Enter Divinity

Mukai wakes early, as usual. But this morning, there's a subtle hum in his chest—an unfamiliar excitement that rarely stirs his disciplined spirit. Today begins his training under Master Musaka, the Master of Water.

He arrives at the familiar training grounds. Broken branches and scorched trunks remain scattered from Moto's relentless practice. For the first time, Mukai notices the absence. He'd gotten used to seeing Moto here, pushing himself to the brink. He pauses, a faint frown touching his lips, remembering how dismissively he treated Moto early on—when he foolishly assumed power was only for the elite, for those born into it. Yet Moto continued to grow, even beating Gwen.

"Maybe there's more to strength than bloodlines and raw ability…" Mukai murmurs to himself, the thought a quiet revelation. "How does Father see that in people?" For the first time, Mukai genuinely considers his father's unique brand of wisdom—not as weakness, but as an insight worth studying. The thought lingers through his grueling training session and follows him into breakfast at the castle.

At the castle, King Douglas sits quietly in a tailored crimson suit, a figure of contained power. Olivia and the boys immediately notice the shift—he's dressed impeccably, clearly dressed to impress, yet he's unusually reserved, a subtle tension in his posture.

Mukai, his tone calmer and more thoughtful than usual, breaks the silence. "Did you know Moto had fire?"

Douglas doesn't look up from his plate. "No. But I saw his resolve when he saved Sukai. That's when I knew he was special. Though given the toll it takes… I doubt he'll use that power again."

Sukai, ever hopeful, interjects, "But isn't Gwen training him now? Won't that help him control it?" Mukai assumes Moto must be from the Fire Village—he probably avoided using his fire because of the pain. But with Gwen's guidance, maybe he could truly master it.

Douglas sighs, a subtle dismissal. "Oh, he won't be dealing with Gwen. I sent him on a mission."

"What?!" Mukai exclaims, startled, his thoughts reeling.

"It's classified," Douglas states, his voice even. "But you'll see him again soon. Trust me." Mukai glances at Olivia. Her calm, unwavering stare confirms it. The King has made his move.

Mukai stands abruptly, a new resolve hardening his features. "Then I'll go train harder. That throne will be mine. Maybe then I'll get some real answers." Douglas sighs, a hint of weariness in his eyes, but offers no argument. Mukai storms off.

Douglas then steps outside onto the castle's highest balcony. He lifts his hand—five rings gleaming—and the King's Hand materialize from the shadows, their forms silent and imposing. "The King of Denga arrives soon," Douglas commands. "To the castle."

On the Road East

As the trio walks tirelessly toward Zen, Sheu watches Moto. She wants to ask him about the maroon flame—the terrifying power he unleashed against Gwen—but she holds off. She'd rather let him speak when he's ready, when he chooses to share that burden.

They stop at a desolate point to study the map Douglas provided. Nyika lies to the southeast, its southern border meeting the vast ocean. East is Zen, a peaceful realm, and directly north of it—Sango, their dangerous destination. At the center of the world hovers a formidable, floating kingdom: Denga. Beneath its shadow, Pasi stretches. Far southwest, a blood-red region crawls with terror symbols—Gehen. Sheu frowns as her finger slides over it. Najo scowls, a primal fear flitting across his face.

"Wouldn't wanna end up there," Najo mutters, his voice tight.

"Yeah," Moto replies, his gaze distant, lost in his own grim memories.

Off the coast, a small, isolated island floats: Nirvana.

"If we stay east," Sheu muses, tracing a path, "we might avoid the Terrors."

"Still…" Moto says, his voice firm, "we train along the way. No shortcuts."

"Agreed," Najo affirms, a new determination in his eyes. "Earth power from here on."

"No choice, huh?" Sheu quips, a faint, wry smile.

Back in Nyika

The city bustles—citizens bending elements to aid their daily work, students training diligently in their academies. Then, a strange, ethereal sound ripples through the air. A melodic harp, its tune so harmonious it silences the entire crowd, their heads tilting in wonder. Eyes turn skyward.

