Control did not come easily.
It resisted him.
Like water slipping through clenched fingers, the Àṣẹ within Adéọlá refused to obey, scattering each time he reached for it.
"Again," Elder Afoláyan said calmly.
Adéọlá exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.
He could feel it now—more clearly than before.
A faint current within his body.
Flowing.
Unstable.
Waiting.
"Do not chase it," Afoláyan continued.
"Let it recognize you."
"…that doesn't make sense," Adéọlá muttered.
"It will. You just have to try. Every success is built on countless failures"
From the side, Varkhul scoffed.
"Or you can force it."
Adéọlá opened one eye.
"…I'm guessing that's your method."
"It works eveytime."
"It breaks you, delude you of true strength." Afoláyan corrected.
"It remakes you, you know this what does not kills you makes you stronger." Varkhul replied.
Adéọlá sighed.
"…of course you disagree."
He closed his eyes again.
This time—
He did not reach.
He listened.
To his breath.
To the faint rhythm within him.
Slowly…
Carefully…
The current shifted.
Not away.
But toward him.
Adéọlá's brow furrowed.
"…wait…"
It responded.
Not fully.
But enough.
The moment stretched—
Then snapped into place.
The current aligned.
A quiet surge spread through his body.
Not violent.
Not overwhelming.
Controlled.
His muscles tightened subtly.
His senses sharpened.
The world… clarified.
Adéọlá's eyes opened.
"…I did it."
Afoláyan nodded once.
"You have entered the first stage."
Varkhul crossed his arms.
"…barely."
Both other shocked were quick to control their facial nerves preventing them from cursing out loud. Afolayan almost cried, he quietly thought that the world is really unfair. This was the first time he felt what others felt when they looked at him. Varkhul had it worst, almost defrosting like a wilted eggplant
Adéọlá ignored him looking at expectantly at Afolayan.
"…what is it called?"
Afoláyan answered:
"Ìpilẹ̀ Ara—the Foundation of the Body."
Varkhul added:
"The stage where you stop being fragile but ... you are still a ant."
Adéọlá let out a slow breath.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"… at least I'm not completely useless anymore."
"For now, back in my prime a single snort from me would have killed you many times over." Varkhul said smirking as if having a nostalgic experience.
"…you really don't encourage people, do you?"
For a brief moment—
He allowed himself to feel it.
Relief.
Progress.
Possibility.
Then—
It vanished.
The memory came without warning.
Fire.
Screams.
His father falling.
His mother's voice.
The crown must live.
Adéọlá's expression hardened.
The faint smile disappeared.
Silence settled over him.
Afoláyan watched quietly although doesn't know the full details he had seen countless people mourning their beloved he could see the same in his last disciple.
"…progress does not erase loss,.." he said trying to comfort his disciple.
Adéọlá cut him off and looked away.
"…I know."
His voice was lower now.
Distant.
"…I just forgot for a second."
Without another word, he turned.
And walked.
The place he chose was not special.
Just a stretch of broken earth, far from the others.
But it was quiet.
Still.
Enough.
Adéọlá stood there for a long time.
Saying nothing.
Doing nothing.
Then slowly—
He knelt.
His hands pressed into the cold ground.
"…I don't know where you are," he said quietly.
No answer came.
"I don't know if you can hear me."
The wind did not move.
"But I'm still here."
His voice wavered slightly.
"…I ran."
The word lingered.
Heavy.
"I survived."
A pause.
"I don't know if that's a good thing yet."
Silence stretched.
"…but I'll make it one."
His fingers tightened slightly against the earth.
"I won't let it end like that."
His breathing steadied.
"…I promise."
For his father.
For his mother.
For everyone who burned that night.
Adéọlá closed his eyes briefly.
Then stood.
The weight did not disappear.
But it settled.
Contained.
When he returned—
Varkhul was waiting.
"…done grieving?"
Adéọlá met his gaze.
"…no."
A pause.
"…but I'm done stopping."
Varkhul smiled faintly.
"…good."
"Then we test you."