The chilling revelations from Kiyoshi Ziv history lesson hung heavy in the air, a palpable weight that settled over me like a shroud. The story of Kiyoshi Ziv Bazuaye, the head of the Rhines, was not merely a tale of personal tragedy, but a reflection of a deeper, festering wound within Noekyota itself. The bitterness of the Hedeem's Bones, the echoes of a fallen kingdom, the pain inflicted by Mileena, and most especially by the King was a heavy weight to bear. The burning desire for revenge, the willingness to sacrifice everything for the sake of retribution, now cast a long shadow over the path I was about to tread.
As Sweet faded back into the shadows, his silent departure a testament to the burden he carried, I was left alone with my thoughts. The gentle hum of the base, usually a comforting sound, now seemed to amplify the growing sense of unease within me. The promise of Kiyoshi's training, the opportunity to truly master my okhuomo-gekido, was still tantalizing, but the price of that power had become terrifyingly clear. I was about to align myself with a man consumed by vengeance, a man who saw me as a weapon in his war against the King, a pawn in his elaborate game of shadows and deceit.
The dichotomy within me was almost unbearable. I craved the strength to find my grandmother, to eradicate the threats that had forced her into hiding, to reclaim the stolen fragments of my past. But did that mean embracing the darkness, becoming a mirror image of the very forces I sought to destroy? The choice, a terrifying precipice between two abysses, loomed before me.
While I wrestled with these internal demons, the cogs of the government, the DVO, were grinding on, their own agenda for conquest and control unfolding with cold, clinical precision. Anya Sharma, ever the embodiment of ruthless efficiency, was not simply reacting to my actions; she was anticipating them, planning contingencies, and orchestrating a calculated campaign to either harness or eliminate me.
In the sterile, high-tech war rooms of the DVO headquarters, the architects of planetary dominance huddled around holographic displays, mapping out strategies with cold, detached precision. Their focus was not on justice, not on protection, but on the acquisition and consolidation of power. My existence, my unique ability, was merely an element in their calculations, a volatile variable to be either integrated into their grand scheme or ruthlessly removed.
While we were busy analyzing the situation, The government were on cruise planning on how to eradicate me or use me as their pawn. Their discussions, devoid of any empathy or moral consideration, focused solely on the tactical and strategic implications of my okhuomo-gekido. Could they weaponize my emotional abilities, turning me into a force multiplier on the battlefield? Could they control me, bending me to their will through psychological manipulation or chemical subjugation? Or was I simply too volatile, too unpredictable to be contained?
The government began seeking out scouts who were trained to learn Yami-ebhi. They sought out highly trained individuals, scouts who had dedicated their lives to mastering the subtle currents of Yami-ebhi, to understanding the intricate flow of energy that permeated all things. Their knowledge and command of this arcane force was unparalleled and were now tasked with a single purpose: to eradicate outlaws who threatened DVO rule, and the planet as a whole, to wipe out all who opposed them.
These "hunters" were not merely soldiers, but specialized operatives, trained in the arts of stealth, surveillance, and asymmetrical warfare. They were experts in tracking and capturing rogue Mileena, and their skills had been honed over years of brutal experience. The thought was horrifying. They were actively recruiting and weaponizing individuals like me.
Knowing full well that I'm part of them, and that I had a lineage connected to the Bini, I wasn't fazed cause I knew I brought myself to this. I had walked into this world with my eyes open, accepting the risks, the dangers, the potential consequences. The decision to use my emotions, was no one's fault but my own. Now I would live with the consequences. It was a conscious choice, a calculated gamble, and I was prepared to face the repercussions, however severe they might be. Yet that thought didn't quell the anxious tremor that rippled through me.
