Testing Grounds

Mukai wakes early—an hour before his scheduled meeting with Moto. The hallways are still cloaked in a morning hush, pierced only by the muffled chorus of snores escaping his brother's door. With a small shake of his head, Mukai continues toward the training grounds. A dense forest of tall gum trees surrounds the clearing ahead. But even before he sees anything, Mukai hears it—the rhythmic, solid thumping of fists slamming against bark.

As he steps through the trees, he spots Moto, shirt damp with sweat, knuckles raw and red, punching away at a tree trunk with relentless rhythm. With a sharp shout, Moto throws a final, powerful punch, and the great tree begins to topple. Mukai's eyes widen in sudden panic. It's still too early; if the crash wakes the entire compound, he's doomed.

Moto dashes under the falling trunk, plants his back on the ground, and catches it with his feet, grunting with the immense weight. Just then, water surges past him, a controlled torrent that lifts the tree aside with surprising ease. Mukai stands just ahead, arms lowered, having averted disaster.

Moto chuckles breathlessly, still pinned by the phantom weight. "Oh, hey. You're early."

Mukai smirks faintly. "Was about to say the same. Where's Sheu?"

"She's not coming to the Trials," Moto replies, wiping sweat from his brow.

Mukai raises a brow. "Huh. At least one of you has some sense." He still doesn't know.

Moto's gaze turns serious, the playful facade dropping. "She lost her dad. It was sudden."

Mukai falls silent, his expression softening slightly. "...I'm sorry to hear that."

The air between them grows still, thick with unspoken condolences. Neither quite knows what to say. So they don't. They separate, returning to their individual drills, training in silence until their official meeting time arrives.

Over time, Moto begins to understand what Sukai meant—Mukai isn't all bad. He's just incredibly hard to read.

"You work harder than I expected from a genius," Moto notes between grueling drills.

Mukai scoffs lightly, a rare, almost unburdened sound. "Life demands hard work from everyone. Talent just decides how much you get back for your trouble."

"Wise too," Moto teases gently.

"I have to be," Mukai replies, his voice hardening with conviction. "This kingdom deserves the best. And I'm ready to give it everything. I'll take the throne before my father runs us into the ground."

Moto studies him, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "You really doubt him that much? He seems like he's doing alright."

Mukai stiffens, a shadow falling over his face. "That's because you never met the last King. My grandfather—Owen."

"Oh… what happened to him?" Moto asks.

Mukai's tone flattens with annoyance. "What did they teach at your old school?"

"Fighting."

"That tracks." Mukai folds his arms, a deep-seated bitterness in his voice. "Every king before my father was the strongest in the land. Grandfather Owen wielded water so powerfully that the sea itself would drop when he charged his attacks. I named my water sword after him." Moto leans in slightly, genuinely interested. "To keep power strong, Owen married into the Lightning Village. That's how my mother was born. But in the end, he died fighting a horde of monsters from Gehen."

Moto's faint smile instantly fades. That name—Gehen—sparks something deep in his mind, a brief, shuddering flash of a valley filled with untold horrors.

Mukai speaks with quiet bitterness. "I still hold a grudge against that damned kingdom. Maybe I'll march on it once I'm king."

Moto lifts both hands in mock defense. "Can we maybe not talk about killing entire nations before breakfast?"

Mukai rolls his eyes and exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. "The point is, a king should lead from the front—not send people into fights they can't survive." His gaze lingers pointedly on Moto.

Moto catches it, the unspoken warning. "Hey, I didn't die. Yet. And I'm sure the King has a perfectly good reason for putting me against Gwen."

"Believe what you want," Mukai mutters. "But we need to work on your counters." He explains that Gwen, before being selected by the King, worked as a sports coach. His style is aggressive and up-close—midrange at best. "You've trained your body well," Mukai concedes. "But this week, we focus on your power."

Moto nods, his eyes burning with renewed focus. "Alright then," Mukai says, stepping back. "Show me what you've got."

Moto exhales, releasing a thick screen of smoke from his skin. "I can control the organic compounds in my smoke," he explains. "That lets me trigger explosions under the right heat. I can also form dense smoke bombs I throw as distractions to get in close. I fight best at close quarters."

"What about that day under the tree?" Mukai asks, referring to the ambush after school, the one that led to Najo challenging him. "Your smoke changed. It got darker—heavier. I haven't seen you use it since."

