The alarm clock's piercing shriek pierced the dawnless gloom of Miguel's tiny bedroom like a rusty knife. 4:30 AM. The same each day for the last three years, since he'd reached the age of thirteen and been judged mature enough for "proper training" by his father.
Miguel Dela Cruz shifted and turned over in his small bed, draping the thin blanket over his head. Beyond his window, the huge walls of Protected Cebu City towered like giants of concrete, their surfaces battered from decades of Sombra raids. Searchlights swept across the perimeter in repetitive, mesmerizing arcs, casting moving shadows through his threadbare curtains.
"Miguel!"
His mother's voice echoed up from the kitchen downstairs, tinged with the special kind of annoyance used with perennially disappointing children.
"Training in thirty minutes!"
"Coming, Ma!"
Miguel shouted back, yet he didn't stir. He gazed upward at the ceiling of his tiny room, tallying the water spots that had spread like cancer across the concrete. Fifteen large spots, forty-two small ones. He'd learned every flaw during endless sleepless nights spent asking himself why he'd ever been born so. wrong.
There was a deafening boom from the courtyard outside that caused the whole house to tremble.
Miguel cringed.
That would be his older brother Carlos sparring with the training dummy—a reinforced steel structure meant to absorb the blows of a Rank 3 Warrior. Carlos was eighteen years old, hulking like a young bull, and could render the thing into scrap in less than ten minutes. The report of his morning training was akin to hearing controlled explosions.
Another crash.
Miguel heard the characteristic whistle of air being torn apart by a blade traveling at superhuman velocities. Carlos had awakened his Soul Strength at the age of twelve and achieved Rank 3 (Mandirigma) at age sixteen. He was already a prodigy, destined for greatness. The pride of the family.
Then there was Maria.
As if called by his imagination, his sister Maria's laughter burst from the courtyard, ringing out as clashing temple bells. Miguel forced himself to the window and looked down at the family's practice ground. Maria was twenty feet from a target stand, eyes closed in focus. She raised her hand, and Miguel saw a globe of pure golden light coalesce in her palm—Soul Strength incarnate.
She was only Rank 2, but her mastery was unbelievable. The light-sphere collapsed, growing denser and brighter until it was painful to gaze upon straight. Then, with smooth accuracy that would make master fighters sob with jealousy, she let go of it.
The target didn't merely break apart.
It disappeared.
The armor-plated steel literally stopped existing where her attack landed, and a perfectly round hole remained, which glowed red-hot at the edges.
"Admire,"
laughed Carlos, but Miguel detected the real respect in his voice. Not even his brother, all strength as he was, could rival Maria's accuracy.
"Your turn, little brother,"
Maria shouted up to Miguel's window, her voice ringing through the calm morning air.
"Father's waiting."
Miguel's gut tightened.
Father was waiting. Naturally. Rodrigo Dela Cruz, City Guard Captain, savior of the Western Wall Incident, Rank 5 Bayani. A man who could keep an entire Sombra pack at bay all by himself while civilians were evacuated. A man whose presence caused other warriors to stand taller and enunciate their words.
A guy whose youngest son couldn't even feel a Sombra if it was right in front of him.
Miguel dragged himself out of bed and into training attire—plain gray cotton that had better years behind it. The fabric was reinforced in a dozen spots, a testament to his disastrous failures on practice days. Other students' attire got dirty.
Miguel's got *shredded*.
He went down stairs, running past the shrine to Saint Michael the Archangel that filled the main wall of the living room. Candles perpetually burned before the painted icon, their flame's wavering light flicking across the saint's sword and shield. His mother, Elena, lit new ones each morning and night, praying for protection for her family.
The air in the kitchen reeked of rice porridge and dry fish—plain food that had fed Filipino families for generations. Elena glanced up as he came in, her lined face furrowed with worry that only mothers could master.
"Finish up,"
she said, spooning porridge into a cracked ceramic bowl.
"Your father doesn't appreciate being kept waiting."
