""The Strength Of One"

Kin and Sye stepped into the temple, its design paradoxical—both monastic in simplicity and overwhelming in presence. At the heart of the chamber stood an intricate sculpture of a ten-headed dragon, carved with such accuracy that its many faces seemed to follow them, their gazes spectral. it's materials of ruby and pearls. 

Kin asks "woah whats that?"

The monk lets out a measured breath, as if exhaling the weight of history itself.

he began, "In an age long forgotten, there was a dragon unlike any other. It stood taller than the highest temple spire, its scales the color of bloodied rubies, its ten heads crowned with eternal flame. And yet, despite its terror, it was abandoned. Feared, yes, but not for its power—feared because it was unworthy. A dragon without eyes was an insult to legend, a creature deemed unfit for warriors seeking glory.

And so, the world turned its back on it.

No hunter sought its skull for their mantle. No hero dreamt of besting it in battle. Even its own kin, those arrogant beasts that soared across the heavens, left it behind, believing it to be nothing but a footnote in history—a tale of pity, not of power.Yet the dragon did not despair. It did not weep

It trained.

For centuries, it roamed the desolate mountains, sharpening every other sense until sight was nothing but an afterthought. It learned to feel the tremors of an insect's wings upon stone. To hear the heartbeats of men long before they dared to approach. To smell the intention behind every drawn sword, every foolish warrior who thought, for a fleeting moment, that they might be the first to slay the forgotten beast.

And when the time came, it emerged.

Not as prey. But as the strongest dragon to have ever lived.

Its flames, once untamed, became an executioner's blade, falling only when judgment was absolute. Its movements, once reliant on sight, became imperceptible—a shadow in a world of light.

The warriors who had once ignored it now begged for their names to be written in history alongside it. They were not. Because the blind dragon did not grant them legacy. it granted, only death.

The monk turned to Kin, his expression unreadable.

"And so," he murmured, "it became a legend of its own. Not as the dragon who was abandoned. But as The Great Blind Dragon"

Kin swallowed, his gaze locked on the dragon's many faces. The shimmer of ruby and pearl seemed more menacing now, as if the sculpture itself was listening.

"The Great Blind Dragon?!" he murmured, almost to himself.

The monk nodded, his voice softer now. "And it became more than legend—it became proof."

Kin's breath stopped. "Proof of what?"

The monk's lips barely moved. his eyes opened once more.

"That in being alone comes true strength."

His words hang in the air, matter-of-fact yet laden with a quiet authority. Without waiting for Kin or Sye to respond, the monk moves toward the ornate, weathered doors that mark the boundary of the temple's inner sanctum. They creak in protest as he grips the handles, the motion deliberate, almost ceremonial. With a fluid sweep, the doors part, revealing the open porch beyond. A rush of fresh air fills the space as the door slowly drifts aside, unveiling the vast training grounds. The floors are worn, etched with the impressions of countless steps, each marked by the relentless passage of disciplined feet.

At the heart of the training grounds, a man of gigantic build—his chest bare, his body resembling a statue of war given life—stood before a boulder the size of a temple bell. His breath misting in the air before—BOOM!—his fist met stone. The boulder exploded into shards, fragments sent flying in every direction. But not a single piece struck him. His blows were not mere force; reducing rock to dust in calculated strikes. His hands, wrapped in tattered black cloth, were cracked and calloused, yet unshaken. His eyes lifted only once—to Kin—before returning to the next boulder placed before him.

To the left, another figure danced amidst chaos. Unlike the Titan, this fighter was small in frame, but their presence was no less dominant. They wore layered robes of blue and gold, embroidered with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly, reacting to the sheer power flowing through them.

Flames licked at his fingertips, floating around his arms like serpents of fire, yet did not burn them. pieces of earth following the paths of the fire as if connected. With a flick of his wrist, a jet of water erupted, colliding with an incoming stone projectile, instantly cooling it into ice before it shattered harmlessly to the ground.

And then—the air warped.

A gust, as if drawn from a raging tempest, blasted outward. The targets surrounding them split, momentarily covered by dust as the elemental warrior spun in place, controlling the air around it with effortless elegance. Their movements were like a symphony of destruction, every element bending to their silent command.