But the worst-case scenario occurred. In a swift, decisive move, fueled by a combination of strategic calculation and pure, unadulterated spite, they proceeded in providing a bounty on my head, and that was the first placed on any outlaw. Anya Sharma, her expression as cold and unyielding as ever, signed the order with a single stroke of her pen, unleashing a wave of relentless pursuit. The bounty, a substantial sum that would tempt even the most loyal DVO operatives, turned my life into a high-stakes game of survival. Mercenaries, bounty hunters, even desperate civilians, would now be actively hunting me, their eyes fixed on the reward, their consciences conveniently silenced by the lure of wealth.
The thought of it only made me want to get stronger. The desperation, the imminent danger, fueled my ambition to become a powerhouse. The image of my face emblazoned on holographic wanted posters across Noekyota, a price on my head, only intensified my determination to find Kiyoshi and his training, to wield the power of Kanjōkhō with absolute mastery. It was a dangerous path, a descent into darkness, but it was the only path I saw. The desire to protect myself, to protect my grandmother, had become an all-consuming fire.
Now I was in bed, lying rigid beneath a thin, scratchy blanket in my spartan room within the base. The small window, offering a sliver of a view of the perpetually smog-shrouded sky above Noekyota, did little to alleviate the claustrophobic sense of confinement. Sleep was a distant promise, a luxury I could no longer afford. My mind, a whirlwind of anxieties and conflicting desires, refused to quiet.
I replayed the events of the day, analyzing every detail, every word, every gesture. The fight with the mileena's, my controlled application of the Okhuomo-Gekido, felt like a distant memory. The weight of Kiyoshi's offer, the implied price of his training, pressed down on me like a physical burden. The image of my face on a wanted poster, a symbol of my outlaw status, haunted my waking hours.
I realized my hoodie was still with Koji, lost in the chaotic shuffle of the sudden change of plans. It was a minor detail, a trivial concern in the face of everything else, but it bothered me nonetheless. The hoodie was a small piece of home, a tangible reminder of my old life. The fact that it was now in Koji's possession, another subtle indication of how irrevocably my life has changed since that day.
"Well, I'll let it go for a night," I thought, forcing myself to focus on the present, to quiet the relentless churning of my thoughts. Sleep, however fitful, was essential. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the images of the wanted poster, the chilling voice of Takashi, the probing gaze of Kiyoshi. I tried to focus on the scent of night-blooming jasmine, to recapture the fleeting sense of peace I had experienced on the balcony.
Just as I began to drift towards the edges of consciousness, the world exploded in a deafening roar. A loud bang came through the door, not like a simple knock, but a violent explosion of sound and force, sending the reinforced metal door crashing inward with shockwaves. The door blasted inward off its hinges, ripping the metal frame from the wall with a screech of tortured metal. The force of the explosion ripped the room from its foundations, knocking the bed from underneath me. A cloud of dust and debris filled the small chamber, obscuring everything in a swirling haze of chaos.
My body moved instinctively, reacting before my conscious mind could register the events unfolding. I rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with a jarring thud, adrenaline surging through my veins. Every sense screamed danger, threat, the immediate need to survive.
Through the haze of dust and splintered wood, a figure emerged from the wreckage. It was the old man, who I had first encountered in my training session. His face was contorted in a grotesque grimace, his eyes wide with manic energy, his lips peeled back in a silent scream.
And he screamed, and the echoes that followed were horrifying, his voice a raw, primal screech, a sound that bypassed my ears and vibrated directly in my bones. It was a sound that stripped away all pretense of normalcy, a terrifying declaration of the chaotic energy about to be unleashed.
"Time for class!!!"
The words, bellowed with a manic glee that sent a fresh shiver down my spine, were a stark counterpoint to the chaos surrounding us. This wasn't an attack; it was an… invitation? A demented summons to something far more terrifying than any bounty hunter or DVO operative. The old man's appearance, his sudden and explosive entrance, was not the start of a fight, but the beginning of my true training. I braced myself, every muscle tensed, preparing for whatever madness was about to unfold. This was the price of power. And class was now in session.