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Cael's body ached. Every muscle groaned in protest as he sat up in the soft morning light. The previous day's sparring session had left him sore, particularly his arms and legs, which now throbbed with a dull, familiar pain.
"The old man is truly terrifying," Cael muttered to himself, recalling how his mentor had effortlessly absorbed every strike without flinching. Despite Cael's best efforts, the old man had remained immovable—like a mountain wrapped in mystery.
As always, Cael made his way down to the creek to wash up. It was more than just a routine—it had become a quiet ritual, the only tranquil moment in a day consumed by relentless training. The cool water ran over his hands as he splashed his face, the sensation refreshing but sharp against his sore skin.
Afterward, he settled beneath the tall tree nearby—a silent witness to his daily regimen. Its leaves had grown greener since the first day he arrived. What had once been a weathered trunk and sparse canopy was now vibrant with life. Cael felt an odd kinship with it. The tree, like him, was changing. Evolving.
He closed his eyes and let the sounds of the forest wash over him—birds chirping, the rustle of wind through branches, the faint trickle of the creek. Slowly, his thoughts quieted. He folded his legs and entered meditation.
His breathing steadied. Inhale. Exhale. The world around him blurred into silence as his consciousness dipped inward, brushing the edge of his Mindscape—his internal realm tied to his Imprint.
Then, training resumed.
Cael sprinted up the slope with two wooden buckets filled to the brim with water, arms outstretched to balance the load. His feet landed precisely, rhythmically, navigating rocks and dips with practiced ease. Months ago, even climbing halfway had exhausted him. Now, he barely spilled a drop.
His body had changed. The once wiry frame was now lean and well-formed. Muscles wrapped firmly around his bones, lending strength without bulk. He stood at 5'11, and his posture no longer sagged with hesitation. There was clarity in his stance—a quiet confidence.
At the hill's peak, he slowed. His breath was steady. Without warning, his mind flicked to a familiar rhythm—a pulse in space.
A soft fold.
Cael vanished.
He reappeared on the branch of a tall tree in a seamless flicker, buckets still in hand. His balance was perfect. Not a single ripple marred the water's surface. He exhaled slowly, savoring the success.
Then he leapt down, landing with the grace of a martial artist. His legs bent to absorb the impact, and he flowed into a low stance before rising. The movement had become natural. Fluid.
His morning continued with martial drills. Cael practiced open-palm strikes, spinning kicks, and flowing blocks based on an ancient martial style the old man had introduced to him—one built on timing and control rather than brute force. He moved through each motion with precision, channeling energy without overextending.
His Imprint, Interval, had taught him patience and intention. The fold between moments wasn't a playground. It was a battleground of choice.
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Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the hills, the old man approached while Cael was mid-form.
"So," he began, arms crossed, eyes watching closely. "What do you call that skill? The one you used during the last moment of our fight?"
Cael relaxed his stance. Sweat glistened on his forehead. "I call it Echo Point," he replied. "It's my most advanced technique right now."
The old man's eyes lit up with intrigue. "Explain it."
Cael nodded. "It works by storing the energy of my actions—movements, attacks, even defensive shifts—each done at different points in time. I layer them. And then, when I choose... I release them all at once."
"So that final barrage—those weren't clones or illusions," the old man said slowly. "Each hit was real. Just not from that moment."
"Exactly."
The old man let out a low whistle. "You're starting to understand Interval on a deeper level."
Cael felt pride swell quietly in his chest. The months of grueling work—blood, sweat, and internal strife—had led to something real.
"Your control has improved too," the old man added. "Your body's adjusting to the strain of your techniques. You're no longer tearing yourself apart every time you use them."
Cael smiled faintly. "Still gotta be careful, though. One misstep and I could burn through too much too fast."
"True. But you've come far. And now… it's time I taught you something new." The old man's voice dropped to a quieter register. "It's not something you can use yet—but it's important you understand it."
Cael's eyes sharpened. He stepped closer, attentive.
"The technique is called the Manifestation Rite."
A shiver ran down Cael's spine.
"It involves manifesting your Mindscape onto the physical world. Not just channeling it—but projecting it, layering it over reality like a second skin."
Cael blinked. "So… you can bring the inner world out?"
"Yes," the old man said. "When done successfully, it amplifies all of your abilities—sometimes to terrifying levels. Users become nearly unbeatable."
"But… wouldn't that directly change the world around them?" Cael asked.
The old man shook his head. "No. That's the thing. The manifestation happens on the physical world, not in it. Like placing a sheet over a table. The table's still there, unchanged—but now something lies atop it."
Cael tried to visualize it. "So it's an overlay..."
"Exactly. And that's why most people can't even perceive it. To most, it's invisible."
"Then who can see it?"
"Three types of people," the old man replied. "One—the user. Two—the target. Three—someone who's pulled into it."
He paused, then added, "There are probably more ways. I hear Quantum Leap Labs has developed tech to measure or even visualize these manifestations."
Cael's brow rose. "QLL? The tech giant? They're in every major city. Even Novellis has a tower for them."
"Yes. Their reach is vast. But that's a topic for another time. The point is, Manifestation Rite is a higher-level art. Few achieve it. Fewer still master it."
Cael's gaze sharpened again. "Can you do it?"
The old man laughed—a loud, hearty laugh that echoed through the trees. "Hahaha! Of course I can!"
Then he smirked. "But I won't show you."
Cael crossed his arms and scowled. "Hmph. Who wants to see your dusty old Mindscape anyway? Bet it's full of tea kettles and regrets."
The old man laughed harder.
But then, his tone shifted, turning serious. "You're strong enough now. I believe you'll pass the Academy Trials."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a stack of thick books, bound in dark leather. The titles glinted in silver script.
"Take these," he said, handing them to Cael. "They'll teach you the structure of our world—its laws, history, power systems, major factions. The trials are not just tests of strength. They're tests of understanding."
Cael accepted them, a look of determination settling over his features. "Thank you. I know I've been neglecting that side. I'll study."
The old man gave him a single nod. "The trials will begin in a few months. Prepare well."
Cael turned to leave, the books held firmly in his grasp. He paused, glancing back with a grin. "One day, old man... I'll make you use your Manifestation Rite."
The old man smiled, eyes twinkling. "I'll be waiting, brat."
As Cael walked off into the fading light, a quiet wind stirred the leaves above him. The tree rustled softly, like an old friend bidding farewell.
And beneath his feet, the fold of moments whispered.
He was ready to grow again.
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Geography, political and major factions in later chapters.