A lean, wiry frame hovered cross-legged in the air, the kind of build that spoke of agility yet carried an undeniable strength at a glance. His loose orange shirt draped casually over dark jeans, giving him a strangely modern look for someone so ancient. Even in this human guise, small details betrayed the truth of what he was — the way his tail curved lazily behind him, restless and alive, a reminder that his true nature hadn't disappeared. His bare feet, though shaped like a man's, carried the faint contours and texture of something wilder, more simian, as if the earth itself would recognize them. A sleek flat-screen television floated beside him, its bright colors flickering across his face as he sat suspended in midair, watching with an expression that balanced meditation and mischief.
Around him stretched a realm without weight or direction, a place that felt more dream than reality. The void was neither black nor white but a shifting haze of muted colors, dimly lit as though caught between dusk and dawn. There was no sense of ground, no sky above, no horizon to orient the eye, only an endless expanse where up and down lost their meaning. It was the kind of place where existence seemed to drift, unmoored, save for the figure who hovered at its center.
Arms folded across his chest, the figure regarded the floating screen, tail curling lazily behind him. He said:
"This little contraption from the third dimension,"
He muttered with amused approval.
"Is rather a convenient way to kill boredom… and an entertaining one at that."
Before the words could settle, another voice cut through the dim void. Rugged and uneven, it carried the rough edge of someone still catching his breath, as though spoken in the middle of a clash. The sound echoed faintly through the dreamlike expanse, sharp enough to disturb the stillness.
"Seriously Master, are you even paying attention to my battle? How will you know if I've improved at all if you're not watching?"
The voice belonged to a tall youth locked in combat, his wiry frame braced beneath the weight of a descending strike. Both hands clenched tight around a long wooden staff, he caught the blow crosswise just in time. His tan skin gleamed with sweat beneath the void's dim light, his dark locks, shaved close at the sides and bound neatly at the back, clinging to his forehead as he strained. His narrowed eyes burned with fierce concentration, though a grim set pulled at his mouth, the expression of someone who knew his mentor's attention lay elsewhere.
His build mirrored his master's almost exactly, lean, wiry, every muscle honed for precision rather than bulk. One might even think he had trained himself that way on purpose… which, to be fair, he had.
The staff shuddered in his grip, the force behind it threatening to drive him to his knees. His opponent was no stranger, a perfect clone of his own master, conjured in the void itself. Every movement it made carried the same ruthless precision, the same practiced rhythm he had fought against countless times before. Its tail lashed with a sharp snap as the clone bore down, wooden staff pressing against his guard with unrelenting weight.
And yet, though he held firm, the faint rasp in his earlier words betrayed his struggle — a fight not just against strength, but against the suffocating knowledge that his master's true eyes weren't even watching.
The lad knew the clone was in perfect harmony with his master, sharing senses and style as if it were an extension of him. Every strike, every feint mirrored the mentor's expertise and discipline. And yet… it wasn't enough. Not for him. Not when the real eyes he longed for—the mentor's, weren't on him. He didn't want some perfect echo of his teacher watching his movements; he wanted the teacher himself. He wanted recognition. He wanted to prove that he had improved, that all those years of training had mattered. The boy's focus, his dedication, ran so deep it bordered on obsession, a fierce admiration that made every block, every parry, feel like a conversation between him and the man he revered most.
'It's not obsession—just admiration.'
The crack of wood against wood echoed through the void, his staff shuddering under the clone's strike. His muscles tensed, his narrowed eyes locked on the clone. And then—
"Tch. Seriously, can't he just ask that guy for help?"
The sudden voice cut across the clash like it had nothing to do with the fight at all. The mentor floated serenely, arms still folded, tail curling lazily behind him as his gaze stayed fixed on the glowing screen.
"If he keeps charging in alone, he's going to die again. Ah, well… he'll just come back and redo it all, won't he? Maybe this time he'll realize he can't handle it on his own."
