Chapter 5
The air was heavy with dust from yesterday's drills.
Zash flexed his hands as tiny flakes of skin cracked at the knuckles. But no matter how battered his body looked on the outside, something deep in his chest thrummed with restless energy — his Celestial Core, refusing to let him rest.
He hadn't slept properly.. His body simply… didn't know how to break.
When he reached the ruined courtyard, the familiar silhouette was already there. Motaka leaned against a crumbling wall, arms folded, a thick piece of wood balanced across his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
"You're late," Motaka said.
Zash blinked. "…I'm five minutes early."
A faint smirk curved across the older man's lips. "Then you're late by my standards."
The log thudded against the dirt as Motaka let it drop. Dust puffed up, swirling around Zash's ankles.
"…You're not going to throw that at me, are you?" Zash muttered, taking half a step back.
"Not yet." Motaka's grin was faint, but his eyes gleamed sharp as steel. "First, show me what you can do."
Zash exhaled slowly, clenched his fists, and stepped forward.
The moment his knuckles slammed into the log—
CRACK!
The thick wood split clean down the middle, shards scattering across the courtyard.
Zash froze. His hand didn't even sting.
Motaka raised an eyebrow. "Hmph. As I thought. You've already got strength. More than most grown men."
Zash's jaw dropped. "…Then why are you training me like I'm weak?"
"Because raw strength is useless."
Motaka crouched, dragging a line in the dirt with one finger. His voice was calm, flat, and absolute.
"Imagine a blade. If it isn't sharpened, it won't cut. No matter how heavy it is. That's you right now. A dull blade with too much weight behind it."
He straightened, flicking a pebble at Zash's feet. "So we sharpen."
The drills changed.
Instead of heavy strikes, Motaka set up delicate targets: stacked stones, thin planks, even clay pots balanced precariously on thin poles.
"Not too hard. Not too soft. The same force, every time."
Zash nodded and swung. The first strike shattered a plank completely. The second barely made the stack of stones wobble.
"Tch…" He bit his lip, trying again. Sweat gathered on his brow, but strangely—
His body didn't ache. His chest didn't heave.
It was like swinging for hours did nothing to him.
Motaka's eyes narrowed. "Strange… You're still fresh. You should've been slowing down a long time ago."
Zash hesitated. "…I don't feel tired. At all."
"Don't feel tired?"
Motaka moved without warning. He snatched Zash's wrist, twisting his arm behind his back until pain flared sharp across his shoulder joint.
"OW! What the hell—"
The pain vanished. Instantly.
Like it had never been there.
Zash's eyes widened. His arm felt… brand new.
Motaka froze. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, slowly, he let Zash go, his gaze thoughtful and dark.
"…It's not just fatigue."
His cigarette flared as he lit it, the smoke curling like whispers in the orange light.
"Your core is… undoing damage. Rewinding your body to a better state. Not just healing. Reversing."
Zash's heart pounded. "Rewinding…?"
"That's why you don't get scars. That's why your stamina doesn't drop. Any strain, any wound… your body erases it, like it never happened." Motaka exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing. "Do you understand what this means? With training, you'll never break. You'll never stop. You'll fight endlessly."
Zash swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. "…That sounds terrifying."
"Terrifying?"
Motaka's voice was low, but firm.
"Maybe. But compared to the War Ranks of the big countries—America, China, India—this is exactly the kind of power that puts you in their league."
Zash twitched his eyes in annoyance.
Motaka hefted the half log from earlier, spinning it lightly in one hand.
"Now we combine strength with foresight. Catch this."
"Wait, what do you mea—"
WHOOSH!
The log was already flying at his head.
Zash panicked, ducking late. The edge scraped his shoulder. He hissed—
And then the sting was gone. His skin was smooth, unbruised.
"…I healed."
"Not healed," Motaka said. His voice cut like a blade. "Rewound. You're not moving forward—you're undoing the damage."
Another log whistled through the air.
And this time, the flicker came.
A brief vision: the log's arc, its spin, the hiss of air slicing.
Zash's body moved before his mind caught up. He pivoted, slammed his fist into the wood mid-flight, and—
BOOM!
The log split apart, fragments scattering across the courtyard.
Zash stood panting, chest heaving—yet a wild grin tugged at his lips. "…I saw it. I actually saw it."
Motaka's expression softened. Just a little. "Good. That's the start. You're beginning to link the two—foresight and force. And with that body of yours…" He shook his head. "…Kid, you're something I've never seen before."
As the sun sank low, the ruins glowed in molten orange light. Zash flexed his knuckles, skin flawless despite the punishment.
Motaka leaned against the wall, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. "You've got extraordinary potential, boy. Powers like yours… they're the kind only War Ranks hold. If you don't master it, you'll burn out and die. But if you do…" He exhaled, smoke curling into the sky. "If you do, you'll shake the world."
