If I crossed the ocean, then maybe everything I did would disappear, the older Zhang narrates. A new identity. A fresh start.
The young Zhang stands in an ornate oval room, its walls draped in scrolls and ornaments. The Arbiter's gaze looks up from his reports, fingers wrapping the paper. Edward and Conroy stand rigidly next to Zhang, calming him down.
"This is our leader: Arbiter Verran," Edward calmly explains, showing the young Zhang the head of the temple.
Conroy gives a long, cold gaze at the Arbiter, his face neutral and his stance stiff and tall. The two men stand next to each other as the Arbiter politely welcomes Zhang into their ranks.
"It's nice to meet you, Zhang," Verran says with a clear, confident tone. "We hope you serve your role well. In America, the choice is yours to make—Make us proud."
Conroy's eyes narrow, and he straightens his posture. Zhang playfully walks over to his mentors. As Edward is directing him out of the Arbiter's room. Conroy looks over his shoulder, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.
I didn't see it then. How could anyone? The older Zhang reminisces, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. If only I had known. If only I were stronger.
"You'll find some nice people here, Zhang," Edward assures, messing with his collar. "It's not all bad here-find your crowd and you'll do just fine."
Zhang stares innocently, taking Edward's words to heart. He felt a sense of assurance and warmth. Looking around, the young boy sees all the artifacts and portraits hung up on the walls before him.
He swallows the guilt that hasn't left him.
"The structure's tough," Edward shrugs his shoulders. "But remember, you still have us. Trying to make it better."
Conroy stays quiet. His steps reverberate off the cold stone walls around him. There is no sense of comfort in his stride. No footsteps following his own. His gaze moved around the empty space in front of him.
"You okay, Callaghan?" Edward questions.
"Hmm," Conroy looks up, mildly confused. "Oh yeah. I'm fine. Just…tired."
"Can I ask you anything?" Zhang asks. Conroy's expression shifts, gaze dropping, smile tugging upwards in the corner of his lips.
"What do you do exactly? You seem like you do more than what's told," the young boy continues.
"I'm a Senior Operative Commander, 'Semi-S rank'," Conroy says coolly and composed. "As well as a political speaker. You could say I'm a rare type around here."
"He's just saying he's important," Edward cuts in, wrapping his arm around Conroy's shoulder. "No need to show off, kid."
"Don't you have a lot of enemies, Callaghan?" Zhang wonders. "You must be important."
"Not as much as me," Edward cuts in, wrapping around Conroy's shoulder. "I've made hundreds by accident."
"It's okay," Conroy assures. "If anything happens to me, I can handle it."
"Hmm, if anything happens to you, I'll probably have to find my own way," Zhang declares. "No matter what."
"Hmm," Conroy smirks.
In the courtyard, Zhang trains against the dummy, practicing his martial arts. Conroy stands near the edge, gaze tired yet attentive. He exhales slowly, eyes narrowing as he sees Zhang miss a move.
The boy redirects his momentum, finishing the training with a perfect strike. Conroy claps his hand in a soft rhythm.
His attention flickers, distracted by the wide American sky.
By nightfall, Conroy guides Zhang through the barracks.
"This is where you will be sleeping," Conroy explains, one hand in his pocket, the other pointing to the room's details. "Don't get too comfortable. The mattresses are basically rocks."
He pauses, taking in the small space around him. "It's not much. It's quiet if you like that."
Zhang nods, draping the cotton blanket over himself.
"When I'm on commission, you'll be trained by master Edward," Conroy adds, almost as an afterthought. "Which is almost every day."
Zhang nods.
Conroy raises his brow before shutting the door.
As the next day draws over the temple, Zhang is the only one out in the courtyard. Edward watches in the distance, rubbing dirt off his dry eyes.
I can never go home. Zhang grips the wooden hilt, hitting the dummy over and over. I have to train and get stronger than before.
He runs around the courtyard in repeated laps, not even when training was already over. Before dawn, he always memorizes the specific classes of Elusives and their vernacular names.
Every log. Every tactical note. Every formation.
He had to learn every single one of them to succeed.
He shows up to class before everyone else arrives and stays after they leave.
"Now, can anyone explain to me what the Plaudonan Doctrine is?" The instructor raises his head, laying his hands on the wooden desk.
