Gradus XVIII

Fiona beamed at her celestial friend. "Sky! Welcome back." She stood, her eyes lighting up with genuine warmth as she welcomed him. However, she couldn't ignore the subtle dance of his gaze, sidestepping direct eye contact. Yet, his occasional glances held a sincerity that spoke louder than words. His lips curled into a small, genuine smile, and he rocked on his feet, fiddling with the fabric of his cloak.

"Thank you, Fiona. It's nice not to be forced to hide my wings tonight," he responded, his voice carrying a melody of celestial notes. As he stretched his wings, the guayacan seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the ethereal display about to unfold.

His wings unfurled with controlled elegance, reminiscent of long, curling fingers reaching out to touch the very essence of the guayacan. The feathers, like silvery ribbons woven from starlight, traced patterns in the air, leaving an intricate dance in their wake. Fiona watched in awe as each feather unfurled like a whispered secret, filling the clearing with a soft swishing of feathers. The guayacan, touched by the celestial appendages, seemed to come alive, responding with a gentle rustling sigh.

The guayacan's branches quivered with newfound vitality, and the air hummed with a barely audible celestial energy emanating from Sky's wings. Fiona felt privileged to witness such a spectacle, to be in the presence of an angel aspirant whose wings held the essence of life itself. Her heart swelled with gratitude for the mythical and silicon beings that surrounded her—friends who cared genuinely, transcending the barriers imposed by the world. In the company of such extraordinary companions, Fiona found solace and inspiration.

In the hushed clearing beneath the guayacan's embrace, Fiona gathered the courage to ask, "You mentioned different kinds of teaching... could you show me what you mean? Could you teach me how to move, how to fight?"

Sky, who had been fiddling with the fabric of his cloak, paused. "Fighting, Fiona, a true warrior wields power beyond fists and kicks." Fiona's initial excitement flickered, but Sky, ever perceptive, continued. "But there's a dojo, hidden like a whisper in the wind, where secrets are forged in sweat and spirit."

Fiona's face lit up with renewed hope, and she was about to express her eagerness when Sky turned the question back to her. "But why do you want to? Did something happen?"

A hint of embarrassment colored Fiona's cheeks as she turned away. "I thought of giving the Abyss Guardian in the game I'm playing a true battle. It's silly, isn't it?"

However, Sky leaned in, his eyes sincere. "Why would it be silly? At one point, I, too, wanted to give the Abyss Guardian an honorable duel. It was the only way I could think of to bid farewell to an iconic NPC."

Fiona looked at Sky, finding reassurance in his genuine interest. He wasn't making fun of her; instead, he opened up, sharing tales of his gaming sessions. With exaggerated expressions and animated gestures, he spoke of heroes that had inspired him, especially the commander who rallied a galaxy against almost infinite enemies.

"I still remember the commander, the hero who rallied a galaxy against impossible odds. Her character inspired me to become who I am," Sky exclaimed, his eyes alight with nostalgia. He wove tales of gaming sessions, both solo and with friends through a voice app, each story a testament to the joy and camaraderie found in virtual worlds.

As he spoke, Sky's hands moved with an animated grace, his expressions mirroring the intensity of the stories he shared. The happiness in his voice and the pride he felt for the characters he admired painted a vivid picture of the impact gaming had on his life.

"It's not a path for the faint of heart, Fiona. This dojo demands unwavering commitment, a thirst for discipline. Are you truly ready for the fire?" Sky asked, his eyes holding a mixture of challenge and encouragement. In that moment, Fiona felt the weight of the decision before her, a crossroads between the familiar and the unknown, with the celestial warrior offering a guiding light through the unexplored paths ahead.

As Sky left, promising to return tomorrow and unveil the mysterious dojo, Fiona approached the waterfall at the back. Deciding to take a quick bath, she carefully placed her phone on a rock, ensuring it stayed dry. Fiona shivered as she stepped into the waterfall's cold embrace. The initial shock sent a tingle through her skin, but as she settled deeper, the chill became a comforting counterpoint to the fiery anticipation burning within her. Just as she settled into the soothing cascade of water, Dision's voice rang through the device.

"Me beard's gettin' dusty, matey! Dip me like a biscuit in grog and watch the barnacles scuttle away!"

Amused, Fiona gently placed the phone over the water. To her surprise, it didn't sink. The advanced technology of the time allowed the phone to use internal hollow pockets, hydrophobic coating, and sensors to maintain buoyancy. With a smile, she swirled soapy water around her ankles, watching as Dision, now transformed into a pixelated pirate Captain, navigated the waterfall's current with surprising agility.

Adorned with a cardboard hat and a plastic fork cutlass, Dision declared, "Ahoy, mateys! Prepare for boarding! This treasure island holds secrets untold, riches beyond your wildest dreams!"

