Yesterday has been brutal, and his body yearned for rest, so he crashed out early, not long after dinner, to give himself ample time to recover.

  He awoke the following morning feeling grumpy and unrested. It seemed it would take some time to get used to sleeping without a mattress. His current bed was a poor substitute. He didn’t know what it was made of. It appeared to be some kind of stretched animal skin over a solid frame, perhaps wood. He could feel some soft material within, but it was far too thin, making the rigid base the most obvious feature, and that was terrible for something designed for comfort.

  Dragging himself out of bed like a corpse, he peered outside. The sun had not yet risen. He momentarily considered returning to his bed, but for what purpose? He doubted more sleep would come. In any case, he had a lot he wanted to achieve today. The most pressing task on this list was a shower. He’d meant to get to it yesterday, but it had slipped his mind, given the hectic schedule.

  It seemed his filth had further festered, which was no surprise given his grueling training session with Luran. Before, he could not smell his odor, but today it hung in the air like a toxic cloud, making him grimace every time he got a whiff. There were no showers or bathhouses in the ekari village as they lacked running water. Instead, the village reservoir served as their primary water source.

  It was impossible to miss as it was located right in the heart of the village and stretched around 20 ft in diameter. The reservoir was like a massive sink, as it was carved from one piece of stone, forming a huge bowl that housed an insane volume of water.

  In his room were several buckets and a wide wooden container, much like a swollen barrel. He’d forgotten to ask Fizo about it, but he guessed that this was the ekari’s version of a bathtub. Regardless of whether it was or wasn’t, it would be acting as a bathtub today anyway!

  He scooped up the buckets and made for the reservoir. While the village was largely sleeping, he was still surprised by just how many other people were already up and awake. He witnessed a group of warriors leave the village pushing some kind of small empty cart, and he also passed the village tanner.

  She had hides stretched out on stick frames and was bringing them inside, presumably because they were dry. It seemed this village ran like clockwork. Everyone knew their roles, and they were committed to them, just as Fizo had said they were.

  Upon arriving at the reservoir, he found only one other person, an elderly ekari lady. He shot her a friendly smile, and she responded with a face full of daggers, before quickly filling her bucket and leaving him alone. He had half-expected such a reception, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Peering over the still water, he looked at his reflection, and his heart sank.

  Not his face?! The jagged pink scars that littered his body did not cease at his chest; they snaked up his neck and up to his cheeks. In desperation, he tried rubbing them off by scooping handfuls of water to aid the endeavor, but there they remained. With his life in such danger, he hadn’t had time to think about the scars. Now he couldn’t think about anything else. His body was bad enough, but his face? Couldn’t he catch a break?!

  He had never been a particularly vain person, but one’s face is their very source of identity, and his was alien to him. With hate in his heart, he smashed the water's surface causing his reflection to ripple and distort.

  There may be no undoing what was already done, but at the very least, he wanted to uncover how he came to bear these scars. Who or what had done this to him? He needed to know. In a daze, he filled up his buckets and stomped back off to his hut, water sloshing out all the way.

  His mood eased up as he began to bathe. The water washed away the worst of his woes as well as the filth. It took a good deal of scrubbing to eliminate all of the grime he had accumulated in the last few days. A particular problem area was under his fingernails, which were lined with a thick layer of dirt—probably from all the times Luran had shoved him to the ground in training.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t just water that he had. Beside the tub was a squishy purple blob. Upon saturating it, it oozed a frothy liquid which gave off a fragrant scent. It may look different from what he was used to, but this was almost certainly soap. He lathered up his whole body, washed it off, and was left spotless as if he was reborn anew, his spirits uplifted.

  There was a short-lived panic as he realized he hadn’t asked for any spare clothes. The thought of putting back on his filth-ridden old set made him shudder, but fortunately, he spotted a pile of spare clothes folded in the corner of the room.