Moto shakes his head, a faint shadow crossing his face. "I've tried to move past that. It's a regression." Mukai doesn't press, though he clearly remembers the air warming ominously around them that day. Something about that version of Moto unsettled him.

"Alright," he says instead. He creates a perfect bubble of water fifty meters away and draws a distinct line in the dirt. "Pop that from here without crossing the line. I'll be prepping for my own match."

Moto nods, a determined glint in his eyes. "I'll try."

"Hmf." Mukai walks off, leaving Moto to the daunting task.

As morning turns to noon, Sukai finds Mukai. Together, they go to visit Sheu. They find her in the backyard, sitting quietly beneath the shade of an old tree. The boys speak briefly with her before Mukai, ever reserved, takes his leave. Sukai offers to stay. Sheu nods, appreciating his quiet company—even if her thoughts remain clouded by grief and suspicion.

It feels strange, sitting with the son of the man she's beginning to suspect... but she keeps those chilling thoughts to herself. "I need to rest again. Thanks for coming."

Sukai smiles gently. "No problem. I'll drop by again tomorrow."

"Okay." She offers a small, tired smile as she walks him out.

Later, a quiet desperation drives her. She rummages through the house—through dusty cupboards and cluttered drawers—searching for any personal items, any last tangible links to her father. She knows her uncle and his wife will come scavenging soon, eager to claim what's left. As her fingers brush against familiar objects, memories stir: quiet meals, the echo of shared laughter, the comforting smell of home. Her fingers linger over worn keepsakes, each one a fragile thread tying her to him.

Back at the training grounds, Moto spends the entire day trying to burst the seemingly impenetrable water bubble. He throws every kind of smoke bomb he can form, but the unseen wind resistance wears them down halfway through their trajectory, dissipating them before impact.

When Mukai returns, he crosses his arms, a knowing look on his face. "Just as I thought. You lack innate wind ability."

Moto blinks, confused. "What does that mean?"

Mukai explains patiently. In the kingdom, everyone possesses a subtle degree of wind manipulation—it's an unseen force that subtly fuels and shapes their unique powers. That's why wind users must excel so drastically to stand out. But Moto? He's relying entirely on raw muscle and explosive force. There's no subtle guidance to his attacks. No unseen current beneath his strikes. It means his chances of surviving against Gwen are shrinking with every passing hour.

Mukai says nothing more, but the doubt in his eyes speaks volumes. Moto notices. He feels it too—that cold tendril of fear crawling beneath his resolve—but he clenches his jaw, turns away, and gets back to work. The sun sinks low, casting long shadows behind the trees, painting the landscape in hues of tired orange and purple.

That night at dinner, the tension in the royal dining hall swells, thick and heavy.

Mukai puts down his fork with a sharp clink that cuts through the polite murmurs. "Why did you put Moto against Gwen?"

Douglas doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on his plate. Mukai presses on, his voice strained. "He's underpowered. Doesn't even have wind."

The silence stiffens, suddenly profound. Even Sukai, usually so serene, looks up, his eyes wide.

But before the King can answer, Olivia speaks for him, her voice cool and composed. "Your father didn't become king by luck. Trust his intellect."

"Trust shouldn't outweigh reason," Mukai counters, his voice edged with frustration. "If he knows what he's doing, why won't he just say it?"

Douglas finally sets down his cup. His tone is firm, brooking no argument. "The Succession Trials are how I select the next generation of my guard. I know the kind of people I want at my side." He then leans back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile creeping into his expression. "Besides, with your strength, Mukai, I'll only need one."

Mukai's shoulders visibly soften, his ego momentarily stroked.

Sukai smirks, a hint of playful exasperation in his voice. "You always know how to get him off your back, Dad."

Douglas chuckles softly. "Wouldn't be a good father if I couldn't."

Mukai grins, the tension in his jaw finally relaxing. "Don't push it."

Laughter, light and genuine, finally fills the room, cracking the heavy tension. Sukai quietly adds, "By the way—Sheu won't be participating."

Later that night, when the grand house is quiet, King Douglas steps into the private war room. He calls for Aritri, his gaze serious.

"I want a full background check on the boy," he orders, his voice low. "Moto. Leave no stone unturned."