Chapter 4
Zash hadn't stopped thinking about it.
The distortion.
The masked figure.
The words Lexington had left behind.
"If you ever change your mind… find me in Dhaka."
It played over and over in his head. The offer wasn't a dream — it was real. A War Rank had stood in front of him, looked at him, and said he had potential.
And yet… Zash didn't know what to do.
That morning, he tried to test himself in secret. He carried water, heavier buckets than usual, but his shoulders didn't ache. He hauled bread crates faster than before, sprinted across half the city, and wasn't even out of breath. When he jumped, his feet hit the dirt with a strength that startled him.
It should have been thrilling.
But instead, it scared him.
If I'm this strong now… what am I going to turn into?
And then came the other thing — the flickers. The little moments when time itself seemed to whisper to him. A lantern swaying, a person tripping, a rickshaw wheel cracking — he'd see it, only seconds before it happened.
It wasn't constant. He couldn't call it at will. But when it came, the visions left him cold with fear.
Lexington's words clawed at the back of his mind: "Too young."
Maybe the War Rank was right. Maybe he wasn't ready. But how long could he pretend nothing had changed?
That afternoon, as Zash carried a tray of bread through the bazaar, the flicker returned.
A vision: a clay pot tumbling from a high window, smashing on a boy's skull. The sound of crying. The sharp gasp of a crowd.
The vision vanished. The boy was still there, giggling and chasing a stray chicken across the street.
Zash's heart raced.
He dropped the bread and lunged.
"Hey—!" He grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked him backward just as a clay pot whistled down from above. It shattered against the ground, shards bouncing where the child had stood.
The boy burst into tears. His mother rushed over, glaring at Zash with wild eyes.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO KIDNAP MY SON?!" she screamed.
Zash froze, panicked. "N-No! The pot—! Look up!"
The smashed remains smoked on the ground, water spilling through the cracks. Heads turned upward toward the window above. A hush fell across the street as people finally saw the truth.
The mother blinked, flustered, but pride wouldn't let her apologize. She scooped up her son and backed away.
Zash muttered under his breath, cheeks burning. "…Next time I'll let the pot hit."
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd before everyone returned to their business. Zash sighed, crouched down, and began gathering what was left of the bread he had dropped.
That's when he felt it.
A pair of eyes. Watching him.
From a shaded alley, a tall man leaned casually against the wall. His cloak was tattered but clean, his beard streaked with gray. His gaze lingered on Zash, sharp yet unreadable.
Motaka.
A man who had once walked battlefields. A man who had seen comrades after comrades swallowed by distortions. A man who had sworn never to fight again, carrying the weight of too many graves.
And yet, here he was.
Watching a boy.
He saw what others had missed: the way Zash had moved before the pot had fallen. That flicker of foresight. That hesitation followed by perfect timing.
Motaka stepped out of the alley. His boots scraped the stone.
"You," he said. His voice was low, calm, with an edge that carried authority.
Zash flinched, looking up. "Uh—me?"
"You've got quick reflexes for a bread boy." Motaka's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you saw that pot fall before it did."
Zash's stomach turned to ice. "I-I don't know what you're talking about…"
Motaka studied him for a long moment. Then he smirked faintly. "Relax, kid. I'm not here to drag you to Dhaka or throw you into some army. If I was, I wouldn't be wearing these rags."
Zash glanced him up and down. "…Who even are you?"
"Motaka," the man said simply.
Zash couldn't help himself. He let out a short snort. "Motaka???, huh?...Like…More…..money??"
"Exactly." Motaka's lips twitched into the faintest grin. "Though I never seemed to have much of it."
The tension cracked just a little.
But before Zash could press further, Motaka's expression turned serious again. "Listen, kid. I don't know what's going on with you. But I know what I saw back there. And I've seen enough battles to recognize when someone isn't normal."
Zash shifted uncomfortably. "…And what if I am normal?"
Motaka shrugged. "Then I'll leave you alone. But something tells me we both know you're not."
The silence stretched. Zash felt his chest tighten, unsure whether to deny it or confess. But at that moment, Motaka turned and began walking away.
"Tomorrow," he said without looking back. "Same street. Same time. If you want answers… show up."
For the first time since the distortion, Zash didn't feel scared.
He felt… curious.
Zash stood there for a long time, staring at the spot where the man had disappeared. The crowd around him bustled on, shouting prices, chasing after chickens, laughing at nothing, like nothing had happened.
But Zash couldn't shake the lingering chill.
Who was that man? Why did his words feel heavier than the market noise that still rang in his ears?
He bent down to gather the bread again, his hands trembling less from the work and more from the thoughts running wild in his head.
Lexington's voice whispered in his memory. If you ever change your mind… find me in Dhaka.
And now another man, a stranger, had stepped out of the shadows to say: Tomorrow. Same street. Same time.
It felt like the world was pulling him in two directions. One path lit by power and recognition, another hidden in alleys and rags, led by a man who didn't even look like a Celestial anymore.
When Zash returned home that night, he tried to act normal. Nadia teased him for coming home late. Farhan begged him to play football with the cracked ball. His mother coughed softly in the corner, her voice thin but warm when she thanked him for bringing bread.
Haidar only studied him quietly, his eyes tired but sharp.