  Clean at last, he headed back to the quiet area he had visited the previous morning to once again try and awaken his electric powers in private. He was glad to find no one around.

  Sitting in the center of the area, he began by meditating. It hadn’t helped previously, but he figured it was worth another shot. Besides, today he knew something that he didn’t yesterday—he had essence. He wasn’t really sure what it was or how it worked, but Fizo and Kinji were very clear that all monsters possessed it, and so did he.

  He sat for what felt like hours, but was probably more likely minutes, slowly inhaling and exhaling in controlled, deep breaths. By this point, he’d forgotten all about his disfigurement and was entirely set on his current task. Disappointingly, he couldn’t feel his essence. He felt the same way he always did, but perhaps he didn’t need to be able to perceive it just yet.

  Instead, he focused on something more tangible. He tried imagining flickers of current within him, growing into surges of electricity, fuelling his body with power. At first, nothing happened, but then he sensed something, the faintest of responses that he could barely detect. He couldn’t be certain, but it sure felt like a spark. Yet as quickly as it manifested, it disappeared, as if snuffed out by fingertips smothering a candlelight.

  Stirred by the development, he rushed to center himself, eager to try again. This time, the flicker was stronger, and it was accompanied by an exhilarating fizzing sensation from deep within. He didn’t know he knew, but at this point, he was confident. That was electricity that was building up within him.

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  Yet while the power was stronger the second time, it extinguished just as quickly, almost as if it had never existed. Something was resisting, but perhaps he could overcome it.

  What do you do when an obstacle obstructs your path? You either look for an alternative route, or you smash your way through. But what if there is no alternative path, or you don’t know the way? Force is your only option. Well, he didn’t know any other way. What he did know was that he’d summoned electricity before, and for the first time since, he was somehow manifesting it within him, however briefly. Brute force was the clear option.

  Focusing all of his attention within, he imagined an explosion of electricity bursting out from his core, and his body answered. A ferocious surge of electricity bloomed, amplifying his alertness like the smell of ammonia. Then, without warning, the surge violently imploded, and the scene of him being cooked on the electric chair overtook his vision.

  It left him breathless, skin tingling, in a cold sweat, in the fetal position. There he lay, enduring the worst of it for several minutes, before rising to a sitting position, trying to get his breath back.

  Now that was intense—and not in a good way. Images of his death were the last thing he expected, and they continued to occupy his thoughts despite the cessation of the—well, he didn’t know what it was. It seemed like he had just brought on some kind of panic attack from hell.

  In hindsight, perhaps brute force wasn’t the best option. He was meddling with power he didn’t understand. What if he did some serious damage? He needed a teacher. Someone to show him the way. And there was also the possibility that he had some trauma to work through. He had died after all. And he was attempting to wield the very same power that took his life. It was a bizarre situation all around.

  At morning training, Akesh once again broke up the warriors into their war bands, and Luran took the lead, developing his swordsmanship as before.

  “Armor? Already?” he asked. “You’ve never even been in a real fight. This is only training, you don’t need armor.” Thomas scowled.

  “You’re wearing armor, so I’m wearing armor. It’s only fair.” Luran glanced at his own and sighed. It was beautifully crafted black armor that accentuated his slender yet muscular form. Like the others, he was largely unarmored, as he had elected to only wear a chestplate, bracers, and greaves.

  Given his technique was of such a high caliber, Thomas wasn’t surprised. He doubted anyone could keep up with him, and you didn’t need armor if you didn’t get hit.

  “We pick up where we left off,” Luran barked. “Your goal today is to land a single blow on me.” He felt conflicted about the task. It was only one blow, but the levels between them were so vast. He couldn’t see himself getting the job done.

  Luran seemed to sense his apprehension, rolling his eyes. “During this time, I will only defend, not attack.” A devilish smile overcame his face. Whether he had some evil plan up his sleeve or he was really that confident, he couldn’t tell.