"It's an instruction protocol against Monarch class Elusives," Zhang blurts out, interrupting his peer about to explain. "It helps clarify allowed and prohibited actions for Wardens to engage."
"Hmm," the instructor's lips tug upward. He returns to the blackboard, writing down the next topic with chalk.
It wasn't too soon before others began to notice.
"Isn't that the boy from China?" one boy whispers. "He's acting like he's the best out of all of us."
"What a weird kid," another sneers. "Always up in the books."
Zhang ignores their whispers, focusing on the blackboard ahead, dust lingering in the air.
In class, he is always the first to raise his hands to ask the important questions about the Warden code, up to spiritual training. The mentors often share impressed glances.
"This kid is going somewhere," one remarks quietly.
"We should provide more doors to kids like him," another comments.
Over the days, Zhang swung in the air until the motion looked like he was cutting through the air. He didn't stop until his shoulders ached. He did the task that no recruit would usually do.
He helped stock the library with fresh spell books and memoirs.
He helped to repair broken test dummies and wooden swords, staying behind after everyone had left.
He quietly offered help in the kitchens, preparing food, chopping vegetables, or washing bowls. He didn't eat until everyone else was served. Tending to the weak, he was even allowed to offer leftover foods to more remote areas and towns.
Almost a perfect student.
However, on some missions, he is not a perfect. Nor even a good one student.
On his first field mission with Edward, Zhang overexerts himself, trying to take down an Elusive target too high-ranking for him. Edward had to save him before the boy got mauled by the beast.
Later that day, Edward had to scold Zhang on proper protocols.
"What were you doing, kid? I can't let you get killed on my watch."
Zhang doesn't respond. He didn't know how to.
Edward's voice hardens. "Do you not understand what could have happened to you? That Elusive wasn't a training dummy–it would have killed you if I hadn't stepped in. You have to learn to measure yourself and wait for the right moment."
He steps closer, placing a firm hand on Zhang's shoulder. "You're not invincible, Zhang. Your life matters more than anyone else's. One mistake and there is no reset button. Now tell me, do you understand?"
Zhang nods his head, looking at the floor. He stiffened his body, his lips parted, but no words came out.
The next few days, Edward watches from a distance of Zhang's training, crossing his arms together. The three-section staff whips around over the courtyard–flowing overhead, under the armpit, and over his shoulder. Metal whips and carves through the air.
Conroy returns from a mission, eyes tired and somber. Clenching the hilt, he meets up with Edward, looking at the young boy.
"Your apprentice is quite ambitious," Edward comments. "Almost dangerously so."
"He is?" Conroy furrows his brow. "I've been too busy to notice that much."
He looks at the clock before being interrupted by his peer.
"Mr. Callaghan, are you able to make a small statement tomorrow?" a young man asks, walking by.
"Statement?" Conroy furrows his brow, mouth slightly downward. "Oh, those little speeches. I can make some time."
"Thank you, Mr. Callaghan," the men said in unison, leaving the two men alone.
"You seem busy," Edward notes.
"Yeah, I am," Conroy presses his lips. He rubs his neck, reliving some tension. "It's fine. I've been more exhausted playing cards than doing these simple tasks."
Later that night, Zhang hits the books, writing down his notes on flashcards. He is the only one in his barracks as everyone else is still in the cafeteria, socializing.
He yawns before stretching his shoulders.
A voice cuts out to Zhang.
"You're still in that textbook?" Conroy says, tapping his fist on the wooden door. The sight of Conroy made Zhang wince in surprise.
"Oh, you're back, master," Zhang stammers, hiding his notebook underneath his sheet.
"You know, Zhang, I've seen ambitious recruits like you before." Conroy walks in, rubbing his eyes. "But never this dedicated. Or maybe not as young as you."
Zhang stays quiet, laying the book on his blanket. Conroy drops himself on the cushioned bed, placing his katana on the desktop.
"Anything bothering you?" Conroy asks, voice soft yet exhausted.
"Nothing," Zhang mutters.
"Don't lie to me," Conroy leans his head on his hand, brow furrowing. "What's wrong?"
"I-I can't afford to be a burden," Zhang explains, shifting uncomfortably. "I made too many mistakes for others. I have to be better. Be special."
