The question lingered at the edge of my mind, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
What would I do with my life once I got answers?
I hadn’t thought much beyond that. Every day, I’d been driven by the need to unravel the mystery of my past. Every step, every breath, had been consumed by this singular obsession, finding out who I was, where I came from. But now, as the possibility of answers felt closer, the certainty I had clung to began to slip. What would happen once I knew the truth?
The person I was now, adrift, fragmented, without any memories, felt like an empty shell, wandering through life without a purpose. It was as if I had been born again, with no history to anchor me, no sense of who I was or who I had been. Everything felt new and strange, and I had to figure it all out from scratch. Yet, instead of excitement at this blank slate, I only felt lost. In many ways, it was overwhelming, like being thrust into a foreign world with no map to guide me.
I’d spent so long with my eyes fixed on one goal: to find a purpose, a reason for my amnesia, something to explain the void where my memories should be. But what I hadn’t considered, what gnawed at me now, was the question of what came after.
If I made it into the academy, if I found my estranged uncle and he somehow held the key to my past, what then? Would that be enough?
For a moment, I imagined it, getting all the answers, learning the full truth. Maybe it would be simple. I’d find out that it was some kind of accident, a twist of fate that wiped my memories clean. And maybe I’d accept it. Move on. I could leave the academy, track down the rest of my family, and settle into a peaceful life. Quiet. Uneventful. Safe.
But deep down, something inside me twisted at the thought.
Would it really be that simple?
Even as I entertained the idea of a calm, ordinary life, I could feel the restlessness bubbling beneath the surface. Something told me that no matter what I discovered, no matter how neatly the puzzle pieces fell into place, I wouldn’t be able to let it go.
What if the answers were underwhelming? What if it was just a freak accident? Some meaningless event that left me memoryless and drifting? Could I really stop searching then? Could I ever feel at peace with that?
The more I thought about it, the more the doubts crept in, filling every corner of my mind. How had I ended up in that hospital, with no record of who I was or how I got there? Why was my uncle the only person left to trace my past? Why wasn’t there anyone else? No family, no friends, no trace of the life I’d lived before. It didn’t make sense.
And that was what scared me. Because even if I found some version of the truth, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough. I had a feeling there would always be more questions, more uncertainties that would drive me to keep digging, keep searching.
My thoughts spiraled in circles, looping back again and again to the same nagging doubts. The weight of it all pressed down on me, a constant, heavy presence that I couldn’t shake. My mind felt like it was on fire, burning with questions I didn’t know how to answer, with possibilities that stretched out in every direction, each one more uncertain than the last.
It was like staring at a massive tree, its trunk solid and unwavering, but its branches reaching out endlessly in every direction. Each branch was a different path, a different future. And I had no idea which one to take, no way of knowing where any of them would lead.
The more I thought about it, the more overwhelming it became. The life I imagined, the life I thought I wanted, was no longer clear. It wasn’t just about finding answers anymore. It was about what came next, what would fill the space once the answers were found.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
Suddenly, an alarm jolted me from my spiraling thoughts, and I shot up in bed. Rubbing my eyes, reality slowly came back to me. This motel room couldn’t be my whole life. I couldn’t keep joking around with Infra and ignoring the future that loomed over me. Stagnation meant death, maybe not physically, but spiritually.
As I moved toward the bathroom, I thought about asking Infra how I could grow stronger, faster. But I reconsidered. I had already learned so much over the past weeks; cramming more into my brain wouldn’t help. Mastery required experience, not just knowledge. Without trials and hardships, I’d be like a child handed a sword that could kill but didn’t know how to wield it. I might get lucky a few times, but a true fighter would outmaneuver me in an instant.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, shirt discarded, and dug a nail into my chest, tracing the symbol Infra had taught me. An arrow with a circle running through it. In its word, Tecz, the gods. The symbol, an altar. My blood, the sacrifice. I didn’t understand it, but if it helped me grow stronger, then I didn’t need to. I closed my eyes and let the quiet of the room envelop me, focusing on the warmth gathering around me as the wound on my chest clotted.
Minutes passed, then a small vortex formed. Though my eyes were closed, I could feel the air around me swirling. Slowly, I was lifted off the ground as flickers of heat struck my chest, one after another. It took all my concentration not to break into a grin.
