BOOM!
The ground split right in front of the flowing stream with a deafening crack. A long, jagged trench ripped through the dirt, cutting straight across the water's path and dividing the stream in two. Water jolted sideways as the river's flow broke against the sudden divide and the split kept going.
Damon had already moved.
His body blurred out of Draven's strike zone a heartbeat before impact, landing lightly on the grass as dust exploded upward behind him.
Draven's dark-silver staff hovered an inch above the grass. He hadn't even let the metal touch the soil—the massive tear formed purely from the air pressure rolling off the swing.
Draven straightened smoothly, swinging the wing-engraved staff to his side with a fluid, effortless twist of his wrist.
Damon pushed himself up, staring at the freshly carved canyon dividing the river. His eyes were wide, his jaw practically on the grass.
"What the heck?!" Damon blurted in utter disbelief. "You said a demonstration! That's basically attempted murder!"
"Well... you dodged it, didn't you?" Draven asked with knowing eyes that turned to Damon. "You're my student; even worse for you, you're The Chosen One. I could train you to the brink of death, and your mother would thank me for it. I suggest you start getting used to it."
"Did you just ask me to get used to dyin—"
CRACK.
The crack didn't stop — it kept tearing forward, ripping through the earth in a straight, violent line. Damon and Draven both turned their eyes toward it, sharpening their eyesight as the fracture raced across the ground like a living thing.
It was heading straight for three figures.
Solaren stood between Daichi and Brightclaw, holding the growling beasts apart with his bare hands as their red and blue auras clashed into a deeply violet vacuum.
A bead of sweat slid down Solaren's forehead with his hands as he stared at the incoming crack, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to stand between two arguing monsters.
'It's still even growing,' Damon thought as he stood on the far farther side. But Draven simply stretched out his palm right after Damon's thought and right before the crack was about to dash right between Solaren's legs.
A green circle reappeared on Draven's palm, and the ground began to heal itself. Solaren let out a sigh of relief. The beasts, on the other hand, continued their growl of pride.
"Gonna explain what just happened?" Damon asked, side-eying Draven.
Draven let out a heavy sigh. "Your body requires conditioning," he said, taking a step toward him.
Damon immediately matched him, taking a step backward. "Conditioning? If it's such a good thing, why not explain it to me before trying to slice me in half?"
"Will you stay still and let me explain?" Draven commanded, his voice already sounding completely exhausted.
Damon stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms.
"The very fact that you're not willing to let me do it shows why it needs to be done," Draven said.
Beside them, the restored stream rushed along its path smoothly, carrying a cool breeze through the air. A single leaf drifted from a nearby tree, spinning in the wind before brushing past the water, while a few white clouds lazily rolled across the sky, temporarily lining paths for the rays of the morning sun.
Damon remained quietly confused, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle glint of intrigue cutting through his suspicion.
Draven swung the dark-silver staff lazily in one hand. "Your body is very capable of taking the strike I gave that mountain. But you're not willing, because of the pain."
"So... what, you're increasing my pain tolerance?"
Draven walked closer, the staff held loosely at his side. "No. That's a side effect. But no. Striking your body, appropriately, will make you… 'see' sound."
Damon went deadpan. A short, disbelieving chuckle escaped his mouth. "See sound?"
Draven raised his eyebrows in mild irritation.
"No way you just said see—Agh!"
Before Damon could finish the sentence, Draven swept the staff down, cracking it straight into Damon's ankle bone. The force flipped him sideways in mid-air before Draven drove a second strike into his back, slamming him back down into the grass.
"Ughh! Was the second one really necessary?!" Damon groaned, clutching his ankle.
"Very. You should get used to it." Draven paused, clearly enjoying the sight of Damon wincing on the ground.
"When I strike your arms, I'm not trying to hurt you—even though hurting you has a certain niceness to it. I'm forcing your nerves to stop reacting to pain. Once the pain fades, you'll finally notice what matters: the vibration inside the strike. Every blow sends a ripple through your bones. That ripple is sound."
Damon sat up, resting his forearms on his knees, his annoyance fading into genuine interest. He formed a thin hair-tie out of pure light, reaching back to tie his long hair with some parts framing the sides of his face.
"When your arms stop screaming and start listening," Draven continued, "you'll feel the staff before it touches you. You'll feel the air shaking around it. You'll feel the frequency of the strike. Your arms will pick up vibrations."
"So you're making me a human tuning fork?" Damon cut in.
Draven paused, thinking to himself, 'The ability to simplify complex concepts truly is a mark of a sharp mind. Even if his delivery completely lacks any… royal decorum.'
"You'll sense sound waves in the air," Draven said aloud. "Not with your ears, but with your body instead. You'll 'see' sound before it reaches you. That's the first step to bending it."
Damon let out a slow sigh, the full scope of the logic finally clicking into place.
"There is another benefit, but let's talk about it while we condition. Yes?" Draven offered a hand to help him up.
Damon stared at the subtle smile on Draven's face, the vivid green of his eyes contrasting against his white hair, and the silver pendant knotted to his hair catching the sunlight.
'Why does everyone on this plane look better than a cover model?' Damon thought to himself.
He took Draven's hand and pulled himself to his feet.
"I have a feeling you just thought about my... 'pretty boy' features, as you call it," Draven teased, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
Damon blinked. "I'm gonna need a full list of your abilities, because since when could you read minds?"
Draven chuckled. "Your father wore the same look when he teased me about my pendant. That's how I know."
The morning sun shifted slightly behind a passing cloud. The golden light cast their shadows long across the grass, overlapping right between them—a brief, quiet reminder of a legacy built long before Damon was born.
The light in Damon's eyes slowly dimmed. The sharp but calm energy he had moments ago vanished, replaced by a quiet, heavy shadow at the mention of his father.