The lad still had no idea what that hovering screen was. Some kind of spell? Whatever it was, his mentor seemed more interested in that flickering thing than in him. The thought lingered, sour and heavy—until the clone moved.
Wood split the silence. The boy pivoted mid-float, weightless yet precise, his frame twisting as if the void itself bent around him. His staff swept low in a smooth arc, spun with practiced ease, and drove forward in a hard thrust.
The clone slipped aside, motion blurring as its own staff cut diagonally down at him. He had seen that strike before. His muscles tightened, memory guiding instinct. He rolled with the strange gravity of the void, his body flowing into a flip, the movement as fluid as water. The arc carried him out of reach, and in the same breath he snapped forward, staff whipping in a sharp counterthrust.
The impact never landed. The clone's weapon spun, wood meeting wood, the block ringing out in a sharp, hollow crack that echoed through the endless dark. For a heartbeat, both staffs pressed, neither side giving ground.
The clash rang out again, staffs breaking apart, the void quivering with the pressure of impact.
"Hey, Aldebaran. You're really handling yourself well in that fight."
Al's eyes narrowed.
'You think? You aren't even paying attention.'
But deep down, he knew better. In this place, nothing escaped his mentor. The void itself was his domain. Every shift of gravity, every ripple of force, every flicker of will—he felt them all. Even when his gaze lingered elsewhere, even when he seemed half-distracted, the truth was absolute. His awareness was woven into the marrow of the void.
And that was what gnawed at Al the most. His master didn't even need to watch him. He already knew.
"Seriously, Master… didn't I tell you to just call me Al? Isn't Aldebaran too much work?"
The glow of the hovering screen painted his mentor's features, unreadable in the light. At last, his gaze shifted.
"I am not like you."
Silence stretched.
"I don't cut names short because I'm too lazy to speak them."
Al sighed, the sound vanishing into the emptiness between blows. The clone came at him again, staff slicing down in a clean diagonal. Al twisted with the pull of gravity, spun low, and his own strike lashed out, teeth gritted with defiance.
"If you're not careful…"
The words fell through the void as the two staffs locked together, sparks of pressure bursting outward.
"…you'll be defeated."
Al's grimace curved into a grin.
"Just watch. I've almost mastered this fighting style of yours."
A low chuckle drifted from the direction of the screen.
"Well. I'll be glad to see that. After all… that clone holds one percent of my power. Defeat it, and I'll admit you've improved."
The words of his master still echoed in his mind not the part of him saying "one percent" but... "Defeat it, I'll admit you've improved."
That challenge clung to Al's chest like iron.
But before he could steady himself, he noticed a shift.
The clone had let its staff fall. Slowly, the polished wood tumbled downward the void, until, in a sudden blur, the monkey's foot snapped upward, toes locking around the shaft as naturally as fingers. In the same instant, the clone lunged forward with a coiled fist.
Al spun his own staff up to intercept the strike.
That was the mistake.
The clone inverted mid-air, its body folding into a fluid arc. With a savage twist, the staff clutched in its feet swept down diagonally, slamming into Al's defense. The impact broke his spin, sending him staggering backward. The clone did not relent. Its motions poured forward like water in an endless current, no gaps, no hesitation. Al found himself locked in a desperate rhythm, forced into defense.
He grimaced.
'Shit… Shit.'
This was the Hōen-Ryū Style — the Flow of the Monkey.
The Hōen-Ryū was a staff art born from the ancient monkeys, first crafted not as war, but as play. To them, combat was sport, rhythm, dance. They made a style of instinct, of adaptability, of flowing without thought. Hands and feet became one, turning the body into a single organism of motion.
It was a style his master had tried to teach him—the last style he had yet to master. But Al's human frame was no monkey's. His feet could not grasp as deftly as hands. What came natural to the clone seemed impossible for him.
The clone spun again, staff passing seamlessly from leg to hand mid-rotation, ending in a sudden thrust. Al caught it with his own spin, but the thrust tore through his momentum and shoved him back.
'Seriously… this won't be easy.'