Descending slowly toward the royal castle: a magnificent golden chariot. At each corner stands a towering figure dressed in crisp white and yellow. At the front left—an ethereal woman with flowing, glowing white hair and striking red eyes, singing softly as her fingers glide effortlessly over the harp strings.

Douglas and the King's Hand move to the castle roof, their faces grimly composed. At the rear corner of the chariot stands Chandler, father of Alicia—the maverick of heaven, his presence radiating subtle power. He steps forward and with a flourish, opens the chariot's grand door.

The King's Hand immediately drop to one knee. Douglas himself bows low, a gesture of profound respect.

Out steps King Manasseh, veiled in a cloud-white suit, a golden cape flowing regally behind him. He's as tall as Douglas, but his presence dwarfs the very air itself, commanding silent deference.

"Welcome, Lord Manasseh," Douglas greets him, his voice smooth, respectful. "To my humble corner of the world."

"Oh Douglas…" Manasseh replies, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with a subtle, condescending amusement. "Still dressing humility in poetry."

Another man exits the chariot—tall, younger, his presence cold and utterly silent. His cobalt-blue suit gleams; golden boots and gloves complete the look. Long, pristine white dreadlocks trail down his back. He glares directly at Douglas, a silent challenge in his eyes.

"Meet my son," Manasseh announces, a hint of pride in his tone, "Malachi."

Douglas offers a respectful greeting. Malachi stays silent, his expression unreadable.

"Please, come in," Douglas invites, gesturing inside the castle.

Inside the chamber, a finely crafted chess game awaits on a polished table. Manasseh smiles, a subtle, predatory glint in his eyes, and immediately begins to play. The two kings talk casually—but the hierarchy is undeniably clear. Douglas may host, but Manasseh dominates the room, every word and gesture asserting his overwhelming power.

Douglas notes the different entourage this time, a smaller, more elite group.

"They're my son's men," Manasseh explains, a dry amusement in his voice. "He's… eager for a crown of his own."

"Mukai's ambitious too," Douglas offers, trying to find common ground.

"A son eager for power is a blade too close to your back," Manasseh replies with dry humor, his gaze sharp.

Douglas takes the opening, carefully pitching a treaty—resources from Nyika in exchange for Denga's protection. Manasseh chuckles, a low, dismissive sound.

"A treaty? Douglas, what business do gods have trading favors with mortals?"

Douglas falls quiet, the insult stinging. Manasseh makes his move on the board, then issues a cold warning. "Don't bring up treaties again." He makes another chess move.

Douglas counters—checkmate. But he says nothing.

Manasseh surveys the board, a faint smile. "Well, looks like I lost. Again. Good game."

"Thank you," Douglas replies, his voice carefully neutral.

Manasseh chuckles, then glances at Malachi—who remains utterly expressionless. Chandler and the rest of the Denga entourage stay silent, their faces impassive. "My son grows impatient," Manasseh states, his voice shifting to a tone of business. "Let's get to it."

Manasseh signals to one of his subjects, Darcy. She hands him a sealed letter.

"I'm announcing a new classification system—based on sensitivity to Hwange energy," Manasseh declares.

Darcy steps forward and begins to read the details: "The ranks go from 1 to 4. Class 1: Little to no reaction to radiation, no fluctuation regardless of proximity to the Ore. Class 2: Mild sensitivity—most citizens fall here. Class 3: Strength scales with proximity to Ore; more rare. Class 4: Extremely sensitive. Strength skyrockets when near an Ore, but unstable exposure can be fatal."

"And you, Your Majesty?" Douglas asks, his voice measured.

Manasseh smiles, a touch of arrogance in his eyes. "Class 3. Being here gives me migraines from your Earth Ore. But I could reduce your kingdom to rubble with my might alone. So… I tolerate the headache given the absence of threat."

Douglas exhales slowly, the weight of the Denga King's power palpable. Manasseh rises, signifying the end of the meeting. Douglas escorts them out, watching as the golden chariot lifts gracefully into the sky and vanishes.

Back in his office, Douglas sits in silence, staring at the empty chess board.

Checkmate. Again.

But still—powerless.