Morning light filtered through the leaves above Kamaskh.

  Samye woke with a sharp ache behind his eyes.

  His head spun slightly, his thoughts scattered—as if parts of the previous night had been erased or blurred together.

  “…What happened?” he muttered.

  No clear memory answered him.

  He washed his face with cold water, hoping to steady himself, then stepped outside the guest residence to look for Kayal.

  A young child carrying firewood looked up at him.

  “Brother Kayal?” Samye asked.

  The child pointed toward the eastern path. “Training grounds. Army base. He won’t return until evening.”

  Samye nodded. “Thank you.”

  With no one to meet and his mind restless, he decided to walk alone.

  As he wandered deeper into the village, he noticed a structure unlike the others.

  Quiet.

  Simple.

  Old.

  A temple.

  Stone pillars wrapped in roots. Soft incense smoke drifted through the air. Inside, villagers sat in stillness, eyes closed, breathing slow and controlled.

  Meditation.

  Samye hesitated.

  This… was new.

  He had seen people pray before — beg gods, scream in despair, cling to belief.

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  But this was different.

  Calm.

  Disciplined.

  Grounded.

  A monk noticed him standing at the entrance and gestured gently.

  “You may enter,” the monk said.

  Samye stepped inside.

  The monk spoke softly as Samye sat cross-legged among the others.

  “We strengthen the bond between body and spirit,” the monk explained. “Because power does not come from the body alone.”

  Samye listened carefully.

  “In this age,” the monk continued, “people awaken abilities suddenly. Without preparation. Without balance.”

  Samye’s chest tightened.

  “When that happens,” the monk said, “the power consumes the soul. And when the soul breaks… humanity follows.”

  Samye remembered the insane wielders.

  The screaming.

  The loss of control.

  “This training,” the monk said, “is how we survive ourselves.”

  The words struck deep.

  “Join us,” the monk added.

  Samye nodded.

  He closed his eyes.

  At first, there was only breath.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Deep.

  Heavy.

  Samye sank further into it than he expected.

  The monk’s voice grew distant, muffled, like sound underwater. His awareness stretched inward, beyond thought, beyond pain.

  And then—

  He saw himself.

  Standing across from him.

  Same face.

  Same body.

  But the eyes were different.

  Cold.

  Sharp.

  Filled with something ancient.

  That version of Samye smiled.

  Not kindly.

  Not warmly.

  An evil smile — slow and knowing.

  Samye’s breath caught.

  “What… are you?” he tried to ask.

  The figure didn’t answer.

  It just watched him.

  Judging.

  Waiting.

  “Samye!”

  The monk’s voice snapped through the darkness.

  Samye gasped and lurched forward, sucking in air as if he had been drowning. His chest heaved violently. Sweat drenched his body.

  The monk knelt in front of him, eyes narrowed, studying Samye closely.

  For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Then—

  “You are an ability wielder.”

  Samye froze.

  “What…?” he whispered.

  The monk leaned closer.

  “How long have you been awakened?”

  Samye swallowed. “I… don’t know.”

  The monk hummed quietly.

  “…That’s troubling.”

  Samye’s pulse spiked. “Why?”

  The monk’s voice dropped, grave and firm.

  “Because your ability is already devouring your soul.”

  Samye’s blood ran cold.

  “If you do not accept it as a part of yourself,” the monk continued, “if you treat it as an enemy… you will lose control.”

  He held Samye’s gaze.

  “And if you lose control for too long—”

  The monk paused.

  “You will die.”

  Silence swallowed the room.

  Samye stared at the floor, his hands trembling.

  That smiling version of himself flashed again in his mind.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  For him to break.