  Yet what he did know was that this skewed the odds heavily in his favor. If Luran couldn’t attack, then he didn’t need to defend. He could throw caution to the wind and attack relentlessly. Sooner or later, Luran would have to slip up. Nobody could defend forever. Just look at the top martial artists; even against a far inferior opponent, they cannot block every strike. It was simply impossible.

  He picked up his sword, confidence swelling within him,

  “Are you sure you want to play by those rules?” Thomas teased. “I may be untrained, but there’s no way you can block every one of my attacks.” Luran grinned.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure.”

  With that, he charged, whipping the sword from left to right and right to left in an unpredictable frenzy. He didn’t know much about swordsmanship just yet, but what he did know was that this was a horrible attack in a real fight. It left him far too open and lacked precision, yet for the rules of this exchange, it was perfect. Luran’s eyes followed the swinging blade as it advanced, his hands by his sides, clearly not concerned by what he saw.

  As Thomas swung the blade, aiming for Luran’s right side, he quickly switched back to the left at the last possible second. Unexpectedly, Luran took a step forward, predicting the move, preventing him from swinging his sword. He quickly stepped back to execute the strike, but Luran was long gone, now two steps back out of range.

  “You’ll have to do better than that little human!” Luran cackled, tracing the attack in a mocking display with his finger. He dived forward, opting for a thrust to cover the distance, but Luran drew his sword lightning-fast, and flicked his wrist, causing Thomas’s sword to rebound into the air. From this position, he was primed for an overhead strike, so that’s exactly what he did, but it proved far too predictable. Luran met his sword with his own before it had gained significant momentum.

  “Have you gotten worse since yesterday?” he jested. “I dare say you have!” Thomas growled, withdrawing his sword and slashing at Luran’s leg. The ekari didn’t bother to block; he simply lifted his leg to safety instead.

  This was getting rather embarrassing.

  He had to remember the plan, a relentless onslaught! It was sheer volume that would lead him to victory here, not individual strikes.

  So he charged, chaining every sword attack he could think of. Downward chops, sideways slices, upward slashes, thrusts. Hell, he even tried overpowering Luran with brute strength on the few occasions he didn’t directly block his sword in place. Every effort proved fruitless. Luran evaded, deflected, and blocked every attack he threw at him. Worst of all, the warrior hadn’t broken a sweat!

  He, on the other hand, was drenched! By now, his attacks were a labored mess, heavily telegraphed with big gaps in between. His opportunity at landing a blow had come and gone. He’d blown it. To continue further was to trample on his ever-dwindling pride. He took one knee to the floor and leaned on his sword, gasping for breath.

  “What the hell?!” he managed to splutter out through deep inhales of oxygen. “It’s like you could read my mind!” Luran laughed, digging his sword into the dirt and spinning his dagger on his index finger for entertainment. It seemed he couldn’t even fulfil that criterion.

  “I’m good, but I’m not that good,” he exclaimed, spinning his blade a little faster. “I can’t read minds or anything. It’s just hard work, I assure you.”

  “But every strike. You blocked every strike… and you made it look easy!” Luran sniggered.

  “I sure did,” he said, throwing his rotating blade high into the air before catching it. “You, my pathetic little human, are very predictable. Even when you’re not trying to be. I can read your attacks like reading a book.” Thomas scrunched his face.

  “But the attacks were fast and chained together! How could you read every strike?!” Luran put his dagger away and walked over to him.

  “Look. There’s no big secret. When you’ve fought for as long as I have, you’ve defended against every strike there is, and you become unnaturally attuned to stances. I notice the slightest variations in footwork, grip, and motion, and this tells me all I need to know. It is then simply a matter of processing the information fast enough. And if you hadn’t noticed,” he said, snatching the sword Thomas was resting on, causing him to drop to the ground, “I’m pretty darn quick.”

  He groaned, his face in the dirt. “Rest up now. We go again in an hour. Spend this time observing the others. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”