He pushed back his chair at 3:50 PM. He headed out to the dojo it was twenty minutes on foot. He walked the whole way without his phone, which was either
healthy or worrying depending on who you asked. The afternoon air was still thick with heat,
but it moved at least, and that was enough.
Coach was still there. Coach was always still there. He didn't ask why Marshal had shown up
unscheduled at quarter to four with restless eyes and his dobok in a bag. Just handed him themitts and pointed at the floor.
"Not fast enough!"
Coach's shout cut through him sharper than any strike.
Marshal's shoulders were on fire from snapping kicks into the mitts. His hips ached, every
turn slower than the last. His chest heaved, the dobok clinging to him like wet gauze, sweat
dripping onto the mat with each movement.
"Again. Snap it with more speed."
Marshal forced his leg into another roundhouse.
Swish — slap.
The heel smacked the pad, solid but off-balance. Coach scoffed.
"You think red belt means you're special? This is your first year in WTF" "You don't get tired —you get faster."
Marshal exhaled sharply.
"...Yes, Coach."
The air tasted of salt and rubber mat and the particular kind of exhaustion that lives behind
your eyes.
Tweet!
"That's six rounds done. Take your rest."
Coach muttered it — already turning away, dismissing him the way you dismiss something you're not done with yet.
Marshal bowed, chest tight.
"Osss."
He grabbed his bag and sat against the wall. Knees up. Head back. Breathing through his
nose the way Coach had drilled into him until it was reflex.
His dad's voice was still there — but quieter now.
"I look at you and I see everything you could be."
Marshal let out a slow breath.
"...Not enough yet."
He closed his eyes. The dojo smelled like effort. Like the only kind of currency that never lied to you about its value. He stayed until Coach turned the lights down to one.
He was reaching for his bag when Coach's voice came from across the mat.
"One more round, Marshal. Then you leave."
Marshal paused, then nodded once.
"...Yes."
"You look tired."
Coach said it without sympathy. Just an observation from a man who had seen a thousand
tired faces and knew the difference between the body kind and the other kind.
Marshal dropped his bag and got back on the mat Rolling his shoulders he said.
"I'm fine."
He stepped back onto the mat.
He drove into a tornado kick.
The spin was clean. The landing perfect — feet exactly where they needed to be.
But the mitt wasn't there. He'd rotated half a tempo late. The strike sliced through empty air.
Coach watched him land. Said nothing about the miss.
"This is not you."
A pause — then, louder:
"Your opponent won't wait while your head is somewhere else."
He didn't answer. He couldn't — the air tasted of sweat and rubber. A whistle blew.
"That's it. Take your bag. Go home."
Marshal bowed again before leaving, chest tight.
"Osss." He grabbed his duffel, the sweat now cold against his skin.
It was just past 5:00 PM when the front door creaked open.
"You forgot the salt again!"
His mom's voice exploded from the kitchen before he'd even cleared the doorframe. Marshal
stepped in, shoes half-off, soaked through, bag sagging from his shoulder. And so it began —
the war at home.
"Why is it always me?!"
His dad thundered from somewhere in the house.
"Because you eat like it's 1984 in a bunker!"
His mom snapped back.
"Says the woman who forgot detergent for three weeks!" "It's been two, you fossil!"
"BIG BROOOO!"
Manya's voice trembled from the doorway, soft and shaky. She stood there, eyes wide, lip quivering.
"Dad forgot my snacks again... The chocolate fish... they're gone,"
she whispered, barely holding back tears.
Marshal exhaled, moving toward her and gently patting her head.
"Hey... it's okay."
A pause.
"Let's go to the mall after I shower."
He offered it with his calm voice, already heading for the bathroom.
"Mom — stop shouting at Dad. I'll handle it. Just relax."
His mom turned, gesturing like the place had been destroyed.
"And see what your father did!"
"Leave it, Mom."
Marshal was already moving toward the bathroom.
"I'll go. I'll take care of the rest."