The words beat against his skull, and then came the reminder. The philosophy of Hōen-Ryū wasn't only Instinct, Adaptability, and Fluidity. There was a fourth—one his master had once emphasized.
'Incorporation.'
The thought rang clear.
'If I could incorporate another style into this flow… maybe I'd stand a chance.'
As if answering, a sudden idea sparked.
'Araga-Ryū.'
Araga-Ryū Style — the School of Wild Fangs.
Its philosophy burned in his mind: Aggression. Rage. Murderous intent. Raw, animalistic ferocity.
Where Hōen-Ryū flowed like water, Araga-Ryū tore like a beast. It was its direct opposite, its perfect counter. But when one met the other, victory was not dictated by style—it was dictated by experience. A master of one could outlast the other.
'Then what if I don't choose?'
A slight grin tugged on his lips.
'What if I merge them?'
Then the clone lunged again, staff whistling forward.
Al let his own staff fall.
It dropped past his knees, and in the moment before it passed his feet, his toes caught it—awkward, clumsy compared to the monkey's perfection, but enough. With a backward flip, he spun the staff around in a violent arc, dragging momentum into his legs and hurling it forward like a storm-driven tide.
The clash rang out. His staff knocked the clone off balance.
And then Al moved.
His leg kicked the staff upward, his hand reclaimed it mid-air. In a single breath, he thrust forward. The clone answered in kind. Two staves met, wood to wood, but Al didn't hold. He slipped inward, bent fluidly aside, and slammed his staff into the clone's chest.
Before the clone could recover, Al wrenched its own staff free, whirled both weapons, and crossed them in a vicious thrust that hurled the clone backward. Its body scattered into smoke.
Silence returned. A single strand of hair drifted in the void.
Al exhaled, chest heaving, a grin tugging his lips. Then he murmured.
"This… this is mine, a new style. Neither Flow nor Fang."
He raised his staff high, and shouted.
"Kyōen-Ryū Style — the School of the Mad Monkey."
Born in chaos. Balanced between trickery and rage. Unpredictable to all, even to himself.
***
The clone dissolved into smoke, vanishing in silence. Only a single strand of golden hair remained, drifting slowly through the boundless void.
Al stood there, ragged breaths tearing from his chest, both staves still clutched in his trembling hands. The weight of the clash lingered in his muscles, the ache of survival etched deep into his bones. His eyes followed the lone hair as it floated, twisting and turning as though carried by an invisible tide.
And then, slowly, he raised his gaze.
His mentor was still there — arms folded, eyes fixed not on him but on the great screen of light that hung in the emptiness. A faint, amused smile curved on his lips, as though the battle had been nothing more than a play he had already known the ending to.
Al's heart gave a quiet, bitter laugh of its own. So that was it. All this time, his mentor hadn't ignored him out of indifference. He had been forcing him to carry the fight on his own. To struggle. To break. To claw his way out without a hand to hold.
It wasn't cruelty. It was a lesson.
The realization settled on him like a weight heavier than the void itself: the old trickster had wanted him to see it for himself. That victory could never come from clinging stubbornly to one path. That the flowing unpredictability of the Hōen-Ryū alone would never be enough. Nor would the raw ferocity of the Araga-Ryū.
The truth lay in their union.
And only in the heat of desperation, with no voice to guide him, had he been cornered into forging it.
Al exhaled slowly, lowering the twin staves. His breathing was still rough, but his mind was sharper than ever. Somewhere behind his mentor's amused grin, he could almost hear the unspoken words:
'Now you're starting to understand.'
The silence of the void pressed close, broken only by the ragged draw and release of his breath. The twin staves dissolved into motes of pale light, scattering like ash into the endless dark. Slowly, weightlessly, a single hair strand drifted down before him, twisting lazily as though caught on a current that didn't exist.
His gaze lingered on it, thoughts circling the battle just past. It had never been about strength alone. His mentor had wanted him under pressure, forced into a corner where instinct met clarity. That was why he hadn't intervened. That was why he wasn't even watching.
