The caravan rolled into the bustling heart of the Maki Kingdom under a sky painted with the warm glow of late afternoon. Smokestacks rose like sentinels over the sprawling meat-processing district, banners of crimson and gold snapping in the wind above warehouses and markets. Mira led the way, her steps confident yet tinged with quiet apprehension. Kael walked at her side, hand resting on his sword hilt, while Dill scribbled notes and Harlan—the renowned Meat Prince—gestured expansively at the sights around them.
Mira's father, Lord Eldric Maki, awaited them in the grand reception hall of his manor—a sturdy, practical building that smelled of smoked hickory and prosperity. Broad-shouldered and bearded like a bear, Eldric had built his fortune on butchery and trade. It was Kael's quiet but steady patronage over the past years—his consistent orders for the caravan's supplies, his recommendations to allies, and his protection of trade routes—that had elevated the family business from local staple to a renowned industry supplying half the continent. When Eldric caught sight of Kael, his face split into a wide, genuine grin.
"Kael, my boy! You've done more for this house than any noble title could. Because of you, my name rings in every tavern from here to the coast. Come, sit—tell me of your latest journeys!" Eldric laughed, pulling Kael into a crushing embrace.
The conversation flowed like aged wine: stories of caravans guarded, deals struck through Kael's influence, recipes perfected with the finest cuts his coin had secured, and mutual profits celebrated. Harlan, ever the enthusiast, chimed in with praise for the quality of Maki meats that had inspired his own princely reputation. Eldric welcomed the entire group without hesitation, sealing new partnerships and old friendships with raised glasses and hearty toasts.
But the afternoon's ease shattered without warning.
A guttural roar rolled across the district like thunder. From the dark treeline beyond the factory grounds charged a herd of smart beasts—sleek, intelligent predators with ember-bright eyes and hides plated in jagged scales. They moved not as mindless animals but as a coordinated force, splitting into flanking packs to strike the base of the sprawling meat factory.
Alarms clanged. Workers fled as claws tore through gates and walls. Kael drew his blade and plunged into the chaos, swinging in frantic, reckless arcs. Blood sprayed; pain flared across his side. He was losing ground fast, overwhelmed by numbers and ferocity.
Then, on the brink of collapse, memory surged through him like cold water: every grueling lesson from his swordmasters, every drilled basic of stance, guard, and strike. His body remembered what his panicked mind had forgotten. Footwork snapped into perfect alignment; parries flowed into ripostes with flawless economy. In that instant, Kael moved like a paladin reborn—simple, pure swordsmanship executed with transcendent precision.
Beasts fell around him in rapid succession, dark blood steaming on the stone. Yet one slipped away, wounded but alive, vanishing into the forest—bound, no doubt, for its master: the King of the Beasts, the one true Savage King, feared in whispers as the Demon King.
When the last growl faded and the survivors caught their breath, the group gathered amid the wreckage. Kael leaned against a splintered beam, chest heaving. Dill paced with barely contained excitement, journal in hand.
"That was no fluke, Kael," Dill said, voice low with wonder. "What you tapped into echoes the humans of the ancient Veil—beings who lived by raw instinct alone, unclouded by aura or ether."
Mira frowned. "And because Kael has neither… he can reach something closer to that state?"
"Closer?" Dill shook his head. "He surpasses it a thousandfold. Their minds were primitive; his is refined. Without magical dilution, he can trigger survival states that feel like miracles—'Bullet-Speed Perception,' for instance, where time appears to crawl."
Harlan crossed his arms, impressed rather than skeptical. "Time crawling? After seeing that display, I'm inclined to believe it."
"It's documented fact," Dill countered. "Adrenaline, noradrenaline, cortisol flood the system. The amygdala hijacks control, forcing the brain to process far more data per second. Time itself doesn't slow—perception accelerates. Afterward, memory plays it back as if everything moved in slow motion. Pilots see individual tracer rounds; officers watch casings fall frame by frame; crash survivors recall every shard of glass."
Kael flexed bruised knuckles. "I felt stronger, too—like limits just… vanished."
"Hysterical strength," Dill confirmed. "The mind removes safety governors. Every muscle fiber fires at once. People lift wagons off trapped children, bend iron bars. But the body pays later—torn tendons, shredded muscle."
"And I barely felt the wounds until now," Kael muttered.
"Pain suppression via endorphins and adrenaline. Soldiers fight on with mortal injuries, only collapsing when the surge fades."
Harlan nodded slowly. "You tunneled in completely. Nothing else existed."
"Hyper-focus," Dill said. "Peripheral vision narrows, sound mutes, all resources funneled to survival."
"Reflexes felt impossible," Kael added quietly.
"Reaction time sharpens; hesitation evaporates. The body moves before thought catches up. Memories burn in at higher resolution—trauma etches them forever. Some even feel an eerie calm, emotions shut down to endure."
Dill met Kael's eyes. "These aren't permanent gifts. They're temporary survival modes, not true awakening. But in life-or-death moments? You can call on them again."
Far away, in a cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi, Thailon addressed his shadowed lieutenants, his words mirroring Dill's as though carried on the same wind.
"The boy unlocked an ancient ability," Thailon rumbled. "Like the veiled humans—pure instinct, no aura, no ether. But his mind is honed, elevated. A thousand times their equal. Hence abilities like Bullet-Speed Perception: adrenaline storm, amygdala dominance, perception races ahead while time seems to stall."
A subordinate hissed, "The strength he showed?"
"Hysterical. Limiters stripped away—full muscle recruitment. Mortals lift impossible weights, then crumble."
"Pain ignored?"
"Blocked by the body's own alchemy."
"Focus narrowed to a blade's edge?"
"Survival demands it."
"And the calm in the storm?"
"Emotional shutdown. The mind preserves itself."
Thailon's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon. "Temporary, not eternal. Yet potent enough to change wars… if the boy learns to summon it at will."
Two scholars, worlds apart, spoke the same truth. And somewhere in the deep wilds, the Savage King stirred, scenting new prey on the wind.