The street stayed broken.
Cracked pavement.
Burned edges.
Faint traces of something that didn't belong.
Shango lay where he fell.
Breathing rough.
Each inhale dragged.
Each exhale felt heavier.
His body had begun recovering.
But the fight was over.
For now.
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Measured.
The old man stopped beside him.
Didn't rush.
Didn't kneel.
Just looked.
Long.
Quiet.
Shango struggled to get up.
The world tilted slightly.
Then steadied.
"…You're still conscious," the old man said.
Not impressed.
But not surprised either.
Just noting it.
The old man watched.
Still not helping.
"…Get up," he said.
Not harsh.
Not gentle either.
Firm & domineering.
Shango clenched his jaw.
Forced his body to move.
Slow.
Steady.
He got up.
Barely.
The old man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"…Messy," he said.
A pause.
"…But not empty."
Shango frowned.
Didn't understand.
Didn't have the energy to ask.
Silence settled between them.
Then—
"…You do not possess that which a cultivator does, Boy!" the old man said.
Scanning through him.
Shango looked at him and wondered what he was on about.
"…It is a familiar energy, but I am not certain yet."
Honest.
The old man nodded once.
As if that confirmed something.
"…No core," he murmured.
"But brimming with Ase?"
A brief pause.
"And yet... the boy is perfectly fine within."
He looked directly at Shango now.
Not at his injuries.
Not at the damage around them.
At him.
"…That would explain it if that's the case."
Shango's curiosity piqued.
"Explains what?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
Instead—
He stepped closer.
Just enough to be within reach.
Then stopped.
"…Why it's hasn't broken you."
"You just can't control it yet."
Shango's eyes widen.
"I'm fine."
The old man didn't react.
Didn't argue.
Just watched him.
"…No," he said after a moment.
Simple.
Clear.
"You're not."
Silence.
No insult in it.
No mockery.
Just truth.
Shango exhaled slowly.
His body trembled slightly.
Not from fear.
From strain.
"…Then what am I doing wrong?" he asked.
The question came out quieter than he expected.
The old man's eyes narrowed just a little.
"…You're trying to run from it," he said.
A pause.
"That's the problem."
Shango frowned.
"That doesn't make sense."
"…It doesn't have to, yet" the old man replied.
Another pause.
"You're forcing something that isn't meant to be forced."
"It is a part of you, an extension of your will"
Shango's breathing slowed slightly.
"…Then what am I supposed to do?"
The old man held his gaze.
Long.
Evaluating.
"…Nothing."
Shango blinked.
"What?"
"…Stop interfering," the old man said.
His tone didn't change.
"Every time it moves, you try to suppress it."
A pause.
"That's why it collapses."
Shango's chest tightened.
Fragments of the fight replayed in his mind.
The surge.
The loss of control.
The backlash.
"…Then how do I fight?" he asked.
The old man didn't answer immediately.
Instead—
He looked at the cracked street.
The damage left behind.
Then back at Shango.
"…You don't."
The words felt wrong.
Completely wrong.
Shango shook his head.
"That's not an option."
"…It is," the old man said calmly.
A pause.
"You can't control great power with fear."
"You must learn how to dance in the storm, not fight it."
Silence.
Shango didn't respond.
Because he couldn't.
Because the old man wasn't wrong.
A faint breeze passed through the street.
Carrying dust.
Cooling the air.
"…At this rate," the old man continued, "You'll destroy yourself before anyone else gets the chance."
No emotion.
No exaggeration.
Just fact.
Shango's hands clenched slightly.
The lightning flickered again.
Weak.
Unstable.
The old man noticed.
Of course he did.
"…See?" he said quietly.
A pause.
"It reacts before you do."
Shango stared at his hand.
"…Then what is it?"
The question lingered.
Open.
Unanswered.
The old man didn't respond.
Not immediately.
He looked at Shango one more time.
Long.
Careful.
"…Not something you can understand standing here," he said.
Then—
He turned.
Just like that.
And started walking.
No explanation.
No invitation.
Shango stared at his back.
Confused.
Frustrated.
Tired.
"…Wait," he said.
The old man didn't stop.
"If I stay here," Shango continued, "they'll find me again."
That made him pause.
Just slightly.
"…Who will?" the old man asked.
Without turning.
Shango took a step forward.
His body protested.
But he ignored it.
"…I don't know"
Silence.
Then—
"Keep walking," the old man said.
Another step.
"Or follow."
That was it.
No promise.
No reassurance.
No explanation.
Shango stood there.
For a moment—
He hesitated.
Behind him—
The street.
Broken.
Empty.
Ahead—
A man who clearly knew more than he was saying.
Shango exhaled slowly.
Then—
He moved.
Step by step—
He followed.
The old man didn't look back.
Didn't slow down.
Didn't check.
As if he already knew.