A mildly inconvenient chair.
"He made this," Lyra said softly, scraping her plate clean. "It's… it's really good."
"So he can cook!" Kaelen threw his hands up. "Big deal! He also thinks he's some ancient grandmaster! He called me kid! Me! He's talking about securing capital and making people pay. That's not Ian. Ian's fantasy was about someone else saving the sect, not him turning into a… a delusional tyrant!"
Aeliana pushed off the counter. "Maybe… maybe it's a coping mechanism. A weird, intense breakdown." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "He's always been obsessed with the old stories. About the Fringe being great. Maybe he just… broke, and that's the personality that came out."
"Well, he can break on his own time!" Kaelen snapped. "We don't need a lunatic giving us orders. We need to scrape together enough A-Creds to pay the damn quarterly levy to the Aetheling Dynasty, or they'll send collectors. Real ones."
The name hung in the air, colder than the expired milk in the fridge. The levy. The unpayable debt. That was the real monster, not Ian's sudden madness.
________________________________________
Zaireon stood in the overgrown yard they called a training ground. The "dirt" was mostly cracked concrete and stubborn weeds. The air didn't hum with natural energy; it buzzed with the distant, meaningless drone of suburban traffic.
His mind, however, was elsewhere.
A fallen sect.
The concept echoed in the vast chambers of his memory. Not as a new shock, but as a familiar, bitter taste. It was the core tragedy, the repeating melody of existence. Nothing built lasts. No peak is unassailable. He knew this. He had lived this.
But knowing it and seeing it were two different kinds of hell.
The Astral Fringe Monastery has fallen? What kind of third-rate karma is this!?
Was he supposed to just accept this? To live out this pathetic, modern life in a body that ached from a single well-cooked meal, surrounded by children who didn't know the first thing about true cultivation, in a world that had replaced spiritual ascension with… credit scores?
"Fallen?" he muttered to the uncaring sky, his voice a low growl. "Who declared that? Some jumped-up accountant with a corporate seal? It doesn't matter."
A memory, sharp and unwanted, sliced through him. Not his own. Ian's. A memory of standing right here, after a particularly brutal day of cleaning and bullying, looking up at this same dirty sky. The thought had been simple, desperate, pathetic: I wish I could make us strong again. I wish someone would come and save us.
The raw, childish hope of it was like acid on Zaireon's ancient soul.
You wish for a savior, you brat? he thought, addressing the ghost of the boy whose flesh he now wore. Fine. You got one. The most expensive, irritable, and overqualified savior in all of creation. You're welcome.
But beneath the irritation, something colder stirred. Regret. The old, deep-sea leviathan of his past life.
He saw flashes. Not of his own death, but of before. Of standing aloof on his solitary peak. Disciples from other sects would come, seeking guidance, offering fellowship. He'd found them… tedious. Distractions from the pure pursuit of the blade. He'd turned them away with a word, a look. He'd had no "sahyung" to nag him, no "sajae" to share drunken nights with. He had the sky, his sword, and his own unmatched prowess.
It had been enough. Until it wasn't. Until the silence of the void became the only answer to his triumph.
"Do you regret your solitude?" a phantom voice seemed to whisper, warm and chiding, a composite of every would-be friend he'd ever dismissed.
Yes, the thought came, swift and undeniable. I regret it. I regret it so much it feels like this new body's stomach is hollow.
"There is no need for regret," the warm voice echoed. "It is your sect now."
…Sect. This rotten, crumbling, bankrupt joke of a sect. He looked at the broken practice dummy, the peeling paint on the observatory dome. A wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance washed over him, hotter than any divine flame.
"Because it is my sect," he grumbled aloud. "Ugh. Those brats in there."
________________________________________
"He's standing out there talking to himself," Ben reported, not looking up from his tablet. He'd been monitoring the yard's single, fungus-covered security camera. "Lips moving. Looks pissed. Standard crazy person behavior."
"See?" Kaelen said, vindicated. "We need to do something. Tie him up. Throw cold water on him. Something!"
"And what if he does that nerve-pinch thing to your whole body?" Lyra asked quietly, finally putting her plate down.
Kaelen flinched.
"We observe," Aeliana said, her leader-voice firm but tired. "For now. Dawn training. Let's see what his 'lesson' is. If it's dangerous, we stop it. If it's just more crazy… we'll figure it out." She looked at Kaelen. "And you. Stop provoking him. A crazy person who knows a pressure point is still a crazy person who knows a pressure point."