Further ahead, a woman moved like a phantom in the wind. She was clad in sleek, dark leather, reinforced with strips of silver along her arms and waist, yet there was no weight to her steps—only the whisper of motion. Her bow, carved from some unknown black wood, flexed effortlessly in her hands. The arrows she loosed were not mere projectiles—they were ghosts of steel, bending impossibly around stone obstacles, ricocheting off of each other at absurd angles to strike hidden targets with surgical precision. One arrow twisted mid-air, rebounding against a pillar before curving toward a target who had taken cover. Another seemed to split just before impact, striking two dummies at once.

She did not stop. The moment the arrows left her bow, her hands were already reaching for the next.

Kin exhaled, barely aware he had been holding his breath.

"These guys… …are incredible." he didn't take a moment to blink afraid he might miss something. 

The monk, eyes closed as if listening to something unseen, gives a slow nod. Kin, still absorbing the intensity of the training ground, doesn't hesitate. "So where is Senen?"

The monk's hand rises, his fingers extending toward the left. "Over there. Training."

Kin and Sye follow the gesture, turning their heads in unison.

There, standing apart from the others, is Senen—his back to them, a long, thin rectangular staff resting against his shoulder. His straw hat casts a shadow over his face, obscuring his expression, yet there is something about his stance —as if he is not standing still, but waiting.

Kin narrows his eyes. "What is he doing?"

A brief silence lingers between them before the monk, his voice calm yet resolute, replies.

"…Just watch."

A single raindrop descends from the skies, drifting weightlessly toward Senen's nose. As it nears, time slows to a crawl. With an almost imperceptible movement, Senen tilts his head downward, allowing the droplet to miss him by a breath. His eyes slip shut. He listens—not to the sounds of the world, but to the rhythm of nature itself.

Then, as if the heavens itself acknowledges him, the rain begins to fall in earnest.

Time resumes.

Countless droplets descend, each a glimmering shard of liquid silver. Yet, impossibly, not a single one touches him. Senen moves with an elegance that borders on the unnatural—his body weaving, pivoting, gliding through the storm like wind through an open window. The raindrops strike the stone floor, their impact echoing through the training ground, but none find purchase on his skin.

Kin watches, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His wide eyes reflect the fluid spectacle before him—Senen dancing between each drop, never breaking rhythm.

And then, the sky darkens further. The rain thickens. An inevitable truth sets in—no human could possibly continue dodging now. A droplet descends, aimed unerringly for the rim of Senen's straw hat. It is inevitable. Yet, at the final moment, his hand flicks upward, and the hat sails through the air, landing neatly on a hook beneath the shelter of the porch.

His arm extends outward. Raindrops rush toward his fingers—certain to touch—yet, in one final defiance of fate, his fingers spread, allowing the water to pass through the spaces between them. His wooden staff rises—a blur of motion—before slamming downward. The air trembles from the force, momentarily carving out an empty space in the rain. In a single motion, Senen steps into that void—a heartbeat of shelter before the storm reclaims its domain.

And then—

He leaps.

His body turns, his staff whipping through the air in a spiraling arc. A full-frontal flip melds seamlessly into the motion, his momentum redirecting as he strikes the air once more. Like a comet, he propels himself upward.

His staff—released mid-motion—flies upward, twirling violently. Senen's fingers extend once more. He spins his staff between his fingertips like a wind-propelled turbine. With a final, fluid motion, the rotation slows just enough for him to land smoothly upon the porch—untouched, unmarked.

Kin and Sye stare, their expressions frozen in sheer disbelief. Senen, now seemingly indifferent to the feat just performed, leans his staff against the wall and approaches them. Resting his hands behind his back as he approaches them. He looks to Kin and Sye. 

"Welcome to the temple," he says, voice calm. "What do you need?"

Kin's amazement lingers for a breath, but then hardens into something else—conviction. He steps forward, the storm behind him forgotten, his expression sharp with intent.

"Train me."

Senen remains motionless. His stance doesn't shift, his breathing doesn't change, yet something is different. A stillness settles around him, his fingers press against the fabric of his sleeve. Something stirs. A recognition buried deep. His brow lowers, only slightly.

"Those eyes…" His mind carrying clarity. Not with shock. Not in disbelief. But certainty.

His fingers tighten against his own wrist, his posture otherwise unchanged.

"...I know this boy."