Zash forced a smile, but when he lay down later, staring at the patched ceiling of the shack, his mind wouldn't rest.
The distortion. The masked figure. Lexington's piercing gaze. And now… Motaka.
Too many pieces, and none of them fit.
He closed his eyes, and the flicker came again — a vision of tomorrow's sun creeping over the bazaar, of a familiar silhouette leaning against the wall, waiting.
When he opened his eyes, his chest felt tight.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, almost afraid of the word.
The next day,
Zash pretended he hadn't spent the entire night rolling over the man's words in his mind.
But by the time he reached the bazaar, his feet carried him to the same street.
Motaka was already there. Arms crossed, one boot propped lazily against the wall, waiting like he had all the time in the world.
"On time," Motaka said. "Good. I was worried you'd run."
"I almost did," Zash admitted.
Motaka smirked. "Then you've got some spine after all. Let's walk."
They cut through the streets until they reached the ruins at the city's edge, where broken stones and scorched wood marked the scars of the distortion. Motaka crouched, scooped up a handful of stones, and tossed one into the air before snatching it mid-fall with practiced ease.
"Strength, speed, weapons — anyone can teach you those," he said. "But your gift? Seeing ahead? That's rare. And dangerous."
He tossed the stones into Zash's hands.
"Here's the plan," Motaka said. "I'll put you under pressure. Falling objects, fast strikes, sudden danger. Your body will panic — and that panic will drag your foresight to the surface. Once it shows up, we'll learn to catch it. Stretch it. Own it."
Zash blinked. "…You mean… you're going to throw rocks at me?"
"Rocks, fists, maybe a wild goat if I find one," Motaka said without blinking.
Zash stared at him, horrified. "…You're serious."
Motaka grinned faintly. "Dead serious."
A stone whistled past Zash's cheek. Motaka had already thrown it.
"You're supposed to see it coming," Motaka barked.
"You didn't even warn me!"
"That's the point. Distortions don't warn you. Now focus. Wait for the flicker."
Another stone flew. Zash flinched too slow. It smacked his forearm.
"Good," Motaka said. "Your body moved before your head did. That's the start. Again."
Stone after stone came. Zash ducked one, tripped over another, cursed when one caught his shoulder. Motaka didn't slow.
Finally, the flicker came. A vision — the stone's exact arc, the sound it would make in the air.
Zash moved before it left Motaka's hand. He snatched it mid-flight.
Panting, he stared at the rock in his palm. "…I saw it."
Motaka's eyes softened just a little. "Good. That's the start."
Zash rubbed his wrist, still sore from the earlier hits. His voice came out tight.
"Why are you even doing this? Why me? You don't know me."
Motaka didn't answer right away. He crouched, picked up another stone, and turned it over in his palm, staring at it like it carried a memory.
Finally, he spoke.
"…I knew someone once. A long time ago. He had your same stubborn eyes. Same blood in his veins."
Zash frowned. "You… knew my father?"
Motaka shook his head slowly. "Not him. Your grandfather."
The word hit Zash like a jolt.
Motaka let the silence linger before continuing. His voice was quieter now, almost tired.
"We fought together when I was younger. He wasn't the strongest man in the field. Not the fastest. But he… never hesitated. If there was danger, he went first. If someone was left behind, he went back. That was just who he was."
He set the stone down carefully on the wall beside him.
"But that kind of courage has a cost. I watched him walk into a distortion that no man should've faced. I thought he'd make it back, like he always did. But he didn't. Not that time."
He picked up another stone, tossing it gently and catching it.
"I'm teaching you because I've buried too many men. I don't intend to bury another Rahman — not your father, and not you. Not if I can help it."
Zash froze. His throat tightened. "…My grandfather…"
"I kept an eye on your father when he was young too," Motaka continued. "He didn't inherit the gift, but he inherited the burden. Worked himself to the bone for his family. Survived by grit alone. I respected him for it. Still do. But you—" Motaka turned his eyes on Zash, sharp as steel. "You're different. You've been given something extraordinary. Whether you asked for it or not."
Zash swallowed hard. "…Extraordinary?"
"Your foresight isn't some parlor trick," Motaka said flatly. "What you can do — even in flickers — is the kind of power War Ranks are built on. In the big countries — the U.S., China, even Russia — men with gifts like yours are treated like living weapons. They're trained, refined, unleashed like storms. Most people go their entire lives without seeing an ability like this."
Zash's stomach twisted. "So you're saying… I'm like them?"
"No," Motaka said, his voice steady. "You're not like them yet. Right now, you're a boy swinging pipes and tripping over rubble. But the seed is there. And if you don't learn to control it, the gift will eat you alive… or someone else will take it from you."
The words struck deep, heavy as iron.
Zash stared down at the stone in his palm, his pulse thundering in his ears. The thought of becoming like the War Ranks — the thought of carrying that kind of weight — both thrilled and terrified him.
Motaka rose, brushing the dust from his cloak. "I am not training you for glory. Not to become a soldier. I'm training you to survive. And I'm training you because I won't let another Rahman boy die too young. Not like your grandfather. Not like so many others I've buried."
Zash clenched the stone tighter, his chest burning. He didn't fully understand why this man — this stranger — cared so much. But as Motaka's words settled over him, one truth became clear.
This wasn't about power. It was about survival.