The night passed fitfully. Zaireon didn't sleep. He sat cross-legged on the roof, feeling the feeble trickle of starlight through the light-polluted sky, forcing this worthless body through the most basic meridians-clearing exercise. It was like trying to siphon an ocean through a straw made of mud. Agonizing.
When the first dirty grey light of dawn bleached the sky, he dropped down into the yard. They were already there. Aeliana, trying to look stern. Kaelen, glowering with arms crossed. Lyra, nervously shifting her weight. Ben, leaning against the wall, tablet in hand, looking bored.
Zaireon looked at them, these four pillars of his new, terrible empire. His amber eyes swept over them, and he sighed, a sound of profound, universe-weary disappointment.
"You're late," he said.
"It's dawn right now!" Kaelen protested.
"I said dawn. I meant the conceptual inception of light, not your lazy interpretation of it. Five A-Creds each. I'll keep a tab." He walked to the center of the cracked concrete. "The first lesson is not about fighting. It is about not dying from sheer stupidity. Your bodies are not just weak. They are incorrectly assembled. The wiring is faulty."
He pointed at Kaelen. "You. Throw a punch at me. A real one. Don't worry, you can't possibly hurt me."
Insulted, Kaelen didn't need telling twice. He stepped forward, threw a right hook with all his might—the sloppy, shoulder-driven punch of someone who'd never been properly taught.
Zaireon didn't block. He didn't dodge. He simply leaned in, almost imperceptibly, and caught the fist against his own chest. The impact was pathetic.
"See?" Zaireon said, as Kaelen pulled his hand back, confused. "Your power originates here," he poked Kaelen's shoulder, "travels through this misaligned conduit," he traced a line down the tense arm, "and dissipates here," he flicked Kaelen's clenched wrist. "You are leaking energy at every joint. You are a kettle with a hundred holes. You boil water just to hear the hiss of steam escaping. It's wasteful. It's embarrassing. It's bad business."
He turned to the others. "You are all the same. You've been taught nothing but flashy, inefficient garbage suited for this instant-noodle world. Starting today, we rewire. We seal the leaks. We turn these pathetic kettles into pressure cookers."
He bent down and picked up four ordinary bricks from a pile of debris.
"Your task. Hold one in each hand. Arms extended to the sides. Until I say stop." He tossed a brick to each of them. Ben fumbled his, nearly dropping his tablet.
"This is idiot training!" Kaelen scoffed, hefting the brick. "This is for beginners!"
"You are a beginner," Zaireon said, his voice flat. "You are a pre-beginner. A conceptual beginner. Now hold them. And while you do, think about the electricity in your nerves. Imagine it is money. Every twitch, every shake, is an A-Cred falling into the void. Your goal is to stop the loss."
It seemed simple. It was torture.
Within a minute, Lyra's arms were trembling. In two, Aeliana's breath was coming in short gasps. Kaelen, trying to prove a point, held his rigid, but the veins stood out on his neck. Ben looked like he was being crucified by technology.
Zaireon circled them like a vulture, his criticisms sharp and merciless.
"You, leader-girl. Your center is a swamp. Stabilize."
"You, angry one. Your anger is in your face, not your core. Useless."
"You, hopeful brat. You are trying to be gentle with the brick. It is a brick. It does not care. Grip it like it owes you money."
"You, tech-ghost. Your spirit is in that glowing slate. Recall it. Your body is your primary interface. Start learning the operating system."
After five minutes, Lyra's brick hit the concrete with a thud. She gasped, tears of frustration in her eyes.
"Pick it up," Zaireon said, not unkindly, but with absolute zero sympathy. "The levy from the Aetheling Dynasty won't wait because your arms are tired."
The name hit them like a physical blow. How did he know?
"How…?" Aeliana breathed, her arms shaking violently.
"I looked at the ledger," Zaireon said, as if it were obvious. "It was on the table. Pathetic numbers. Your debt is an insult. But debt," he said, a sudden, terrifying spark igniting in his ancient eyes, "is just a future claim on assets. We just have to become the assets."
He watched them struggle, these children holding bricks under a dirty dawn sky. This was the foundation. Not of a grand martial arts sect, but of a hostile takeover. The world thought the Astral Fringe was a bankrupt joke.