Yana Fatma gently stroked the boy's hair, her fingers tracing through the strands. Her face was shadowed by melancholy, tuning into the soft rhythm of his breathing.

The boy lay on the bed, his expression one of deep despondency.

“You look peaceful.”

She whispered. Six months had crawled by since the boy had slipped into a coma.

“I’ve been running all along.”

She reflected as she settled beside him. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling, her mind adrift in the enveloping silence.

“I finally understand. I understand why you did what you did.”

Fatma narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. She wanted to close them, her eyes, and take a rest. She was reminiscent of the old days, when she and the boy would just sit at the library and chat about this and that. Those were the days without stress and worries, the good times.

They would curse at the elder, gossip about her colleagues, and discuss the books they read.

“You were right. I’m so fucking dumb.”

She said begrudgingly, flinging her hand toward the ceiling in frustration. For past three months, she had gone through the long and strenuous torture sessions. Today was the last, though. She was assured.

She then rose, casting one last, lingering look at the boy as she left. In the corridor, she was greeted by Tayfun.

“Took you long enough. Master will be angry again.”

Upon hearing Tayfun’s remark, Fatma simply nodded.

“Now that I think about it… You know, you have changed a lot.”

Tayfun continued, scrutinizing her. Her hair, once barely brushing her shoulders, now cascaded down to her elbows in long waves. More than just physical growth, there was a newfound maturity about her that stripped away any remnants of the naive girl she once was, as the youthful naivety that once marked her face had given way to a composed expression.

“That thing doesn’t suit you, shave it off.”

Fatma said as she pointed at his face while they strode toward the training grounds. Tayfun’s head dropped, embarrassment and dejection washing over him.

“It just hasn’t fully grown yet…”

“No. A beard will only make you look funny. You don’t have enough manliness for that. Forget it.”

Tayfun met her gaze with a flash of anger before it morphed into a sinister smile. His eyes narrowed as he retorted

“That’s rich, coming from a washboard. Your words might have stung if they came from a real woman.”

Fatma halted as she blinked rapidly. Tayfun’s grin deepened. A crushing victory, he thought.

“Washboard… washboard…”

She repeated softly.

‘Huh?’

Tayfun’s smile faltered, his confidence wavering as confusion crept in. Something in Fatma’s demeanor had shifted subtly yet unmistakably. Then, breaking the tension, she burst out laughing.

“Hahaha!”

As Fatma gave a loud laugh, the understanding slowly dawned on him. It was the exact same expression and laugh that their master would give whenever she got mad about something.

Fatma never liked Tayfun. Sometimes, you meet someone for the first time and immediately dislike them. For Fatma, such a case was Tayfun. He reminded her of Eymen with his smooth-looking face.

Tayfun gulped. Unlike Eymen, he didn’t have any smooth-talking skills.

“Ugh… sorry. But you started it first!”

“Haha. That’s fine.”

No, it wasn’t fine. Tayfun could feel that. Fatma’s impression of him sank lower, now hitting rock bottom. Unbeknownst to him, for Fatma, a second goal beside protecting the boy was formed this very instant. She would definitely, definitely make this guy regret being born a man.

“What a lovely day~”

‘Fuck.'

Tayfun's attempt to switch the topic stumbled before it even began, his mind scrambling for the right words.

They soon neared the secluded training area. As they rounded a copse of tall pines, their master Hakan came into view.

Fatma walked with her strides confident and measured, betraying no sign of the earlier tension between her and Tayfun. Meanwhile, Tayfun trailed slightly behind, his steps hesitant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Hakan watched their expressions as they approached. She could read the subtle cues in their body language.

‘This guy…’

She knew in an instant. This disciple of hers was hopeless. She had given him many chances, yet the idiot would only worsen the situation.

‘He’s never going to get laid, is he?’

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Hakan sighed as she reached into her robe and pulled out a sealed letter. She flicked it sharply through the air toward Tayfun.

“Go deliver this to the master of the Nochnaya tavern”

“Yes!”

He turned and almost jogged away, grateful for any reason to leave the area as quickly as he could. Fatma watched his receding figure with disgust and resentment. She then closed her eyes, turning back to her composed expression.

‘Oh? The vibe around her has changed. How do I put it?’

“Did something happen?”

“No. Let’s just get to the training.”

Fatma replied quickly, giving an immediate and steadfast response, brushing off Hakan’s inquiry with a focused determination.

“Just so you know, the recruitment will start next week. You’re going to miss out on this year’s drafting season.”

Hakan remarked. To attend the military, you would have to be an awakened.

“We’ll do the usual. Two hours. If you manage to stay away from me for this duration, I’ll help you awaken. Start.”

Fatma had thirty-two minutes before Hakan would start chasing her. Each time she surpassed her record, an additional minute would be added to this timeframe.

Her current record stood at one hour and fifty-three minutes, one that had stubbornly remained her peak for the last two months. Despite her best efforts and strategic adjustments, she hadn't been able to push past that barrier. Today, as she took a deep, steadying breath, Fatma felt she could prove to both Hakan and herself that she could surpass her limits.