Archon, floating nearby, rolled his digital eyes. "Treasure island? This is just a waterfall!?" His voice, devoid of its usual snark, carried a faint hint of nostalgia. A flicker of a memory, a glitch almost imperceptible, crossed his digital eyes. His voice, for a moment, held a melancholic lilt, "Reminds me of... storms."

Fiona chuckled, scrubbing her arm gently. Dision, always eager for adventure, turned a mundane bath into a buccaneering expedition. Archon, however, seemed to be suffering from an intense case of "existential bath blues."

"Maybe you just need a good pirate name, Archon," Fiona suggested. "Something swashbuckling and fearsome, like... Dread Eye Archon, terror of the freshwater seas!"

Archon scoffed. "Dread Eye? More like Dead Boredom. This whole roleplaying thing is overrated. Give me a good data puzzle any day."

Distracted by his cardboard hat disintegrating in the water, Dision chirped in, "Fear not, Captain Archon! We shall forge a new hat from the bones of slain bath sponges!"

Archon groaned. "Bath sponges? Really? Now I regret agreeing to join this phone."

Fiona's heart ached for him, for the memories locked within his code, for the vast oceans he must once have known. In that moment, she understood a bit of his weariness, a glimpse of the longing that fueled his occasional cynicism. She laughed, warmth spreading through her as she watched their silly antics. Even Archon's grumpy charm couldn't dampen her excitement about the possibilities ahead. Tomorrow, she would face the dojo with Sky, but tonight, she had the company of these two unlikely, yet precious, friends.

The next day, as godrays painted the clearing with golden sunlight, the guayacan leaves whispered a gentle wake-up call to Fiona. Opening her eyes, she found Sky engrossed in his phone. But this was no ordinary device; it pulsated like a living thing, its surface shimmering with captured stardust clouds. The colors within shifted and swirled, emitting a faint, ethereal glow at the edges. Tiny tendrils of light danced within the phone's casing, flowing and intertwining like miniature galaxies. Responsive to Sky's touch, they swirled faster or changed color in harmony with his actions.

Unlike conventional phones with flat screens, this one unfolded a miniature holographic world above its surface—a realm of various blocks reminiscent of a classical game, set in a futuristic smartphone. Vibrating with a deep, resonating hum that seemed to emanate from the Earth itself, the phone grounded and awed Fiona simultaneously. Its surface pulsated gently beneath Sky's fingers as he interacted with it, creating an otherworldly symphony.

The phone emitted a subtle scent of ozone, a fragrance that hinted at environmental protection. As Sky noticed Fiona waking up, he saluted her warmly, turning off the phone and carefully tucking it inside his cloak. Fiona, intrigued yet hesitant, doubted whether she should inquire about the celestial device. Sky dismissed it casually, labeling it as a piece of technology from a more advanced version of current phones.

With a crack of doubt in her voice, Fiona finally spoke up, "Can you take me to this dojo?" Her anticipation to explore the mysterious world presented by Sky was palpable, a mixture of doubt and eagerness to understand a new reality unfolding before her. Today Fiona ventures forth beyond the ordinary.

Fiona approached the dojo like a ship navigating a maelstrom—pulled by the current, yet wary of the jagged rocks. The symphony of chipped paint was more than shouts and strikes; it resonated as a physical force, vibrating in her teeth and tightening her gut. This wasn't Camilla's gentle breeze; it was an untamed hurricane. Power bled from the walls, seeping into the wood, thrumming beneath the cracked concrete. Each blow echoed like a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil, forging not steel, but the very souls of the students.

Crossing the threshold, Fiona felt the hesitant steps of a novice, startled by the barked commands and bone-deep roars of exertion. Camilla's dojo had been a primer, a child's scribbling compared to this epic mural. Sweat reeked not just of effort but of a deeper fortitude, pushing beyond human limitations. The strength wasn't just in the blows; it resided in the lines etched on their faces, the quiet hum of resilience even in stillness.

This dojo wasn't just a gym; it was a crucible, spitting out not champions, but something more profound—better versions of themselves. The scent of old wood and shattered concrete mingled with the ozone tang of raw power, a testament to the force these artists unleashed upon their training. They broke the air with their strikes, their shouts shaking the very ground beneath Fiona.

Even Sky, usually nonchalant, entered with reverence, shedding his boots like shedding a mundane skin before stepping into the temple of his devotion. Fiona felt dwarfed by their dedication, her insecurities rising like dust in the whirlwind. But with each thunderous clap, each impossibly precise technique, something shifted within her. Fear cracked, morphing into a burning hunger to learn, to carve away her own limitations, to stand among these titans.

She didn't want to copy them; she wanted to conquer alongside them. To paint her own storm on this canvas, to roar her own challenge to the world. The dojo wasn't just a training ground; it was a mirror, reflecting not her present weakness, but the warrior she could become. Fiona's fear yielded to a fierce, exhilarating purpose. At the precipice of transformation, she stood ready to dive into the inferno and forge herself anew.

