Location – ArchenLand Plains, South of the Golden Plateau | Year – 6999 NY | Midday.
The land rolled in soft, endless hills—verdant and alive, kissed by a midday sun that cast a golden sheen upon the blades of grass. The warmth of the breeze belied the weight of the moment. ArchenLand's southern plains were beautiful, yes, but the calm was only a skin stretched over the storm that brewed in each heart present.
Adam stood tall, though his arms hung with a quiet tension at his sides. He inhaled deeply, trying to anchor himself to the present. This place—far from Narn's haunting stillness—breathed life. But even here, the memory of the Stone Table clung to him like a shadow. Asalan's words echoed still. So did The Shadow's presence.
Beside him, Trevor shifted from one foot to the other. His tail flicked anxiously, betraying the storm of energy that always stirred beneath his casual smile. But today, that grin was absent. His eyes—usually bright with mischief—narrowed on Darius with unusual seriousness. Whatever came next, Trevor knew instinctively: it would change them.
And standing before them—unmoving, unblinking—was Darius.
There was something ageless in the way he stood. As though he had not only seen the rise and fall of empires but had carried the weight of each. His lemon-green eyes, sharp as cut stone, rested on both of them. Not judging. Measuring.
The wind whispered over the plains, ruffling the long grass and tugging gently at their tunics. Off to the side, Kopa stood with his arms crossed and antlers catching the sunlight, ever watchful. Not a word passed his lips, but there was a quiet understanding in his gaze—as if he had been through this trial himself once, and bore the scars it left behind.
Darius's voice finally broke the silence, low and sure, like a boulder rolling from a mountainside.
"This is not combat training," he said, walking slowly across the grass. "This is soul training. What I teach you today is not for winning battles. It is for surviving them. It is for enduring what comes after."
Adam's breath caught. 'What comes after?' he thought. 'Isn't the battle the worst of it?'
Trevor tilted his head, and for a brief moment the familiar twinkle returned. "Bit dramatic, don't you think?" he muttered under his breath—but it lacked its usual punch. Even he didn't believe his own flippancy this time.
Darius turned and looked directly at him. "Pain is easy to forget when it's someone else's. But power—true power—requires something of you. It will either break you... or rebuild you. The choice is yours."
The words struck the ground like thunder, shaking something loose in both of them.
This was the beginning.
Not of a fight, but of a remaking.
"You two have already faced Razik and survived," he said, voice like flint against steel. "But understand something—the difference between an Özel and a Hazël is not just the nature of their Arcem. It's about how well they can channel and manipulate Mana."
The words fell with the weight of revelation.
Adam straightened slightly, his brow furrowing. Trevor, usually quick with a quip, said nothing. His ears twitched faintly, catching every syllable with newfound seriousness. The sun gleamed off the metal rings on his forearms, but the light in his expression was dimmed—replaced by focused attention.
"The first thing you need to grasp is Mana Reinforcement," Darius continued, pacing slowly now, the earth beneath his hooves seeming to bow to each step. "It's the ability to enhance your physical capabilities—your strength, speed, and durability—by channeling Mana directly into your body."
Trevor raised an eyebrow, but his voice was slower than usual, tentative.
"So, it's like… powering ourselves up with Mana? Like how we use our Grand Forms?"
Darius gave a curt nod.
"Yes, but it goes beyond that."
He turned, facing them squarely, and the wind shifted with him.
"You're already familiar with the basics of Mana Reinforcement without realizing it. When you fought Razik, both of you survived because you did it. Not through training. Not through thought. Instinct."
Adam's gaze flicked downward for a moment, shadowed by memory. That day—Razik's presence, the air thick with death, the weight of it all pressing down on them. The burning in his muscles. The way he had kept going when he shouldn't have been able to stand.
He looked back up, eyes meeting Darius'.
"So, I was using Mana then?"
Darius' expression was unchanging, but his voice carried a note of confirmation.
"Yes. You reinforced your body, even though you weren't aware of it. That's what kept you from being completely crushed."
He paused, as if the next words were not just a statement—but a test.
"Kopa had an easier time because he's a Hazël. His control over Mana is refined—he can shift it through his limbs like blood, redirect it mid-strike, compress it into his joints before impact. But you…"
His gaze fell on Adam again.
"…you did it on instinct. Raw. Untamed. It was the only reason you lived."
The words were not flattering. They were not meant to be. Yet they struck something within Adam deeper than praise.
A quiet awe stirred in him—not at what he had done, but at how close he had come to dying without even understanding why he had lived. That Mana—this subtle, invisible current—had responded to his will like a river to gravity, not because he called it, but because some deeper part of him had reached for it.