⥁
Ten hours of meditation later, I was left with an unbearable weight on my chest. It felt like fatigue, but heavier. Something was wrong. No matter how many times I tried to meditate, the pain grew sharper. My first thought was that I’d made a mistake during the process, or worse, offended some cosmic entity.
Standing up, I inspected my chest. The blood had dried, leaving behind a faint red scar in the shape of the symbol. At least I wouldn’t have to carve it into myself every time. That was a relief.
After a much-needed shower and throwing on my still-smelly clothes, I stepped outside for the first time in weeks. Dodging my angry landlord in the lobby, I finally felt the cool breeze hit my face. It was refreshing, almost intoxicating. I could’ve stayed there, just breathing in the fresh air, but I had a plan now, and I needed to act on it.
The city was more vibrant than I remembered. Hovering vehicles zoomed past, vendors shouted from street corners, and crowds of people moved in every direction. Towering skyscrapers stretched upward, dwarfing everything below. And above them all, ships—whole cities with jet boosters—floated in the sky.
The city was alive in ways that words couldn't capture. Seeing it, feeling it, it was overwhelming, but in the best way.
“Hey, when you explained it, it sounded like a good place to go. Plus, if it’s not fully illegal, why does it matter?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
It spoke up no more after that.
After a long walk and several wrong turns, I reached my destination: a plain, blacked-out skyscraper, the lower floors covered in graffiti. I hesitated for a moment, unsure. Was this really the place?
Pushing the doors open, I was hit by a cloud of dust and smoke. I pulled my collar up over my face to stifle the cough rising in my throat and moved through the abandoned lobby. The place looked like a ruin, long forgotten. At the end of the hall, an elevator waited.
Following Infra’s instructions, I pressed the buttons in a specific sequence before placing my hand on the elevator door. Locks clicked, and a small metal slit opened, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes.
“Speak,” a voice demanded.
I hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. “I… uh… I’m out of white irkle soup?”
The slit slammed shut, and I winced. I guess Infra wasn’t great at secret passwords. But then the elevator doors swung open, and a man emerged. He was scrawny and dressed in what could only be described as a loincloth and mask. He produced a metal rod, and I almost panicked, thinking the worst, but he just scanned me and motioned for me to follow.
The hallway was pitch black, and as we walked, the distant sound of cheering began to rise. Finally, we reached the end, and I stepped out into a blinding light.
Before me was a massive underground stadium. Thousands of people stood around a cage in the center of a marble battleground. Every seat looked luxurious, the crowd filled with the rich and powerful. I couldn’t see who was in the suites above, but I knew they were important.
On the jumbotron, a fight was about to start. Two fighters stood facing each other, a man in a tusked animal mask and another in a black mask with four horns. The air was thick with anticipation.
The jumbotron flickered for a moment, casting the battleground in vivid light. My eyes locked onto the two fighters, and I couldn’t help but feel a chill run down my spine. It was an electric moment of anticipation.
Both combatants stood as statues, waiting, calculating. On one side was the tusk-masked fighter, his hulking frame taut with barely-contained power. The air around him seemed to ripple as a red aura began to flare up from his arms. On the other side stood the black-masked fighter, smaller, sleeker, every muscle coiled like a spring, yet disturbingly still.
The audience around me had fallen into an intense, collective silence. Even the vendors hawking drinks and snacks had stopped, turning their eyes toward the arena, as if this fight was something more than just entertainment. It felt almost sacred.
The tension was unbearable, the kind that makes your skin crawl, and then, just as suddenly as the silence had come, it shattered.
With a thunderous roar, the tusk-masked fighter slammed his fists together, and the air itself seemed to scream in response. The red aura around him erupted, crackling with vicious energy, encasing his entire body like armor made of pure, living rage.
The ground beneath him groaned under the strain of his power, and with an ear-splitting crack, the marble tiles at his feet exploded outward in every direction. Shards of marble whistled through the air like deadly shrapnel, hurtling towards the black mask with terrifying speed. But it wasn’t just a wild attack; the tusk-masked man moved with them, using the flying debris as cover, a hulking blur of fury and destruction.
My heart raced. How could anyone survive that? The sheer force behind the attack was terrifyin, enough to level a building, let alone another human being.
But the black-masked fighter didn’t flinch. His body remained unnervingly still, his presence commanding the space around him. With a subtle wave of his hand, he manipulated the air–or was it something else?—and the shards of marble that had been sent careening towards him shifted, altering their trajectory mid-flight. They clattered harmlessly to the ground or whizzed past him without a single piece making contact.
