Myrkas motioned for a passerby to refasten his blindfold. The boy dared not interrupt his rhythmic beat to do it himself. His preparations were complete. He was ready to make this game his bitch. He would show it to sit, give paw, and play dead.

In a trance-like state, Myrkas threw. Ball after ball, each on a beat, from right to left. The crowd had gone near silent, as if holding their breath. The repeated "tunks" of stiff fabric hitting wood were the only clear sounds heard in the small length of street around the stand. Even Martine had paused her enthusiastic cheering.

Tunk, tunk, tunk, in the baskets they went.

Myrkas hesitated for half a second before his last throw. One more and that was it. He took a deep breath, and let a few beats pass. Then the round projectile flew. And missed. The resounding "clank" announced it to the whole street. The ball had hit the rim of the last target. The short break had done in Myrkas.

Undeterred, the tween barely stopped. Someone brought him back the worn projectiles. Myrkas kept his tempo. The boy didn't ask for the blindfold to be let down, by all appearances not needing to look at his targets again.

Back in position, Myrkas waited until he was back in his "groove," This absolute mindset where all that existed was his self, the balls, and the moving targets. His Qi kept on cycling, its laminar flow never interrupted. Steady and calm. The red dot in Myrkas' belly apparently asleep.

A last exhale and Myrkas started again." Tunk, tunk, tunk," all on the beat. Myrkas did not miss one. His Qi was flowing smoothly, effortlessly. His mind was free of distracting thoughts. All that existed were himself, the game, and the rhythm.

With the last ball nestled in its basket, Myrkas nodded to the stand owner, instinctively knowing where the chubby man stood. In complete silence, Mr Wei handed the boy the recovered projectiles and restarted the mechanism, the same dance they had done all evening. A deep breath, and Myrkas—still blinded—perfectly slotted every single ball. Not a moment of hesitation. Not one extra motion. The boy proceeded to succeed a third time, as if he needed to prove the previous two were not mere happenstance.

After his third perfect score in a row, Myrkas exhaled, letting the beat go. Satisfied, the youth smiled. He had done it, he had beaten the game! He had shown he was a true talent indeed. Beaten all their expectations. No more tricks, no more rising debt.

Take that stupid, petty Master!

Myrkas was simply better. The boy couldn't wait to see Master Ranil's surprised and dumbfounded face. His petty scheme had been thwarted! Utterly defeated by none other than his lowly disciple. Victory tasted sweet. As sweet as the dragon's beard candy Myrkas had shared with Martine earlier. As sweet, but infinitely tastier. Addictively tasty.

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With barely contained anticipatory glee, Myrkas removed the blindfold. His first sight was of Mr Wei, flabbergasted. The man was standing immobile, looking at Myrkas, a hand raised in an undefined gesture, mouth open like a goldfish. A living statue of surprise and shock. The most satisfying of sights.

Unable to keep a small smile from his lips, Myrkas turned slowly towards his so-called Martial Master. Myrkas savoured those instants. He imagined Ranil's defeated expression before the boy's win. All his expectations beyond exceeded. The man would have no choice but to bow in front of Myrkas' Supreme talent and potential.

Ready for a second serving of sweet victory, Myrkas completed his 180-degree turn. The boy stood in front of the crowd, his Master at the forefront. Martine was still on his shoulder, her small mouth also fixed in her own interpretation of a goldfish. Snow looked smug, as much as a rabbit could, while her sister Lilac was already looking for a snack.

Myrkas' eyes finally landed on Suna Ranil's face. Immediately, a wave of fear spread through the boy, raising every single hair in its wake. The devious man was smiling wildly, with an air of pleased insanity in his eyes. His scarred, half-paralyzed left cheek did not help at all in reassuring Myrkas. The man was delighted. Obviously over the moon with his student's impromptu performance. In a very predatory way. Like a bear discovering the injured doe it had chased had a hidden fawn nearby. A perfect youngling ready to devour. Served on a silver platter. The juiciest prey putting its own neck in the predator's maw.

Myrkas' stomach filled with wasps. Butterflies were just too nice to describe the sheer anxiety he was experiencing. Cold sweat ran down his back, making him shiver in the warm evening air of early summer. A bad omen, undoubtedly. A terrible one. Suddenly, Myrkas wished his teacher had persisted with his memory lapse. That smile foretold unspeakable horrors all in the name of "training."

Myrkas' shock was so, that the boy nearly fell under the enthusiastic weight of Martine jumping in his arms. The small terror had come down her perch while Myrkas precognitively glimpsed his soon-to-be unfortunate fate at the hands of his Martial Master.

The little girl almost choked him in her excitement. She was babbling incomprehensively, pointing all over the stand. Too soon, she was pulling Myrkas towards Mr Wei, insisting they deserved all the prizes, without any exception. Clearly, it was the only logical next step before Myrkas' feat. Including "the most beautiful ribbon ever."

Mr Wei did try to negotiate. He put up an honourable fight, according to Myrkas. However, predictably, he had to bend in front of the mix of weaponized cuteness and peer pressure Martine employed. She had gathered enough support from the crowd of onlookers to make any hard refusal a reputational nightmare.

"A terrible loss of face, were the merchant to deny such an adorable child after such a display of skills from the Young Master Hakhmir," had been heard at least once.

And so Myrkas watched as Martine stuffed her bag full of festival goodies. In an uncharacteristic demonstration of generosity, she shared some with the nearby kids. Of course, her big ribbon stayed preciously nestled in her hair. Myrkas prayed no one dared touch it. The boy did not wish to deal with the consequences. Myrkas tensed as he felt a massive paw landing on his young shoulder. No need to look, for Myrkas knew to whom the appendage belonged.

"What a beautiful display, disciple. I'll see you on the first day of the new month, post-festival. It's about time we start training you for real. No such talent shall go to waste under my watch, I promise," said Master Ranil.

And hence concluded Myrkas first brief break in his new universe.