Hot water.
Then cold.
The sweat, the noise, the weight of it all — washing off, spiraling down the drain.
He pushed open his bedroom door a few minutes later, skin still steaming, towel around his shoulders — and paused.
"Welcome back, Marshal."
A calm voice chimed from the desk. His laptop screen was still on. A console window
blinked behind it. NAVI — his AI assistant. He'd left it running before heading to the dojo.
"Were you timing me again?" He muttered, rubbing his hair with the towel.
"I clocked your absence at one hour, twelve minutes, forty-one seconds. You were slower than yesterday."
Marshal huffed softly.
"You're too honest sometimes, Navi."
"Only way to be."
A faint pause.
Marshal glanced at the screen.
"...Next time, don't compare."
"Noted."
He closed the lid gently.
Out of the hallway came the inevitable.
"The list's on the fridge. Your brilliant father missed six things this time,"
his mom called.
He staggered to the fridge and peeled off the paper, crinkled from humidity and
passive-aggression.
— Salt
— Detergent
— Oil
— Instant noodles
— Manya's Choco-fish snacks
— Batteries (AA)
"I'm coming too!" Manya chirped, already halfway into her sandals, her expression shifting from tragedy to triumph like a switch had flipped.
"Take your dad's wallet," his mom said.
"Don't take my card!" his dad shouted from the couch.
"And don't let her wander off again!" his mom added.
"I'm literally right here, Mom!" Manya replied, with a big smile.
Marshal sighed, list in one hand, keys in the other. He opened the front door into a wall of
late-afternoon heat.
5:30 PM
The sky still glared like an interrogation lamp that hadn't gotten the memo.
They hit the mall ten minutes later.
It felt less like a shopping centre and more like a futuristic tech expo — all sleek displays and
blinking lights. A massive LED billboard pulsed above the entrance.
REVETIEN: ASCENT LINK — PROTOCOL ZENITH
Marshal blinked at the name. It felt familiar — but so was exhaustion. The weight in his
shoulders outvoted curiosity.
Inside, the mall's air conditioning greeted them like a thousand angels exhaling. His shirt
clung damply to his back, but the cool air was a mercy — a clean exhale after the heat, the
dojo, the argument, the ceiling fan and its squeak. Manya twirled like she was in a cereal
commercial, giggling under the white lights.
"If they're out of Choco-fish again," she said, voice deadly serious, "I'm calling the FBI.
This is snack discrimination."
Marshal laughed.
"Yeah, we should."
"You take chips, Choco-fish, and ramen. I'll get oil, detergent, and batteries. Meet me at
the counter."
"Yes, sir."
Manya said with a salute before skipping off. He let her go — the farther she was from his
personal radius, the fewer side quests he'd get dragged into. He wandered toward the utility
aisle.
Grabbed the oil. Tossed detergent into the basket without looking. Reached for the batteries
—
And then it hit.
A sound like the sky splitting open. A shockwave of noise tore through the mall. People
froze. Heads turned. Marshal looked up on instinct.
From the electronics store came flashing lights and electric chaos. A massive screen erupted
in visual madness — blades, bullets, explosions, a biomechanical monstrosity roaring through metal lungs.
REVETIEN: ASCENT LINK — PROTOCOL ZENITH
LIVE SESSION · LAST SEASON CHAMPIONS CUP GRAND FINALS CLIP · GLOBAL BROADCAST
And this wasn't a promo.
A sniper blinked across the map.
A dual-blade fighter flipped midair — caught a cannon blast — sent it back.
The beast tried to retaliate.
Failed.
Red-veined armour peeled apart.
Names flared on screen —
NOVA. Eclipse. Solstice.
"— NOVA WIPES THE SQUAD! THAT'S THREE —!"
"— SIX MINUTES! NO ONE'S DONE THAT —!"
Phones came out. Clerks left their counters.
Marshal didn't move.