Draven caught the change instantly, and his tone shifted into a steady and grounded one.
"Okay. Stand with your arms out and legs apart."
Damon's shoulders dropped instantly, his whole body slumping like a dog that had just lost all motivation.
"Don't tense your muscles, Prince Damon. If you do, the pain will follow you into the night. And possibly all week." Draven stated with a shifting tone. "Speaking of your father…"
Damon turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Mm? What about him?"
Draven walked in a slow arc around Damon, stepping directly behind him. "You rarely speak of him."
Damon dropped his gaze to the ground beneath his boots. A tiny, glowing blue-and-purple insect crawled lazily up a single stem of grass, but his eyes were completely unfocused.
In the sudden stillness of his mind, the memory rushed through his mind like cold water hitting a wall. He could still hear his father's ragged, alcohol-soaked breathing, still feel the sharp, hollow crack echoing through the dead silence of their living room as the slaps turned his head again and again.
He remembered standing there completely frozen, letting his father scream that he was the reason his mother died, using every brutal blow as a silent countdown to the moment he could finally escape upstairs. He remembered the cold sting fading into a numb relief while his ring pulsed with a faint blue light in the dark, leaving him alone with a drunk, broken man who didn't even look him in the eye.
"Damon!" Draven's voice broke his trance.
Draven leaned down from behind, peeking into his field of vision. Damon blinked rapidly, visibly startled.
"Yeah—sorry," Damon muttered, shaking his head. "I was just… thinking about something."
Draven exhaled softly. He didn't push Damon. Instead, his brow furrowed, his eyes softening as they tracked the slight tremor in Damon's jaw and the grip he had on his own arms. He reached out, resting a heavy, reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Damon…" Draven said quietly. "You have people, and we all care. The weight of your responsibilities is unimaginable for anyone. You just hesitated to speak now—"
"I didn't—"
"You did."
Draven stepped back around, standing directly in front of him. Damon straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and looked Draven dead in the eyes.
"It's natural to want to know the man who shaped your bloodline," Draven offered gently.
"It's not that," Damon cut in, his voice snapping with a sudden, defensive edge. He caught himself, taking a breath before looking away. "I do wanna know my real father but… it's complicated. I knew he was kind; I hear that everyone loved him; he sacrificed his life for... everyone. He never... got drunk. I'm satisfied knowing those; I wish I could experience those. It's just... complicated."
Draven let out a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto Damon while his dark-silver staff rested lightly in his grip. The valley air around them was eerily calm, and on the surface, Damon seemed like a perfect mimic—but Draven could feel the quiet storm raging just beneath the boy's skin, and chose to let the silence breathe.
"As I've told you, Damon… you're not alone. Understand, accept, and use that knowledge. Okay?" Draven asked, resting a heavy, grounding palm on Damon's head.
Damon looked up at the warm smile plastered across Draven's face, but his eyes narrowed as he caught a detail and chuckled.
"What kinda person smiles with their eyes closed?"
PAOW!
Before the last word even left his mouth, Draven swiped his staff down, cracking it across Damon's arm with zero hesitation.
Draven tilted his head, grin widening. "You're perfectly right, and it's a hundred strikes this session."
"What?!" Damon let out as if Draven's words suddenly stopped the pain. "Just kill me at this point," he said, turning back to massage his arm.
"I should mention, Thorpax has asked you to come for strength training after this." Draven mentioned as Damon began to rise and he readied his staff to strike.
"You guys weren't joking about this bet thing."
"No. Now kindly get up."
Damon pushed himself up and stepped into position; arms out, legs apart, posture straight but eyes as if he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. Draven didn't say a word at first but simply tied a dark headband around Damon's mouth.
Damon mumbled through the cloth, confused.
Draven tilted his head. "I'll assume you just asked what it's for. It's to stop your screams. Even the slightest noise distracts me. And if that happens—"
PAOW!
The staff cracked against Damon's arm.
"Ughh—!" Damon's voice came out muffled, the cloth biting between his teeth as he clenched down.
"You're in for a lot of pain," Draven added casually.
Three more strikes followed — sharp, clean and merciless. Damon shut his eyes tight with a locked jaw. One could almost see his teeth sinking into the fabric.
Draven continued, tone calm as ever. "Also, I'll be striking your sides after this."
"Mmm?!!" Damon's eyes flew open — and his stance slipped.
POOW!
He took the hit wrong and folded for a moment.
"Urghh!" he cried through the headband.
"I told you to be quiet," Draven said, nudging him back upright with the staff. "But as I was saying…"
He walked around Damon with a steady voice, almost as if he was lecturing.
"Sound needs pressure. Air pressure. If you can't control the air inside your chest, you'll never control the air around you. And if you panic when I hit your ribs, you'll break."
He tapped Damon's side lightly, like a warning. But Damon flinched as if the tapped spot was electrocuted.
"When I strike your sides, your body wants to freeze. If you freeze, the impact shatters you. So you must exhale perfectly at the exact moment of impact. You must control your lungs, your core, your breath, your pressure."
Draven's voice lowered, almost instructional.
"Once you stop bracing and start controlling, your torso becomes a chamber; like the inside of an instrument. You'll learn to compress air inside your ribs, then release it. You'll learn to shift pressure instantly."
He stepped back, raising the staff.
"When you can control the pressure inside your body, you can control the pressure around it. You can trap sound. Bend it. Block it. Amplify it. Silence it."
POOW!!
The staff slammed into Damon's side.
Damon bent over, but Draven pressed the staff against his back, forcing him upright again.
"It'll be ninety‑nine of those," Draven said calmly.
Damon's ears rang, hot and red, the world reduced to a harsh wringing sound, but he turned his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of Draven's face. And one thought cut through the pain:
'Why the heck does he look like he's enjoying this?!'