Miguel nodded and ate in silence, sensing nothing. Elena gazed at him with eyes that understood too much. She'd once been a warrior, before marriage and children had called her off that path. Rank 4, defensive skills specialist. She knew what it was to be strong in this world.
She also knew what it was to be weak.
"Miguel,"
she said quietly, glancing toward the door to make sure they were alone.
"Remember what I told you about your grandfather."
Miguel looked up, surprised. His mother rarely mentioned her father, who'd died when Miguel was very young.
"What about him, Ma?"
"He didn't awaken his Soul Strength until he was twenty-three. Twenty-three, Miguel. Everyone thought he was impossible, but he became one of the most honored warriors of his generation."
She reached across the little table and squeezed his hand.
"Some flowers bloom late, anak. That doesn't make them any less beautiful."
The back door burst open, and Carlos stood in the doorway like a genial mountain. At eighteen, he was almost six feet tall, his shoulders wide enough to fill the door frame. His dark hair was cut military-short, his brown eyes carrying the easy assurance of a person who'd never questioned where he belonged.
"Morning, little brother,"
he replied, playfully ruffling Miguel's hair.
"Ready for another thrill-filled day of observing the rest of us practice?"
There was no ill will in the remark—Carlos really hadn't meant to hurt. That somehow made it worse.
"Carlos," their mother warned.
"What? I'm just saying, perhaps Miguel can assist with equipment maintenance today. That's helpful too, right?"
Carlos took an apple from the counter and chomped into it with teeth strong enough to crack walnuts.
"Not everyone can be a fighter."
Miguel ate his porridge in silence, not lifting his eyes. Not everyone was a fighter. It was true, naturally. Inside the Protected Cities were merchants and teachers and mechanics and a hundred other occupations that maintained the fabric of society. Practical, worthwhile work.
But the Dela Cruz clan had been fighters for six generations. Miguel's great-great-grandfather had battled in the early Sombra Wars. His great-grandfather had been one of the first to establish the Protected Zones. His grandfather—Elena's father—had been a war hero of the Southern Campaign.
Warriors. Every last one of them. Until Miguel.
"Time to go,"
Elena said softly.
"Your father will be beginning the session soon."
Miguel rose, took his practice sword—a wooden piece that was clumsy and strange in his hand—and made for the door. Carlos slapped him on the back as he went past, a pat intended to be a support.
"Hey,"
his brother said softly.
"Today might be different. Today you might feel something."
Miguel nodded and attempted a smile. Perhaps today would be different.
But as he strode across the courtyard towards where his father stood, Miguel couldn't help but feel as though he was heading into yet another failure. Yet another disappointment.
Another proof that he didn't fit into this family of heroes.
The training area was a forty-foot by forty-foot square of hard-packed dirt ringed by wooden stakes. Two walls were lined with weapons racks, stacked with practice swords, spears, and bows. Target dummies stood spaced out at intervals, their surfaces pockmarked from countless training exercises.
Rodrigo Dela Cruz was in the middle of it all like a general commanding his troops. Forty-five and still in his prime—tall, lean, with a presence that commanded attention. His black hair was streaked with premature gray, a usual aftereffect of excessive Soul Strength use. Dark eyes that narrowed to analytical slits, always assessing, always thinking three moves ahead.
He was in simple training attire like the others, yet somehow appeared more authoritative than other men in formal dress uniform.
"Miguel,"
he said to his youngest son when he came within two minutes of being late.
"You're two minutes behind."
"Sorry, Father."
Rodrigo looked at him for a moment and then nodded toward the weapon stations.
"Choose your practice sword. We'll begin with basic forms."
Miguel selected his preferred weapon—a wooden practice sword weighted for a boy his strength and size. It was as lifeless in his grip as ever, mere shaped wood with no relation to something greater than him.
"Start with First Position,"
Rodrigo barked.
Miguel held the sword high, attempting to replicate the position his father had shown him hundreds of times previously. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, blade at an angle to deflect blows yet offer offensive possibilities.
"Your hold is too tight,"
Rodrigo told him.
"You're resisting the sword rather than becoming one with it. A sword should be an extension of will, not a weight to bear."