"Don't call yourself a burden, kid." Conroy softly places his hand on Zhang's head. "No one is."
"How do you know?"
Conroy presses his lips, fidgeting with his fingers. His gaze is lost in thought as he stares at the ceiling above.
"Kids aren't burdens– adults want to give them the hope of better lives than what we got," He explains calmly. "When you're so young, no blame can be placed on just you. There is more nuance to that than just blame."
"You don't understand," Zhang cuts in. "I've caused too much harm. I could never return to my home."
"You don't have to. It's your choice," Conroy assures. "I don't know what happened, but I'm not going to force you to tell me. Only when you're ready."
Zhang smiles; his tense shoulders ease slowly.
An alarm bell rings out and bounces off the corridor walls. It pierces through the heartfelt moment, its sharp clang echoing rigorously. Conroy's expression drops, his heartfelt gaze disappears. His tired smile remains stationary, the warmth disappearing.
"Mr. Callaghan," a Warden barges into the barracks, knocking on the open door. "There appears to be a wave of A-rank Elusives in Salam, Oregon. If you're not busy, can you help us with the mission?"
Conroy rises from the bed, diligently grabbing his katana. "I'm ready when you are."
He smiles, the glint in his pupils flares, returning life to his eyes.
Conroy's words linger in Zhang's head.
Over the days, he decided to relax on his training. When his peers raised their hands to answer the teacher, Zhang didn't interrupt them. He didn't try to overdo it during laps and training, making sure to give himself enough breaks.
Edward notices the change, mildly impressed.
Zhang starts to join group training exercises and library study sessions with his peers, coming out of his shell.
Over those same days, Conroy appeared in and out, returning to the temple, then returning to missions. Some days, he can't even sit still to relax–always doing something productive.
Working with the High Council and Arbiter.
Working with the new director to maintain the freshly created Surveillance Corp.
He has to host debates and public speaking presentations with many in the political sphere.
"He needs to learn to relax," one Warden mutters.
"He must look down on us to do 5 missions a week," another mocks. "Shaking hands and kissing rings as well. It must be exhausting."
"Careful, everyone–he might charm his way out of our jobs next," one joked. "Dinner with the Arbiter tonight. Hope he saves us seats."
In one ceremony, Arbiter Verran places a new badge on Conroy's stylized military uniform—unlike his more formal suit. A badge rewarding him for his hard work and passion—a record amount of missions completed in a short period with a low to zero casualty rate.
Conroy's gaze follows the Arbiter as the man places the badge on top of his many medals.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Among the room of Wardens in tailored suits, Conroy looked like a living legend.
Everyone in the room clapped their hands, and Zhang was one of them.
Why didn't he look happy? Zhang wonders.
"Does this uniform look good?" Conroy asks, patting himself down. "Is it too much?"
"People would die to even get the chance to earn that uniform," one Warden chuckles, patting Conroy on the back.
"Good job to get favors with the higher leadership," another compliments.
Conroy stays quiet, absorbing everyone's praises.
Zhang's eyes soften, knowing deep down that silence holds more than humility.
"Why stop at speeches and medals? Planning to actually run as the Arbiter?"
The walls press closer from their comments.
Conroy's expression drops, lips tug downward.
He swallows hard, the lump in his throat scratches his voice.
Zhang notices, but doesn't comment. Only his presence grounded Conroy like a steady anchor.
"Are you stretched too thin? How do you manage to lead squads and still keep up with all the political meetings?"
Conroy turns his gaze back onto the Arbiter. The man was busy discussing the High Council with champagne raised in their hand. Temple representatives and bureaucrats discuss and bounce off further plans and ideas off each other.
The men notice Conroy looking and wave him off to join them. A small gesture that split the room in half.
The sight snaps him out of his trance, bringing him back to reality.
He looks at the crowd of Wardens and recruits surrounding him for his presentation–a far cry from everyone at his ceremony a few days ago. Everyone stands, awaiting Conroy to speak.
He takes a breather.
"Power is both granted and can be taken," Conroy explains, one hand casually tucked into his pocket. Zhang carefully watches from the corner. Many in the crowd move closer, and others nod their head.