Everyone else in the mall had. They stepped closer. Leaned in. Filmed. Two kids climbed a
display shelf for a better angle. A security guard forgot the crowd entirely.
Marshal stood in the utility aisle with cooking oil in one hand and AA batteries in the other
— and he didn't move.
Because what was on that screen wasn't something you leaned toward. It was
something that reached out and grabbed you.
The broadcast shifted. The colours dropped. The tone changed.
Ticker at the bottom:
TRIDRA — NIGHT ONE // FINAL SEQUENCE
NOVA — Rank #3 Global · Ignis Reign
The frame opened on chaos already in progress. The Tridra filled the screen — three heads,
red-veined armour split and reforming, forty meters of something that had already learned
how to kill everything that came near it.
The ground was wrong. Torn. Rewritten by the fight.
Health bars — low.
Too low.
Only three left.
Solstice. Eclipse. Nova.
The timer blinked in the corner.
The caster's voice was breaking.
00:19
"— this is it — this is actually it — if they don't —"
Nova moved.
Precise.
Like the outcome had already been decided somewhere else.
The Grimoire rotated once beside him.
Eclipse shifted left — before the attack came.
Solstice stepped in — taking space that didn't exist a second ago.
The Tridra turned — and for the first time, it was late.
One opening. Not big. Just enough.
Nova was already there.
The strike landed. The red-veined armour split — not cracked. Split open.
The screen flashed white.
For half a second — nothing.
DEFEATED
The mall erupted. People shouting. Phones shaking. Someone dropped something that
shattered on tile.
Marshal didn't move.
On the screen — the three of them stood.
Solstice first — pushing back his chair, arms raised.
Eclipse a second later.
Then Nova — a beat behind.
Head slightly down at first.
Then he stood.
Raised his arms.
No celebration. No shouting.
Just — confirmation.
Nineteen seconds left on the clock.
Marshal stared.
He'd watched a lot of gameplay. Speedruns. Tournaments. Vince dismantling players so
clean it looked unfair.
This wasn't that.
This wasn't skill alone.
This was — knowing.
Knowing the answer before the game finished asking the question.
Something in his chest tightened. Not excitement.
Not exactly.
Something sharper.
"Bro, you're frozen."
Manya tugged his sleeve.
Marshal blinked. The mall came back all at once.
Noise. Light. Movement.
He followed. But his grip hadn't loosened.
And somewhere in the back of his head — that moment stayed.
The way they stood. Like the game had ended — and they hadn't.
6:05 PM
His feet moved the way feet move when the brain is still somewhere it just left.
They paid at 6:05 PM. Marshal placed the items on the counter without looking at them. The
cashier said the total. He tapped the card.
Manya hugged her choco-fish snacks to her chest like they were something important enough
to lose.
"The quiet dangerous one."
"I'm here."
She looked at him.
"You weren't."
She said it simply. No accusation. No weight. Just truth.
He picked up the bags.
The walk back was fifteen minutes. The sky had finally dropped its interrogation-lamp glare
and settled into a dusty amber — the kind of evening that looked better than it felt. Still
warm. Still sticky. Just... prettier about it.
Manya ate three choco-fish on the way and narrated each one like it mattered.
"Okay. First one — perfect. Classic. No notes."
She chewed thoughtfully.
"Second one... slightly more chocolate. Better batch than last time. The distribution's
more even."
Marshal glanced at her.
"You're describing a biscuit."
"I'm describing an experience, Marshal. There's a difference."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
His hands carried the bags. His feet carried him home.
But the rest of him — was still there. In that aisle. Watching.
A Grimoire turning once.
Watching armour split like it had been waiting to.
Marshal's grip tightened slightly on the plastic.
"...How?"
Manya looked up.
"What?"
He blinked.
"Nothing."
They kept walking.
But the question didn't leave.
He'd spent years learning how to be in the right place — on the mat, in ranked lobbies, in
conversations he could feel going sideways before the other person had finished their
sentence. Coach had been drilling that into him since his first year.