Miguel attempted to loosen his hold, but the sword did not become more natural. He worked through the beginner moves—thrust, parry, riposte, counter-strike—each movement proper in technique but without any sort of fluidity or force.
"Stop."
Rodrigo's voice sliced the morning air like a sword.
"Miguel,"
he whispered.
"You are sixteen years old. You have been training for four years. These forms must be as natural as breathing by now."
"I'm sorry, Father. I'm trying—"
"Trying isn't enough."
Rodrigo's voice wasn't unkind, but it was heavy with years of accumulated disappointment.
"Observe your sister."
Maria entered the training circle, her movements fluid as a born fighter. She grabbed a practice sword similar to Miguel's, but in her hands it seemed to gain a life of its own. The wooden blade vibrated through the air as she flowed through the same moves Miguel had just clumsily slaughtered, each movement flowing smoothly into the next.
But beyond that—Miguel could see her Soul Strength. It flowed around her like golden fog, augmenting every motion, infusing strikes with power and accuracy that would shatter genuine armor. Even in Rank 2, she cut like a pro.
"Do you understand the difference?"
Rodrigo asked, although it wasn't a question.
"Maria doesn't struggle with her body. She struggles with her whole self. Her Soul Strength informs all movement, predicts all counterattacks, flows like water following its course."
Miguel nodded, unable to find his voice beyond the catch in his throat.
"Now you,"
Rodrigo instructed.
"But this time, don't think of the forms. Don't think of your posture or your grip or what your siblings can do. Close your eyes and sense the strength inside you. Every human being has Soul Strength, Miguel. Even the weakest individual has a spark that can be fanned into fire."
Miguel shut his eyes and attempted to sense. something. Anything. He'd practiced this drill a thousand times before, reaching deep within himself for that glimmer of power that all the rest of his family shared.
Nothing.
Hefted the practice sword and went through the forms once more, eyes shut tight, attempting to sense the energy that was supposed to flow through him. Thrust, parry, riposte. Each motion felt hollow, mechanical.
A scream of frustration echoed within his mind.
"Open your eyes,"
Rodrigo murmured.
Miguel did, and glimpsed disappointment inscribed across his father's face like ink on paper. Not rage—disappointment was worse. Rage implied that there was still hope for change.
"Perhaps,"
Rodrigo went on slowly,
"it's time to think about other possibilities."
The words struck Miguel like punches. Other options. He had already heard that line, breathed by other families regarding their children who could not wake up. Other options meant abandoning the warrior's way. It meant living a life of mundane work while the rest of his family battled to save humans.
It meant conceding that he was essentially broken.
"Father, please,"
Miguel urged, recognizing the desperation in his own tone.
"Give me a little more time. I catch something every now and then, like it's just beyond my fingers—"
"Miguel."
Rodrigo's tone was soft but absolute.
"You've had four years. During that time, your sister discovered her Soul Strength and became Rank 2. Carlos moved from Rank 1 to Rank 3. Even the children of non-warrior families usually demonstrate some level of ability by your age."
"But Grandfather—Mother said he didn't discover until—"
"Your father's father was a special case,"
Rodrigo cut in.
"And even he began to show early signs years before he fully awoke. You've indicated nothing, son. Not even the slightest flicker."
Miguel gazed at the training sword in his hand. Barely more than shaped wood. Cold and lifeless.
"I want to practice the Sensing Exercise,"
he said abruptly.
"Please. Just one more time."
Rodrigo sighed but nodded.
The Sensing Exercise was the simplest test of Soul Strength development—the power to sense Sombra presence. All warriors were required to master it before they could go further than Rank 1.
Carlos ran over from where he'd been sparring with the heavy bag.
"What's going on?"
"Miguel wants to try the Sensing Exercise again,"
Rodrigo explained.
"Oh."
Carlos's face turned awkward. The Sensing Exercise was something he'd aced at the age of thirteen.
"Perhaps I ought to—"
"Stay,"
Miguel said.
"Both of you stay."
He needed witnesses. If he was going to fail once again, he wanted his family to watch exactly how comprehensive that failure was. Perhaps then he could finally confront reality and move on to whatever "other options" lay in store.