"We pick our powers to fight the jeopardy. What is that jeopardy, though?" Conroy pauses, waiting for the crowd to answer. Few rest their heads on their hands.
"The will to choose and fight back. Your pain. Your fear. It doesn't matter–your destiny is shining on you. The question is whether you claim it?"
He smiles.
The crowd claps their hands in a rhythm, synchronized together.
"I won't ask for your faith–I'm asking for you to think, and when you do–change happens"
He takes a step back, letting his words hang in the air. "That's it for today."
The crowd slowly disperses, returning to their daily lives as if nothing had happened. Conroy exhales deeply, his mask of confidence dropping. He stands quietly in the world around him.
Zhang's hand pats him on his back. His expressions shift. He turns his head, his eyes flicker–not startled–just caught.
"You did a good job, master," Zhang congratulates.
"Yeah, it was," Conroy chuckles, a half smile tugs his lips. "You understood what I was talking about, right?"
"Yeah. The will to fight back and protect."
Conroy gazed.
"It is important you never abandon that principle."
Zhang listens.
The unseen breeze flows between them. Leaves and dust fly out, caught in its trajectory.
"The wind is always shifting, leaving us with new paths in our future," Conroy says with a genuine, heartfelt smile, his neatly tied hair blowing heavily against the unseen breeze. "You'll learn in your new home here. Being a warden could be fulfilling in a way— just not in the ways you think it would."
He grabs a leaf flying through the air with his fingertips. "You can never know when your role will swap."
He gently placed his hand on Zhang's head before ruffling his hair. The young body chuckles before trying to get the man off of him. Conroy gives a long, resounding sigh before waking up from the courtyard.
Zhang didn't know what Conroy meant that day. No one knew what that man thought inside. He was an enigma of a man- quiet, docile, and gentle. His eyes were sullen from the constant sleepless nights fighting, yet they never showed malice. His frame never showed intimidation or strength. Everyone just walked right past him, even when he is a powerful and well-known figure around here.
Yet no one could ever expect him to be capable of the violence he would soon be responsible for.
Late at night, Conroy Callaghan assassinated the Arbiter. By the time the body was found, Conroy's coup had already crumbled into dust. This crime of regicide plunged not just America but the entire Warden society for 5 years into paranoia and mistrust.
That was when a young Zhang realized one thing- no one was special. Conroy's trial was all over the news across Warden Society. It wasn't just a trial but a reckoning.
Conroy Callaghan.
Crime: Assassination of a regional leader.
Sentence: Death. Execution by beheading.
Everyone at the trial was screaming for a harsher sentence. A person who killed a leader of the American temple should be subjected to far worse than a quick, painless death.
"You're filth in uniform."
"Don't even have the decency to look ashamed."
Conroy stood there in the middle, accepting all their insults. He didn't look like a monster, yet what he did felt like one.
To the council, the sentence was fitting.
To the wardens alike— it was too merciful.
Edward looked on with disgust, but not at Conroy, but at himself. How did he not see this coming?
Zhang just stood in the background as they took Conroy into his cell, awaiting his execution. He didn't know how to react; his heart sank. The shouting, the anger, the crackle of the flames—a reminder of his village.
His eyes were wide but unfocused, more so staring through the crowd than at it. He is surrounded by those screaming and hurling outrage, yet he didn't know what was happening. Or he didn't want to believe it.
He absorbs what they said, but he stares completely disconnected from reality.
Conroy looked so defeated, yet he didn't feel bad about what he did.
Even the gentlest of hands can be stained with the deepest of red.
Zhang's world had been shattered by one encounter. Days before his eventual execution, Conroy escaped his cell without anyone noticing. He disappeared like a ghost, with no one seeing him in over 25 years. Many say he is dead or just hiding in self-imposed exile.
No one knows.
All he left behind was a crack no one cared to seal to this day.
Zhang's eyes slowly open as he looks on at the world around him. He slowly rises as his vision blurs. Everything that happened in the past felt so familiar yet foreign at the same time.
There's an almost graceful fluidity to his movement. He breathes deeply, pushing aside his internal conflict. Zhang's jaw clenched as he took hold of the chaos around him.
"You're right. No one is special," Zhang mutters to himself, almost resigned. He slowly unsheathes his dual katanas. "So what's so wrong about that?"