Zash frowned, words bubbling before he could hold them back. "…Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep comparing me to the War Ranks? I don't even understand what it means to be in their league."
Motaka's smirk faded. His gaze hardened, distant, fixed on the skyline where the sun kissed the edge of the city.
"Because that's the reality of this world."
His tone was quiet, but it carried weight.
"One War Rank per country. One peak who decides the fate of millions. Bangladesh has Lexington—good man, noble heart—but he's only S. Surrounded by giants. America's Warlock. China's Alexi. India's Sun Sovereign. Any one of them could crush us if they chose to."
Ash drifted to the dirt as Motaka flicked his cigarette. His voice sharpened.
"If someone doesn't step up—someone who can stand against them—then this country will vanish. Our people. Our sovereignty. Everything."
Zash's chest tightened. "…And you think that someone is me?"
Motaka didn't answer immediately. His silence stretched, heavy. His eyes searched Zash's face like he was measuring more than strength—measuring will.
Finally, his words came, low and deliberate.
"I think the world doesn't care what I think. The question is whether you'll carry the weight. Because if you don't…"
His gaze cut deep, unwavering.
"…Nobody else will."
The courtyard fell silent. The only sound was the faint crackle of the cigarette burning away.
Zash clenched his fists. He wasn't ready. Not even close.
But for the first time—he understood why he had to be.
Later that day….
The courtyard was quiet when Zash returned home that evening, the dust of training still clinging to his clothes. He expected silence inside their shack, the same thin meals and restless stares that had defined their lives for years.
But instead… laughter.
Farhan was showing Nadia how to scribble with a dull pencil on a scrap of paper. Their mother was seated upright, her face pale but steadier than it had been in months. And on the small table between them sat something Zash had never seen before—fresh bread, vegetables, even meat.
His father was sitting there too, eyes tired but… lighter.
"Baba… what's all this?" Zash asked, blinking.
Haidar looked up. He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket—a folded slip of paper, thick with official markings, and a stack of worn bills tied with string.
"Lexington," Haidar said at last, his voice low. "The War Rank… he left us this. A check, and cash. Three million taka."
Zash froze. "Three… million?"
"It's enough," Haidar continued, "for food, for medicine, for Nadia and Farhan to go to school. For once, your mother can take the treatment she needs without me praying the coins will stretch." His eyes softened, almost breaking. "It's more than I ever dreamed of."
He turned to his eldest son, voice catching. "Zash… do you want to go to school too? You're still young. You deserve the chance."
Zash's throat tightened. He glanced at Nadia giggling, at Farhan's wide grin, at his mother's trembling hands clutching warm bread. For the first time, they weren't empty-handed. They weren't starving.
But school? No. His path had already shifted.
He shook his head slowly. "No, Baba. I can't. I've… I've found something else. A goal. I don't want to sit in a classroom. I want to fight—to get us out of here. Out of the slums. I promise you… I'll be the one to do it."
The words left his mouth with more fire than he expected. His chest burned, his fists clenched, and in his father's silence, he felt the weight of what he had declared.
Haidar stared at him. His lips trembled, his weathered face twisting with grief and pride all at once. Then, slowly, tears spilled down his cheeks.
"My son…" His voice cracked. He reached out, gripping Zash's shoulders like he never wanted to let go. "If you walk that path, then walk it. I won't stop you. But… please. Please, Zash. Stay safe. Don't be careless. Don't let me bury another promise the way I buried my father's."
Zash's vision blurred. His arms wrapped around his father, and for the first time since the distortion, the two of them cried together.
"I promise, Baba," Zash whispered hoarsely. "I'll survive. No matter what."
Their mother's weak voice broke through the moment, soft but steady. "Zash…" She smiled faintly, tears brimming in her tired eyes. "Forgive me. For being sick… for not giving you more than scraps and apologies all these years."
Zash shook his head, clutching her hand. "Don't say that, Ma. You're here. That's enough."
She squeezed his hand back, warmth in her frail touch. "Then know this—I support you. Whatever path you choose, I'll stand with you."
The heaviness in Zash's chest lifted, if only slightly. For the first time, he felt his family truly understood.
The next afternoon, he stood outside the small schoolhouse, waiting. Children poured out in waves, their laughter ringing through the slums. Nadia spotted him first, waving furiously, her satchel bouncing. Farhan followed, face bright as the sun.
Zash lifted the cracked football under his arm, grinning. "Come on, you two. Let's go home."
As his siblings ran to him, clutching his hands, he glanced toward the horizon. Somewhere out there waited distortions, monsters, and a future that could crush him if he faltered.
But here—holding onto Nadia and Farhan—he remembered why he couldn't afford to falter.
Not now. Not ever.