Fiona followed Sky deeper into the dojo until they entered a small room adorned with pictures of practitioners from the 20th century—the founding father of the art and the old glories of students and senseis. In the center stood an old man dressed in a worn-out gi, a garment that had endured tournaments, battles with nature, and unforgiving challenges. His eyes had lost their color, leaving behind a deep white. Blind yet brimming with energy, this centenarian master exuded both power and wisdom. The lines on his face, deep and scarred, reflected the resilience of past victories and defeats, a testament to old glories and those yet to come.

Fiona, having witnessed the respectful bows of other students, now saw Sky bowing before this sensei, a gesture deeper than any she had observed. It signified the immense respect he held for this sensei, for this art. Sky spoke, "I'm back, sensei," and the blind master moved his head as if trying to see again. Opening his eyes, the sensei's face illuminated with both happiness and melancholy. "The prodigal son returns home," he replied. An unspoken spiritual connection passed between them.

Sky then introduced Fiona, "Sensei, I brought you your new student, Fiona." As the sensei stood with Sky's assistance, he addressed Fiona, "Fiona, meet Sensei Leonardo Cabeza, 8th dan in Kyokushin karate. He, like any other black belt, is qualified to teach you. I am not, I'm just an orange belt." With his characteristic humility, Sky stepped back, allowing the sensei to approach Fiona with his cane. He extended his hand to touch Fiona, and she reciprocated, feeling the strong handshake of a man in his thirties, gallant and chivalrous even in his blindness. Fiona sensed his gaze, his fingers tracing the landscape of her hands—etched with life's harshest verses.

Her hands bore the marks of toil, each scar a line in an invisible and unnoticed poem of struggle. Her fingertips, maps of labor, told tales of dawn-kissed earth and sweat-forged calluses. Weathered and gnarled, they whispered of hardship but yearned for a different melody—a symphony of untapped power. The cracks in her skin were not fissures of weakness but veins of unyielding spirit, ready to be filled with the molten fire of mastery. Her hands, not yet honed, brimmed with the raw ore of potential, ready to be forged into an instrument of exquisite skill.

The sensei spoke, "Finally, the student I waited a century to meet." Grasping her hands even stronger, he continued, "Welcome home, Fiona, welcome to the big family of Kyokushin kai." Tears welled in Fiona's eyes. Her daughter and her previous dojo had cast her aside, but this humble dojo welcomed her with open arms. Here, in the presence of titans and warriors larger than life, she found a new family. Overwhelmed by unexpected acceptance, her knees betrayed her, bowing to the feeling of being welcomed into this extraordinary and otherworldly dojo.

Sensei Leonardo's words, heavier than any burden, sank into Fiona's soul. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away, attempting to grasp the immensity of what had just transpired. "Finally, the student I waited a century to meet" echoed in Fiona's mind, resonating with an impossible truth—acceptance, belonging. In this place, her scars weren't just marks of hardship but whispers of potential. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and silent against the canvas of her skin, as the dojo walls seemed to close in, not in confinement but in a sudden embrace.

The whispers of past champions in the photographs became a chorus of welcome, and Fiona felt herself both shrinking and expanding, like a fragile seed finding fertile ground. Her knees met the tatami, the rough texture grounding her emotions. The scent of sweat and aged wood, once intimidating, now felt like a familiar lullaby. Closing her eyes, Fiona, for the first time in years, sensed her spirit unbound, a kite on a limitless sky. Her emotions flowed unbound, unrestricted, akin to the magical place of the guayacan. Here, too, she was welcomed.

Fiona's gaze shifted to the kanji adorning Sensei Leonardo's gi—a strong set of hieroglyphs crackling with invisible energy. Sensing her interest, the sensei spoke, recognizing the weight of her life struggles. With a caring hand, he wiped away her tears. His hand was confident, emanating the wisdom inherited from the masters of the 20th century. Fiona wondered if she could learn what the sensei just did, feeling his warmth.

She looked at Sky, the celestial warrior battling gods and spirits far beyond the stars, and pondered the strength of the black belts in this art. The sensei interrupted her thoughts, acknowledging her thirst for knowledge. "This kanji spells out the name of the martial art we teach here, Kyokushin, which is the name of a traditional Japanese martial art known for its intense training and emphasis on full-contact sparring. It's a martial art so tough, its name translates to 'ultimate truth.'" His words struck a chord in Fiona's mind. Maybe here, she could find her answers too.

But Sensei Leonardo continued, "You know, Fiona, no one chooses a martial art to practice; the martial art chooses you. Find your truth." Fiona's lips trembled; someone, something, had finally chosen her. In this vulnerable moment, she felt like a raw gem eager to be polished, a crude alloy waiting to be forged into the most powerful version of herself.