A voice carried through the stillness.
"Well, I have to admit, you've really improved…"
The screen of light behind him shattered into sparks, vanishing into the void. When his eyes returned to the drifting strand, his mentor was already there—hovering where it was, arms folded, that faintly amused smile still carved across his face. With an effortless motion, he plucked the hair from the air. It vanished, absorbed seamlessly back into his mane as though it had never been torn free.
"…I didn't think you'd be able to figure it out. But I wasn't worried. If you couldn't, then all those years of training were for nought."
Al let out a sharp breath, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin and said:
"Seriously? Do you really think that little of me? Not to brag, but I have an incredible intellect."
His mentor's grin deepened, eyes gleaming with quiet pride beneath the weight of amusement.
"Good. Because now, you've mastered the last thing I had left to teach you. Which means it's about time you began your journey."
The words settled heavily in the void, resonant like a bell struck in still air.
"Tell me, then… What is it you want to do?"
Those small words gnawed at him, lingering like a blade in his mind. Was there an honest answer to it?
'What is it that I want now that I am strong?'
The question bled into his chest, deeper than any strike the clone had landed.
The silence broke.
"Are you going to take revenge on the one who murdered your parents?"
His mentor's voice cut sharply through his haze.
"Who was it again… the prince?"
Al's head snapped up, tone cracking like thunder.
"Do you truly think that foolish prince was capable of even standing a chance against my parents?"
His eyes burned, each word spat with contempt.
"Whatever happened that day—it was orchestrated. He was nothing but a pawn in someone else's game."
A low hum of approval rippled from his master.
"Then what is it you seek? To uncover the truth behind the civil war?"
The thought struck him like a hammer to the chest. His mouth tightened. He searched himself, clawing at the pieces of what he desired most. At last, his voice came, quieter but iron-clad.
"I don't know what my goal is yet, but I know one thing—I want to return the Zodiacs to their glory. Back to when the clans stood as one. Whoever orchestrated my parents' death is tied to the civil war… and if I try to reunite the clans, they'll come for me. That much I am sure of."
He drew in a breath, letting the weight of his words settle.
"And as I am now… I'm not strong enough to fight someone like that. So, I will do the only thing I can. I'll gather allies. Strong ones. Bonds that cannot be broken. That's the only way forward."
For the first time in what felt like centuries, his mentor's lips curved into a genuine, astonished smile.
"You have grown, before, you would have tried to shoulder it all alone. But now, you have learned—true strength isn't only your own. It's also in those who stand with you."
It wasn't that Al lacked strength. No—what he had realized was that strength alone would never be enough. To face what lay ahead, he would need allies. Not many, not just anyone. Strong ones. Reliable ones. Because what was truly dangerous was not a competent enemy, but an incompetent ally. A single weak link could drag everything into ruin.
And then the thought took shape, heavy and undeniable.
Whoever orchestrated the civil war had to be someone with authority. Power. Unimaginable power. To pit the Zodiac clans against each other was no simple feat—it required influence, a purpose, and the will to twist destiny itself.
Al didn't know what their aim was, but the scale of their actions revealed enough. To cause a war of that magnitude, one did not act idly. Perhaps his parents' death was nothing more than a stepping stone. Or perhaps they were too great a threat to whatever plan was unfolding, and so they were erased. The foolish prince—he was merely the pawn most convenient to move across the board.
If so, then the gravest mistake that unseen hand had made was sparing him.
'Whoever it is… Will pay, that I promise'
A voice cut through the storm of his thoughts.
"Aldebaran… maybe you can forget about all this. The Zodiacs, the war. I was summoned only for one purpose—to be your mentor and guide you. And not to brag, but I think I did a pretty damn good job. So I won't sit back and watch while you throw your life away. With your strength, you could head to one of the human continents, register as a Wanderer, carve out a name for yourself, and live comfortably. Free."
Al's lips curved, a sharp smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, then he said;
"Sorry, Master. But you cannot tell me that."
CHAPTER END.