"It must really suck to be you," Aziz drawled with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself far too much as he leaned back against the doorway, watching his disciple with gleaming eyes.
"If you're talking about having to relive Gichinga's death every time I try to sleep," Jabari replied dryly, rolling his eyes, "and waking up with the phantom pain of him being impaled against a tree by my own glaive, then yeah, it sucks!"
Aziz chuckled, utterly unbothered by the dark nature of the exchange. "Well, you said you know what you need to do to get past this. So why don't you get on with it already? This whole 'zombie' thing you've got going on definitely isn't your best look."
"Easier said than done," Jabari muttered with a soft sigh, brushing off the jab.
He didn't bother to explain further. The last time he'd been haunted like this, it had taken him over fifteen years to find peace – and even then, only after he accepted the weight of the life he'd taken, without regret. That had been different. The man he'd killed in that life was a stranger, an enemy. It had been easier to justify, easier to analyse and file away as the inevitable outcome of war.
But this time, it was different.
Gichinga hadn't just been a random name and face. He was someone Jabari had known. Someone who had mocked and challenged him at every possible turn. And worst of all, when Gichinga turned his blade, it wasn't at random. He had deliberately endangered August – someone Jabari was beginning to consider a friend.
The weight of that betrayal made it worse. Messier. More personal.
Just as he reached the door to Aziz's house, Jabari paused mid-step. A thought surfaced.
"Oh yeah, the other Seeded Students are getting called in for their interviews today."
"All except you, I'm guessing?" Aziz's grin widened, his tone teasing. "You really do love throwing yourself into these delightful little messes, don't you?"
Jabari shot him a sidelong look. "I think the Institute's going to be a little more concerned with the fact that you became a Beast-Warrior without their say-so."
"Somehow, I doubt they could do anything about it even if they tried," Aziz said nonchalantly, a casual reminder of the kind of power that made rules bend – or break – around him.
"Whatever."
Jabari didn't have the energy to argue, nor the interest. He headed for the kitchen.
Aziz followed, dropping into a chair with the contentment of a man settling into his favourite pastime: watching someone else work.
Jabari moved with silent purpose, his exhaustion seeming to melt away with each familiar motion. The moment he picked up a knife and began chopping, the weight of sleepless nights and haunted memories faded behind a focused calm.
Aziz watched, arms folded, eyes narrowed – not in suspicion, but curiosity. Every movement was deliberate and refined. And though Jabari's eyes still bore the dullness of unrest, a faint, almost invisible smile had crept onto his lips.
He was losing himself in the process, finding clarity in the rhythm of cooking.
'Good,' Aziz thought. 'He's learning to find stillness in motion.'
Jabari plated the meal with a final flourish and placed it on the table – only to turn around and see Aziz already digging in, having shamelessly claimed it for himself.
"When are you going to learn to respect your elders?" Aziz asked between bites.
"When are you going to learn to respect the chef?" Jabari grumbled, already preparing a second plate for himself.
They didn't speak after that. The room filled only with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the occasional satisfied crunch.
'He really is getting better,' Aziz mused as he let the flavours roll over his tongue. The harmony of the ingredients was subtle but purposeful.
Then, licking his lips with exaggerated approval, Aziz leaned back in his chair and asked, "Oooh yeah – how's August doing?"
"He's fine," Jabari replied too quickly. "Just focusing on rest and recovery."
Aziz rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Who are you trying to kid? That boy wouldn't rest unless someone chained him to his bed and threw away the key."
Jabari sighed. "He's in the forest, working on the tree-cutting task you gave him. He said the injuries aren't slowing him down."
Aziz nodded as if that were the expected answer. "He's a Beast-Warrior of the earth element. Their foundation lies in endurance. If a few stab wounds were enough to keep him from training, then we'd all have to admit the abilities of Beast-Warriors were nothing but hot air."
Jabari paid his Master no mind as he picked up his glaive and made his way into the training hall, the polished wood cool beneath his bare feet. Without a word, he stepped into the centre, his figure still, yet coiled like a spring.
Closing his eyes, he gripped his weapon at his side, breathing in deeply through his nose. The moment the breath reached the depths of his lungs, he forced aside the weight of exhaustion, letting the haze of sleepless nights melt into a singular, focused thought.
He channelled his spirit into the glaive, as he had done the day he outmanoeuvred Silver at his own game. A familiar aura, dim and flickering white, clung to the length of his weapon – unstable but present. It pulsed like a fragile flame in a breeze.
Then, he moved.
[Stab].
[Sweep].
[Slash].
[Thrust].
Each technique flowed seamlessly into the next, his body a vessel for the movement of steel. He wasn't just attacking; he was refining. With every repetition, he carved away his hesitation, honing his understanding of each motion, each breath, each turn of the wrist.
But then, without warning, a surge of pressure cut through the air.
Jabari's expression shifted. He raised his glaive across his chest in the nick of time, intercepting a descending strike from a wooden sabre. The impact exploded with a sharp crack, and Jabari's aura shattered instantly – cleaved cleanly by a white Battle Force far more refined than his own.
He didn't panic.
Using the force of the blow, he slid back, gaining distance, his gaze snapping upward.
"Sneak attacks..." he said flatly, catching sight of Aziz, who stood before him in his usual relaxed stance, sabre balanced lazily over one shoulder. "Really?"
