Blood, Breath and Survival

Darkness surrounded him. A chilling cold crept over his skin, and the pain in his wound pulsed like a relentless drum. Then, a voice.

"If you stay here, you will die."

It was deep, sharp, like a honed blade. Niran didn't recognize it at first, but that didn't matter. The pain was real. The blood was real. And if he didn't act, death would be just as real.

He woke up lying on the ground of the underground arena. The air still carried the stench of sweat and blood, but around him, there was silence.

He was alone.

No audience, no guards, no master to scold him. Just the bloodstained walls, the dirt, and his still-open wound.

He tried to move, and a wave of agony surged through him. A pained groan escaped his lips.

"Calm yourself."

The voice echoed in his mind again, this time clearer. It didn't sound like his own thoughts.

"If you want to live, listen to me. Breathe."

Niran clenched his teeth. Breathe? When his mouth tasted of blood and his body screamed in pain?

"If you don't control your breath, the pain will control you."

This time, he paid attention.

"Breath is the foundation of life and strength."

The voice carried the weight of authority, as if it belonged to a warrior from an age long past.

"Your body is wounded. To survive, you must help it heal. Follow me."

Niran closed his eyes, focusing on his breath. It was erratic, broken. The pain made him gasp, and his heart pounded too fast, pumping blood out of his open wound.

"Slow it down. Take deep breaths. Exhale slowly. Each breath must be a wave flowing through your body, carrying away the pain and leaving behind only strength."

He obeyed. He inhaled deeply through his nose, ignoring the metallic taste of blood. He filled his lungs, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

"Again."

He inhaled. His chest expanded. The fresh air flowed into him, like fire soothing the wounds from within.

"Now, channel the oxygen toward your wound. Feel your blood slow down."

He focused his breath on the injured area. It was both a mental and physical exercise. With each breath, he imagined oxygen flowing through his body, feeding the torn tissues, stimulating the production of red blood cells and platelets.

Gradually, the bleeding slowed. The pain didn't disappear, but it became bearable.

"Healing is not immediate, but if you control your breath, you control your body."

Finally, he could move without feeling like death lurked behind every heartbeat.

He opened his eyes. He had to leave.

He didn't know why no one had come to finish him off, but he couldn't stay and wait. Maybe Jirapat assumed he would die anyway.

Slowly, he sat up, using his breath to manage the pain. Then, he rose to his feet.

"Move slowly. Keep your stance low, avoid putting strain on the wound."

The voice was not only teaching him to breathe but also to move in a way that minimized stress on his injury.

He bent his knees slightly, distributing his weight evenly. He walked with measured steps, never rushing.

He dragged himself out of the arena, leaving behind the smell of blood and death.

Hunger struck suddenly.

Not the dull ache of an empty stomach, but a brutal, consuming hunger.

His body had accelerated its regeneration process, burning through every ounce of stored energy. If he didn't eat soon, he would collapse.

He found himself in a side street leading to the marketplace. The air was thick with the scent of food: grilled meat, spiced rice, fried fish.

But he had no money.

"You have no choice. You must steal."

He clenched his jaw. He didn't like the idea. But if he didn't, he'd die all the same.

He blended into the crowd, watching.

He spotted a vendor serving a customer, leaving a stack of dried meat unattended.

He had to act fast.

He took a deep breath, waited for the right moment… and lunged.

In one swift motion, he snatched a piece of dried meat and a small bag of rice.

For a moment, he thought he had succeeded.

Then, a shout:

"THIEF!"

Guards turned toward him. The vendor pointed with a trembling finger.

"Run."

He bolted through the crowd, weaving between people. He had to be fast, unpredictable.

He dodged left, vanishing among the shoppers.

He ducked under a cart, slipping past grasping hands.

He climbed onto a crate, vaulting over a low wall.

The guards cursed, but he had already disappeared into the alleyways.

He found a hidden corner and devoured the stolen food.

The taste of dried meat and raw rice didn't matter. What mattered was fueling his body and staying alive.

His strength returned. The pain dulled slightly.

Now, he had to make a decision. Where to go?

Only one place came to mind: the dojo.

Even though he wasn't sure he'd be welcome, it was the only place he could call home.

For years, he had been the only disciple of the master. He had trained alone, fought alone, learned alone. But then, the master had died… and the dojo was no longer the same.

Would it even still be there? Would someone have taken over?

He didn't know.

But he had nowhere else to go.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, clenched his fists, and began the long walk home.

"You're not finished yet."

The voice in his mind whispered with quiet satisfaction.

And Niran understood this was only the beginning.