Nova had looked like someone who'd finished learning that and moved on to the next thing
entirely.
Marshal didn't know what the next thing was. But he'd felt it — standing in that aisle — the
way you feel something before you can name it.
The specific weight of a door you didn't know existed, swinging open somewhere in
your chest.
6:30 PM
The front door opened into a kitchen that smelled like cumin and ongoing litigation.
"You got the salt?"
His mom called — before he'd even taken off his shoes.
"Yes."
"Normal salt? Not the pink Himalayan fancy nonsense your father bought last time that
tasted like a rock licked a rock?"
"Normal salt."
"Good."
A pause — clearly calculated.
"You hear that? One trip. Everything on the list. This is called a functional human
being. Write it down."
"I heard that," his dad said from the couch, in the tone of a man who had long ago stopped
defending himself in the grocery debate and had chosen the dignity of silence.
"You were meant to."
His mom took the bags without breaking eye contact with the stove. Marshal had clocked this
skill years ago — she could unpack groceries, monitor dal, and deliver a full prosecution of
his father's failures simultaneously, without losing a single thread of any of them. It was
genuinely impressive. He'd never told her that.
Manya deposited the choco-fish in the snack drawer with the reverence of someone returning
a relic to its rightful place.
"Batteries?"
"Counter."
"Marshal," his mom said — in the tone that meant the real agenda was incoming —
"you know your father also forgot the oil last week? He came back with three packets of
mixed nuts and a bottle of mango pickle. I said: were you shopping or having a personal
crisis? He said: the pickle was on sale."
"Mom."
"I'm just saying."
"You went, you came back, everything accounted for. Your father has been shopping at
that same place since before you were born and he still comes home like he's been wandering
a desert and found things along the way."
"The pickle was artisanal," his dad called, without looking up from the television.
This was his only remaining defence, and he had deployed it twice this week.
"Artisanal,"
his mom repeated, to no one, in a voice that meant the case was closed and the verdict
had been reached.
Manya caught Marshal's eye and mouthed:
she's on a roll.
He mouthed back:
she's always on a roll.
His mom plated the dal, adjusted the flame, and then said — unprompted, in a noticeably
softer voice —
"Your father also fixed the bathroom tap this morning. Before anyone was up. Didn't
say a word about it."
She stirred the pot.
"I'm not saying he's useless. I'm saying the grocery shop specifically defeats him. It's
his one weakness."
"Like a final boss," Manya offered.
"Exactly like a final boss," his mom agreed, entirely seriously.
Marshal stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment — bags deposited, shoes half off — and
felt the specific texture of home. The noise and the love wound around each other so tight
you couldn't find where one ended and the other started. You just lived inside both at the
same time and called it normal.
6:45 PM
Ceiling fan. Same squeak. 1.3 seconds, consistent as ever.
He sat at the desk and didn't open anything. Just sat.
The mall screen replayed without invitation. Nova moving like the answer to a question. The
Grimoire rotating once. The Tridra's armour splitting.
00:19 sec. A record.
He'd never wanted to play something so badly in his life.
He'd also never felt so clearly, in the same breath, that he wasn't ready for it.
Not good enough'. 'Not skilled enough.'
Just not ready yet.
The way you can stand outside something and know it's real before you know anything
else about it.
He opened the laptop. NAVI's window blinked at the bottom of the screen, cursor patient.
"Have you heard of REVETIEN",marshal asked navi
The reply came faster than usual.
"Yes."
A pause.
"...i was wondering when you'd ask."
Marshal leaned back in his chair.
Outside The Room:
His mom explaining to his dad, at length, why artisanal pickle was not a substitute for
cooking oil regardless of the discount. His dad responding that the oil had been full last
Tuesday. Manya eating her fourth Choco-fish and contributing nothing useful to either side.
The ceiling fan squeaked.
1.3 seconds. Same as always.
He looked at the screen.
— END OF CHAPTER TWO —