But as time went on, she didn’t move. Seconds turned into minutes - one, two…

Hakan gave her a confused and frustrated look.

“Did you give up? Why are you not moving?”

She demanded, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Fatma did not respond.

Fatma remained still and calm, expressionless, her eyes glistening with relaxation.

“Hah. To be honest, I never expected anything from you to begin with. Such a disappointment.”

Hakan scoffed, her disappointment palpable as she shook her head.

“Still, you have lasted for quite some time; I will give you that. You can leave now. Don’t worry, I will talk to your uncle.”

She added, her voice laced with a hint of contempt as she smirked, dismissing Fatma with a wave of her hand.

Fatma simply watched her with a bored expression. She ignored everything her master said for half an hour. Hakan started conjuring ice. This time, she shaped it into a sword - sharp, gleaming, and more menacing than any of her previous creations that Fatma had seen. The air around them seemed to drop in temperature with the growing intensity of her focus.

As the clock in her hand struck thirty-two minutes, marking the end of Fatma's grace period, Hakan advanced slowly towards her disciple. The icy sword in her hand caught the light, casting eerie reflections on the ground. The area fell silent. Her hand tightened around the hilt of the ice sword, its crystalline blade catching the glints of the stars.

With slowness, Hakan raised the sword, the movement smooth yet filled with deadly intent. Fatma stood motionless, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on the shimmering edge of ice poised ominously above her.

The sword reached its apex, hovering for a split second that stretched into eternity. The air was thick with the cold sharpness of ice. Hakan's eyes narrowed, her gaze locked on Fatma's neck, as if measuring the perfect angle for a strike that could end everything in a flash.

Then, she struck.

With a swift, ruthless swing, the sword, a blur in the air as it swept toward Fatma, cut through her neck. It left a grievous wound, blood darkening the fabric of her clothing as she grasped at her throat, staggering backward in shock and pain.

Self Reversion

Hakan continued her assault. She thrust forward, aiming directly at Fatma's eyes. The sharp point pierced through, blinding her. Fatma screamed, her hands flying up to her face in a vain attempt to stem the flow of agony.

Self Reversion

Hakan used the hilt of her sword to deliver a heavy blow to Fatma's abdomen, knocking the wind out of her and sending her crumpling to the ground in a heap. Hakan then cruelly punctured her toes, pinning them to the earth, each strike precise and merciless.

Self Reversion

She aimed a vicious strike at Fatma's left arm. The blade cut deeply into the flesh, severing tendons and muscle, rendering the arm limp and useless. Fatma's cries filled the air, a gut-wrenching sound of anguish and despair.

Hakan then swung her sword towards Fatma's right knee. The edge of the blade struck hard against the joint, shattering bone and slicing through the cartilage. Fatma collapsed further, her body unable to support her weight. Fatma lay broken, each breath a struggle against the overwhelming pain.

Her blade, icy and unyielding, descended on Fatma’s left leg, severing it at the knee. The sound of slicing through bone and sinew was nearly drowned out by Fatma’s screams, now hoarse.

Hakan then turned her attention to Fatma’s right hand. She delivered a strike so forceful it nearly severed the hand from her wrist, leaving it hanging grotesquely by just a thread of flesh.

Each of Fatma’s gasps for air was excruciating, filled with pain and the iron scent of blood that now coated the training ground. Hakan watched, her expression unreadable.

----------------------------------------

Fatma slowly opened her eyes. She was lying on the ground, unharmed. She stood up, ascertaining the situation.

She scanned her surroundings, her breath catching in her throat as she absorbed the scene before her.

Her master, a figure of indomitable strength and presence, lay motionless, her form crumpled on the ground. The area around her was stained darkly with blood. Fatma's heart pounded as she crawled closer, her hands trembling. Hakan's face was marred by traces of blood seeping from her nose, mouth, and eyes.

The invincible image of her master shattered. How had their roles reversed?

As Hakan's eyes flickered open, Fatma instinctively recoiled. Shock washed over her.

“I overused the ability, heh.”

Hakan murmured, the corners of her lips twitching into a weak smile. Her voice was faint, barely a whisper. Fatma knelt closer, observing the pallor of Hakan's face, now drawn and fragile.

The mighty aura that always surrounded her seemed to have dimmed. It left behind frailty that Fatma had never seen before.

“You pass.”

With those words, she closed her eyes, her breathing evening out as she drifted into sleep.

Fatma remained kneeling beside her, her mind swirling.

She was curious about the labyrinth and the outside world. Yet, she had valued peace above the fulfillment of her dreams. She had been suppressing herself. With that mindset, she would never be able to tread on a path of a seeker, which is accompanied with madness.

No more. To protect the boy, she would also have to join his quest.

Seekers. Who are they? What do they seek?

They delve into the depths of the labyrinth on their own two feet.

They march toward their end.

For what?

Is it revenge? Is it hope? Is it salvation? The adventurous spirit?

No. It is everything, and yet nothing.

Wherever people reside, they seek.

They come up with a multitude of excuses which is a never-ending cycle not prone to cease.

Seekers seek to seek.