Rebirth(5)

Rhyka's response was almost instinctual—less a conscious decision and more a breath drawn from the marrow of his soul.

Yes.

There was no hesitation. No deliberation. Because for Rhyka, there was no other answer. Not really. To deny the question would be to deny himself. To turn away from that path would be a betrayal deeper than blood, worse than death.

"Yes," he said, loud enough to be heard beyond the strange stillness, into the marrow of the world itself.

And for a moment… nothing happened.

Then the dragon—that impossible, rose-bodied, sky-swallowing entity—made a sound.

It was strange at first. Crooked. Almost mechanical.

Rhyka tilted his head, confused. Was it... groaning?

"Are you—?"

"No, no, I'm fine—hahaha!"

The sound broke fully then. Not a groan. Laughter. Raw, unfiltered, from something vast and godless and far too delighted.

The echo of it didn't just bounce across the reality—it reshaped it.

The sky above cracked like porcelain. The color drained from the horizon. The infinite platform beneath Rhyka's feet rippled like water struck by thunder.

Then the entire plane snapped.

The sterile stillness shattered, and in its place bloomed something entirely new:

A battlefield.

Not a war-torn wasteland or some holy arena—but a wide, open-air training platform paved in black stone veined with gold. The sky overhead had shifted from pressure to something crystalline and painfully vivid, as if the heavens had been polished to a gleam too bright to look at directly. Around the edges of the platform, massive patches of blood-red roses bloomed in rhythmic spirals thousands of them, their petals unfurling like slow sighs.

The air smelled of iron and incense. And rain.

And magic.

But it wasn't like the magic Rhyka had grown up around—not the divine hum of temple threads, not the subtle weave of priestly blessings. This was feral. Ancient Closer to instinct than language.

From the heart of that battlefield, the dragon's body crumbled like ash blown by wind, the petals unbinding and swirling upward, twisting into new form.

From the chaos emerged a man.

Or at least, something that resembled a man.

He was tall—impossibly tall—with a relaxed grace that made him seem as though gravity had yet to decide whether it truly applied to him. His hair spilled like molten flame down his back, long, wavy, and deep crimson, almost seeming to flicker like fire in certain angles of light. Two massive horns arched upward from his head—jet-black and curved like a monarch's crown, polished to a mirror sheen that caught the sun and fractured it into angry gold.

His skin was pale, but not lifeless—luminescent, as though something beneath it glowed faintly. And his eyes, gods, his eyes were molten yellow, vertically slit like a predator's, and yet somehow full of mirth.

He wore what looked like a crimson kimono, loosely tied and patterned with golden glyphs that shimmered like starlight on ink. Around his waist was a black sash, and over his shoulders, a fur-lined cloak drifted behind him like fog that never touched the ground.

And he was laughing.

Tears rolled down his cheeks—not from pain, but from giddy, delighted absurdity.

"HA—HAHA! Ohhhh, look at you!" he finally wheezed, slumping into a throne that rose from the stone beneath them like it had always been waiting. "So serious! So furious! Just—'YES'—like it was destiny!"

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe, still chuckling as the petals settled.

Rhyka stood motionless, eyes wide. He didn't know whether to feel insulted, confused, or honored.

The man composed himself at last, letting a long breath out through his nose. The levity drained slowly from the air, replaced with a tense, eerie calm.

Then, he leaned forward on the throne, elbows resting on his knees.

The laughter was gone.

The weight returned.

"Alright, mortal," he said, voice suddenly slow, deliberate. "So… you want to be strong, huh?"

Rhyka opened his mouth.

"Ye—"

"Too bad."

The words cut through like a knife.

Rhyka blinked. His jaw clamped shut.

He wasn't dumb.

The tone. The pacing. The smirk. This was a game.

So he waited.

Silent.

The not-man smiled wider. His yellow eyes narrowed with approval.

"Good," he said. "You're learning already."

Then he sat back, one leg crossing over the other. He waved his hand lazily.

"I can't make you strong."

A pause. Then a twist of the lips.

"But…"

His voice dropped.

"I can show you how to fight the strong."

Rhyka's fingers twitched. He wasn't sure what that meant. But something inside him clenched—because it sounded right.

He nodded slowly.

"I figured as much. So tell me—how?"

The horned figure's grin widened.

"You should already know, little ghost," he said. "You're human, aren't you?"

His voice darkened slightly—not unkind, but heavy.

"You were born with a weak body. No magic. No blessing. No divine spark. And yet, do you know what your kind did with that?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"You adapted."

The petals began to spiral around him again.

"You refined your feeble flesh until it could stand upright. Then you made weapons. Sharp. Clever. Brutal. And when that wasn't enough… you made something truly beautiful."

The air hummed.

"Martial arts."

The words echoed.

"Technique. Efficiency. Movement refined beyond instinct—beyond magic. Not fueled by power, but by understanding. By repetition. By the study of pain."

Rhyka's breath caught.

He knew martial arts. Every melee-focused mage did. They were taught how to combine spellwork with physical blows—how to enhance their bodies with mana and deliver blows with force enhanced tenfold.

But this—this didn't sound like that.

"You're talking about…" he began.

The man cut him off.

"Not the kind you learn in a temple courtyard. Not the kind you mix with mana and fancy footwork."

He stood now.

The air warped slightly as he stepped forward. Even walking, he looked like a force of nature wearing flesh.

"I'm talking about the kind that came before magic."

A pause.

"The martial arts humans forgot."

Rhyka swallowed.

"Forgot?"

The man grinned.

"Oh yes. You lost it. When magic came, you abandoned it like a rusted knife. But true martial arts true martial arts can split mountains. Defy gods. Rewrite fate."

He raised one hand, palm open.

A glowing line traced through the air from his spine down his arm, etching runes into his skin that pulsed like veins made of light.

"This—" he said, "—is not magic."

He flexed his fingers.

"It's mastery."

Rhyka's eyes widened.

"How—how do I learn it?"

The man lifted two fingers.

"There are two paths."

He raised one.

"One: become a nomad of combat. Forsake everything. Wander the world. Fight every day. Train every hour. Give up friends. Love. Comfort. Grow so strong, so fierce, that on the day of your death maybe you'll glimpse the edge of martial essence."

Rhyka swallowed hard.

That sounded like suicide by enlightenment.

The man raised his second finger.

"Or…"

He smiled.

"I can just show you."

Rhyka stared.

The petals around him had begun to rise again—slowly, like a tide. The sky pulsed above them.

"Wait—what's the catch?" Rhyka asked, finally cautious.

The figure tilted his head, genuinely surprised.

"No catch," he said.

Then leaned in, whispering with conspiratorial glee:

"You already said yes."

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