Rodrigo stepped out into the storage chest near the end of the training area and pulled out a small, black crystal the size of his fist. The Sombra Essence Stone—a shard of crystallized Sombra energy that had been taken from a vanquished foe decades past. It was totally inert, having no consciousness or malevolent intent, but it emanated the same energy signature as living Sombra.
"You know the process,"
Rodrigo said, setting the stone on a twenty-foot-high wooden stand.
"Close your eyes, stretch out your senses, and describe what you sense."
Miguel closed his eyes and attempted to still his mind. Every training manual he had ever read said Soul Strength was half art of perception, half art of power. A warrior had to feel the threats before they appeared, sense the currents of energy around him, be aware of the spiritual topography of any given battlefield.
He stretched out with senses he wasn't certain he had, attempting to sense the presence of the Sombra stone.
Nothing.
He pushed harder, straining until drops of sweat formed on his forehead in spite of the cold morning air.
Still nothing.
"Miguel,"
his father said softly.
"The stone is right in front of you. Twenty feet away. Even a child with the most slight sensitivity should be able to feel it from that distance."
Miguel kept his eyes shut, not giving up. Somewhere within him, there had to be something. Some small ember of the power that flowed in his people's blood. He was a Dela Cruz. Warriors by birth and nature. He couldn't be utterly powerless.
"I can feel it,"
he lied.
"Where?"
Rodrigo asked.
Miguel hesitated. If he guessed wrongly, his deception would be discovered. But perhaps, just perhaps, he might get lucky.
"Dead ahead,"
he said.
"Twenty feet."
"Open your eyes."
Miguel complied, and noticed the wooden platform was clear. The Sombra stone rested on the floor fifteen feet to his left, where Rodrigo had surreptitiously transferred it while conducting the exercise.
"Miguel,"
he said, and for the first time Miguel heard a hint that could have been pity in the man's tone.
"Son, you can't even feel a Sombra stone within arm's reach. How do you plan on feeling a threat?"
The question floated there like the edge of the executioner's sword. Miguel glared at the rock, there so innocent and black, emanating some force that all the other members of his family could sense from afar. To him, it could have been any old rock.
"I'll practice more,"
he mumbled.
"No."
Rodrigo's tone was absolute.
"Miguel, I'm sending you to the Technical Institute next month. You can study engineering or communications or medical support. All honorable occupations. All required for the defense of the city."
"Father—"
"The choice has been made."
Rodrigo started walking towards the house, then stopped.
"You're a good boy, Miguel. But not all good men are cut out to be fighters. The sooner you can accept that, the sooner you can discover what your true purpose is."
Miguel saw his father go into the house, followed by Carlos who gave him a sympathetic glance before departing. Maria was the only one left, standing haplessly beside the weapon rack.
"Miguel,"
she whispered.
"Perhaps Father is right. Perhaps—"
"Don't,"
Miguel said.
"Just. don't."
Maria nodded and left him by himself in the training ground. Miguel remained there for a great while, looking at the Sombra stone with no significance to him. The cacophony of the Protected City rising about him seeped into the morning air—vendors hawking their goods, children's giggles as they walked to school, the faraway buzz of the defense generators that energized the great walls.
Everyday noises of everyday living. The sort of life he had clearly been destined for.
But as Miguel was at last about to go inside, something stayed him. For a moment—so fleeting he might have thought he'd dreamed it—he could have sworn he sensed something from the direction of the stone. Not the Sombra power itself, but something else. Something observant.
He spun around, but nothing was there other than the little dark crystal innocently lying on the ground.
Only his imagination, most likely. Another false expectation to add to his tally.
Miguel took up the stone to put it back in its storage chest, and for the duration of a single heartbeat, the world around him shifted. Colors were more intense, sounds crisper, and he could almost swear he heard something like fading whispers beyond the edge of his awareness.
And then the instant was gone, and he was left clutching an ordinary piece of crystal that felt no more remarkable than a paperweight.
Definitely his imagination.
Wasn't it?