It was almost supernatural. The black mask barely moved, yet his defense was flawless.
The crowd gasped in unison, but before they could recover, the tusk-mask was nearly upon him. His aura shifted, retreating from his torso and focusing around his legs. In one fluid motion, he crouched low, coiling his massive frame like a spring, and then he launched himself into the air. It was like watching a rocket take off, his form blurring with the speed of his ascent.
He shot upwards with such force that the jumbotron cameras had trouble tracking his movements, the red glow from his aura making him look like a streak of fire. The arena fell into stunned silence again as everyone craned their necks, trying to keep up with his dizzying speed.
And then, in an instant, he was right above the black mask, his arm cocked back for a devastating blow. The marble tiles he had shattered earlier were still hanging in the air, suspended in his wake. He snatched one up in his left hand, using it as a shield between himself and the black mask, and with his right arm, he swung with all the power he had gathered.
The blow connected, or so I thought.
A deafening bang echoed across the stadium, followed by a massive cloud of dust that engulfed both fighters. The impact had been catastrophic; I felt the force of it in my chest, like the air had been sucked out of the room. People in the crowd gasped, some cheering, others too stunned to react.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing was visible through the dust cloud. It felt like time itself had paused. My heart was pounding in my chest, my breath caught in my throat. I could hear the murmurs around me, the hopeful cheers for the tusk mask already beginning. But something in me knew it wasn’t over. Not yet.
Then the dust began to settle, slowly revealing the outcome. I squinted at the shapes emerging from the haze, my hands gripping the armrests of my seat so hard my knuckles turned white.
And there he was.
The black mask, completely unscathed, stood victorious with his foot planted firmly on the tusk-mask’s head, pinning him to the shattered marble floor. His fist was raised high in triumph, the very picture of calm, composed dominance.
The stadium fell into a stunned silence once more, but it didn’t last long. The cheers of the tusk-mask’s fans turned to shouts of outrage. Accusations of cheating filled the air as the losing side demanded answers, their disbelief palpable.
“How did that happen?” I muttered to myself. I could barely comprehend what I had just witnessed.
As if to answer my unspoken question, the jumbotron flickered again, switching to a heat-sensor replay. The reason behind the victory became clear. When the tusk-mask had smashed the tile into pieces and lunged forward, he hadn’t connected with the black mask at all. In that split second, the black mask had propelled himself backward with his right arm, creating a debris clone in his place.
It was a masterstroke. The tusk-mask, blinded by rage and overconfidence, had punched right through the fake, giving the black mask all the time he needed to move to his opponent's side. And in that moment of vulnerability, the black mask had struck, using both hands to slam his opponent to the ground before stomping him out.
It was genius.
Sure, some might call it cowardly or unsportsmanlike, but to me, it was a lesson in survival. The black mask had turned a hopeless situation around in a fraction of a second. He didn’t rely on brute strength or raw power. He used his wits, his reflexes, and his opponent’s arrogance against him. It wasn’t just a fight, it was a display of pure tactical brilliance.
I realized I was holding my breath. The crowd around me continued to protest, their voices rising in anger, but I couldn’t help but feel a deep admiration for the black mask. In the face of overwhelming force, he had remained calm, composed, and strategic. He had outsmarted his opponent and emerged victorious.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to truly fight, not just with fists, but with the mind. It wasn’t about being the strongest. It was about being the smartest.
I was so engrossed in the fight that I barely noticed the man standing next to me.
“You enjoy the fight, kid?” His voice was oddly high-pitched for his build, his mismatched eyes studying me.
“Y-yeah. It was incredible.”
He grinned. “That kid's something else. Only been with us for a month, but he’s already one of our best. Strange for a Dica to be that good at close combat.”
An elementalist.
He paused, then turned to me. “So, I heard you were out of soup?”
Every instinct screamed at me to walk away, but instead, I nodded. “Yeah. Yes, I am.”
The man chuckled, motioning for me to follow. As I did, I couldn’t help but think about how strange my life had become, how far I’d fallen, or maybe how far I’d risen. I didn’t remember much about my past, but I knew for sure, it had never been this interesting. Being an underground fighter? Not what I expected, but maybe exactly what I needed.