Trevor blew out a breath, slowly.
"So we've been carrying this inside us the whole time…" he said softly. "And we didn't even know what it was."
Darius said nothing for a long moment, letting the silence affirm the gravity of that truth. Then he turned and began to walk toward the center of the field.
"You'll learn to use it consciously now. The body must be broken and rebuilt around it. You'll bleed, you'll bruise—but you'll become something far more dangerous than you are now."
He stopped and turned back.
"And that," Darius continued, his voice like the steady roll of thunder across an open sky, "is what separates a Hazël from an Özel. Every Hazël has mastered the art of controlling their Mana to such a degree that they can enhance their bodies beyond natural limits. That's why I was able to run straight into Razik's fusion field and cut through his energy sphere. It's also why I could withstand his attacks without being harmed."
The words sank into the green field like stones in a river—heavy, irrefutable.
Trevor let out a low whistle, arms folding slowly across his chest. "That explains how you tanked that whole mess like it was nothing."
Darius actually allowed himself a short laugh—brief and dry, but unmistakably human. "It wasn't nothing," he admitted, the corners of his lips tugging faintly upward. "But yes—Mana Reinforcement is a fundamental part of what makes us Hazël. You've both used it, even if unknowingly. Every time you enter your Grand Form, your body channels that force."
Trevor furrowed his brow. "Grand Forms?"
Adam glanced at him. "Our Arya transformations," he said, though there was a lingering hesitation in his voice. He had yet to undergo the change himself, and the mention of it felt like a distant promise—one he hadn't earned.
Darius nodded, turning his gaze between the two. "When you activate your Arya and enter your Grand Form, your physical abilities—strength, speed, endurance—are amplified by a factor of ten. That's the nature of our Arya's design. But when your Arya's innate power is triggered within that form, the amplification doubles. A factor of twenty."
Adam's eyes widened slightly, the information slotting into his mind like a missing piece. 'So that's why they move like blurs. Why their blows shatter stone. It's not just skill—it's arithmetic.'
He looked down at the silver-blue crescent that hung from his neck. His father's Arya. The Arya of Creation. He had always felt its weight—like a promise, like a burden—but now it felt heavier, as though it were pulsing faintly with unseen power. 'How much of that strength is lying dormant within me?'
Trevor, meanwhile, had his hands on his hips and was doing mental math with a furrowed brow. "So… we've been fighting with a tenth—or at most a twentieth—of our real potential?"
"Exactly," Darius said without hesitation. "You've only scratched the surface. But listen carefully—because this is where the gap between Özel and Hazël widens."
The wind stirred around them, brushing the tall grass, as if nature itself leaned closer to hear what came next.
"Even with your Grand Forms, you're only amplifying what's already there," Darius went on. "But what makes a Hazël different isn't just power. It's control. It's the precision with which you use Mana—not just reinforcing your body, but shaping the flow of that power moment by moment, cell by cell."
Adam looked up slowly. "So raw strength isn't enough."
"No," Darius said firmly. "Strength without control is just chaos waiting to fail. That brings us to the second foundation of your training."
He paused, his tone sharpening like a blade being drawn.
"Mana Output."
_____________________________________
Darius stepped forward like a war priest before a shrine, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted his arm. His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with the quiet stillness of someone about to reveal something ancient. In his open palm, a glow began to form: soft at first, then growing, pulsing with emerald radiance.
The air around them changed. A tangible pressure descended—subtle at first, like the hush before a storm—and then intensified. It was as though the very atmosphere bent beneath the weight of the energy Darius summoned.
Trevor instinctively took a step back, wide-eyed. "Whoa."
Adam's own feet shifted in the grass, though he didn't retreat. His breath hitched as he felt the pull of the energy—raw, coiling, and immense. It was not like fire or lightning, but more like the idea of power itself had taken shape.
"This," Darius said, his voice echoing with a resonance that matched the pulsing light, "is a Mana Blast. What you're seeing is a Maximum Output—a condensed strike drawn from the deepest reserves of my inner flow."
The orb in his hand grew more defined, more compact. It shimmered like something that had never belonged in this world—elemental, commanding, dangerous.
Adam felt it before he understood it: the sense that if Darius so wished, he could hurl this light and split the earth in two. It was a sobering realization—not just of strength, but of discipline. For all its fury, the orb remained contained. Obedient.
"A Maximum Output Mana Blast," Darius said, now walking slowly in a circle around the two, the green flame still glowing in his palm, "is not a party trick. It is used only when you have no other choice. When the survival of a world rests on the line."