"I'm just making sure you're always paying attention to your surroundings," Aziz replied with a shrug, before launching into a flurry of merciless strikes.
What followed was less a sparring match and more a lesson in futility.
This wasn't the first time Jabari had trained with his Master since becoming a Glaivesman. He understood the rules now – every time his Glaive Force was shattered, his stamina took a hit. Re-coating his weapon drained him quickly, but the gap in skill between them was a chasm too vast to bridge with willpower alone.
Aziz had suppressed his physical power, lowering it beneath Jabari's level. And yet, Jabari was utterly, humiliatingly, outclassed.
He couldn't land a blow. He couldn't even dodge. Aziz's strikes forced him into a singular choice – block or parry. And both came at a cost.
It wasn't just strength. It was domination through sheer skill. It was like sparring with inevitability itself.
Every time Jabari thought of his next move, Aziz was already ten steps ahead, cutting through his intentions as easily as he did his Glaive Force.
Not even thirty seconds had passed before Jabari's aura fizzled out completely. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
"Dammit!" he hissed through clenched teeth, frustration twisting his features.
Aziz snorted. "I know, I know – you're pathetically weak, and I'm unbelievably strong. But now's not the time for all that."
Jabari shot him a look, but Aziz didn't give him the chance to respond.
"Sit down and close your eyes. Replay the fight. Not just some, replay every mistake. Think about what you could've done and what you should have done."
Jabari obeyed without protest. After three straight days of these brutal sessions, he didn't need reminding. He dropped into a seated position and sank into deep meditation, combing through the battle like a scholar poring over ancient texts.
To the untrained eye, his techniques had been flawless. Crisp form. Perfect posture. Smooth transitions.
But to Aziz, his movements were riddled with flaws – openings screaming to be exploited – and as his Master, Aziz made sure to "kindly" point out each and every one.
Still, there was progress. His defensive glaivesmanship, shaped under relentless pressure, was beginning to surpass his offensive capabilities. He was learning to adapt, to read the rhythm of battle, even if he had to eat dirt to do it.
But something felt off.
Even as he improved, Jabari sensed there was more to Aziz's suppressive dominance than just technique. There was a layer – an invisible truth – he couldn't grasp. It was as though Aziz had the ability to peer into the future to see what Jabari was about to do before Jabari even knew.
Unfortunately, every time he brought it up, Aziz would offer the same infuriating response: "Figure it out yourself."
An hour passed in silence as Jabari replayed the fight again and again. Then, without warning, he sprang up and launched a surprise attack.
Aziz parried with ease. Jabari was promptly floored.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The same cycle continued until the sun dipped low, painting long shadows across the hall. By the time they finished, Jabari lay flat on the ground, his body drenched in sweat, chest heaving, arms trembling.
He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.
But as the pain throbbed through every muscle, another feeling burned faintly beneath it.
Determination.
"That bloodline ability of yours is seriously unfair," Aziz muttered with a sigh full of dramatic envy. He folded his arms, shaking his head like a man who had just discovered the heavens were biased. "Not only can you heighten and fuse your senses, but you can use it as a bridge to become one with your weapon."
Jabari leaned against the wall, chest still rising and falling from the latest spar, his glaive resting heavily against his shoulder. "Maybe," he replied, irritation lacing his voice, "but I haven't truly become a Glaivesman yet. And because I need to channel my spirit into my weapon just to summon Glaive Force, I can't use it to enhance my senses at the same time. It's like tying my own hands in battle."
Aziz groaned and rolled his eyes with theatrical flair. "You're able to tap into the traits of a Weapon-Wielder before you've even completed a month of proper weapon training. And you're the one complaining about slow progress?"
Jabari didn't respond, but the frustration in his posture spoke volumes. His jaw was tight, his eyes restless.
Aziz threw up his hands. "Even if your Glaive Force requires spiritual infusion, training in that state accelerates your development tenfold. I figured it'd take you the rest of the year, maybe more, to reach the level of a true Glaivesman. But now? I'd be shocked if it takes longer than two months."
He paused for emphasis, jabbing a finger at his disciple. "Then, and only then, will you be able to use your bloodline ability and your Glaive Force together. You realise what kind of monster that makes you?"
Jabari did. Deep down, he knew Aziz was right. His progress wasn't just fast – it was abnormal. Any other student would be grateful to possess even a sliver of his aptitude.
But whenever he thought of his sister… of the time slipping through her fingers like sand through a sieve… gratitude felt like a luxury he couldn't afford.
So, despite the screaming protests of his body, he forced himself to his feet once more, gripping his glaive with trembling hands.
He wasn't done.
He couldn't be.
Before he could launch into another reckless charge, however, the soft knock of someone at the door interrupted them both.
Aziz didn't even blink. "It's not going to answer itself," he said, his grin widening as he cast a look toward Jabari, who was still half-hunched in exhaustion.
Jabari stared back with his best attempt at puppy-dog eyes, trying to elicit a shred of sympathy.
Aziz only laughed. "If you've got enough strength to try for another round, then you've got enough strength to answer the door."
The delight he took in his disciple's misfortune was almost tangible.
Jabari groaned, dragging his feet as he moved toward the door like a condemned man marching to his execution.
Somehow, he doubted the visitor would be delivering good news.
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