He let the orb linger for another moment before, with a flick of his wrist, it unraveled. The energy dissolved like mist into the wind, and the plains fell eerily silent—like a cathedral after the final note of a hymn.
Trevor blinked. "And... you can just do that?"
Darius gave no prideful smile. He merely looked at him and said, "Because I have learned to command it. To respect it."
Then his eyes turned sharp again. "Control of your Mana Output is what separates an Özel from a Hazël. Power is not rare. Control is. Strength alone means nothing if you cannot command the quantity of your force at the precise moment it is needed. That is the second principle of your training."
Adam glanced at Trevor, who for once, looked entirely serious.
A flicker of doubt stirred within Adam. 'How much can I even output?' he wondered. 'What if my reserves are too small? What if my Arya doesn't respond?' But as soon as the doubts arose, he crushed them down. He remembered Darius walking through Razik's storm of destruction as if it were wind. He remembered The Shadow, and the prophecy. There was no room left for hesitation.
Darius now faced them fully. "Today, you will attempt to summon your Grand Weapons—without transforming. That means pulling your Mana into a visible, tangible form, shaped by will alone."
Adam's breath caught slightly. The three-segment staff... It was not a weapon of simplicity. In his Grand Kurt form, it formed instantly—its interlocking joints and burning energy responding to the transformation. But now, he had to summon it with nothing but intent and control.
Trevor's usual grin was gone. His flaming Maymum staff was notoriously wild to manage even with transformation. He had no idea how he'd call it forth without igniting everything around him.
Darius did not wait. "You must feel the life-force within. Not just sense it—but channel it. Breathe with it. Flow it through your Arya. You must become one with it. Until then, you're not wielding Mana. You're just swimming in it, hoping not to drown."
Adam closed his eyes. In the quiet warmth of the grass and sun, he let himself listen—not to the wind, but to the invisible stream running deep within his veins. The current of his soul.
Trevor did the same, a rare silence falling over him. For all his antics, there was something resolute in the way he stood. As if, for once, the fire inside him was still enough to listen to its own heartbeat.
From a distance, Kopa watched quietly, arms folded.
And Darius, silent now, stood sentinel—like the gatekeeper of a truth not easily earned.
As they focused inward—each boy locked in the silent language of Mana—Darius stepped calmly away from them and raised his hand. A ripple of green light flared outward as the massive head of his weapon, Baltaçek, took form. Part axe, part hammer, its edges shimmered with primal energy, its weight bending the very air around it.
When the weapon struck the earth beside him, even in stillness, the sound resonated like a distant drum of war.
"For this training," Darius announced, not with cruelty but with solemn finality, "I will be your opponent."
The words hit harder than the axe ever could. Adam's eyes widened, and Trevor straightened, every muscle suddenly alert.
"You're serious?" Trevor muttered under his breath, already feeling sweat bead at his temples.
Adam didn't answer. He could already feel it—an overwhelming shift in the air, like nature itself bracing for impact.
Darius didn't wait.
In a flash of motion far faster than a man of his size should be capable of, he surged forward. The grass bent beneath his feet as if bowing before him. Baltaçek swung through the air in a mighty arc, slicing through space with a howl that split the silence.
Adam and Trevor leapt apart at the last possible second—Trevor tumbling sideways into a roll, Adam diving backward in a burst of reflex. Where they had just stood, the hammer landed with a thunderous crash that sent a shockwave across the clearing.
Chunks of turf and earth exploded upward. A nearby boulder cracked clean in half from the sheer force of the blow.
"He's not pulling his punches!" Trevor barked as he scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief.
Adam's voice was steadier, though laced with adrenaline. "He's showing us what it takes."
They both knew—this wasn't an exercise. It was revelation through hardship. To summon their weapons now, they would have to summon themselves first. Their strength, their fears, their very souls would be pressed into the forge of combat, and only through that flame could anything worthy emerge.
Darius stood in the dust cloud, unmoved, Baltaçek raised and ready once again.
"Show me," he called to them, voice ringing like a bell over battlefield silence, "that you're more than power borrowed from bloodlines. Show me that you can call your strength—not just carry it."
Adam gritted his teeth, feeling the stir of Mana in his chest, hot and trembling like a heartbeat just beneath the surface.
Trevor's fists curled, his mind focused as if to will the fire to obey.
They would not survive this battle through instinct.
They would have to become the power they hoped to wield.
And so, beneath the burning sun of ArchenLand, with sweat on their brows and futures in their fists, the sons of Narn took their first true step toward mastery—not in victory, but in survival.