Chapter Four: The Trial
The village green felt foreign. A ring of worn stone marked the arena. Oak benches rose in three shallow tiers around it, packed with every soul in Zoe. Children sat on shoulders, pointing. Elders watched with still faces.
Zack stood in the competitors' alcove with the other first and second years. The air tasted of dust and sweat. Nervous energy crackled between them, sharp laughs and sudden silences.
He kept his hands loose at his sides. The new shirt felt strange, too soft against his skin. The ring on his finger was a circle of cold weight.
He watched the earlier matches. Sera of the Body Path fought Tomas of the Soul Path. Sera moved forward in a straight line, brushing aside his weak force casts, and closed the distance with a low kick that took his legs out. The match ended fast.
"Victory, Sera," the Elder called.
The crowd cheered. Zack watched Tomas get up, his face red with shame. A Soul Path user who let a Body get close. A simple mistake. Zack filed it away.
The next match was Rann against Kira the Hybrid. Kira flowed from stance to stance, her movements a mix of physical strikes and faint energy shoves. She made Rann look slow. But when one of her shifts came a half second too late, Rann's fist sank into her stomach. The sound was wet and heavy. She went down.
"Victory, Rann."
The crowd murmured. Some admired Kira's style. Others said fancy moves did not matter if you ended on the ground.
Zack's turn came closer. His mouth was dry.
Mira pushed through the older boys to his side. Her hair was half out of its braid.
"Your match is posted. It's Kael."
"I know."
"He'll come at you hard from the start. He does that. Thinks it shows confidence." Her eyes were bright and fierce. "Make him miss. Make him look stupid. Then when he's frustrated, his right cross comes in wide. You know the one."
"I know it."
"Good. Don't get hit by it." She punched his arm and slipped back into the crowd.
His mother found him next. She moved through the press of bodies with a quiet grace. She took his face in her hands, her palms rough and warm. She looked into his eyes.
"You walk out there as yourself," she said. Her voice was low, for him alone. "Not as the crystal's verdict. Not as what they call you. As my son. The one who keeps hitting the tree until the tree remembers him."
He nodded. She squeezed his shoulders once and let him go.
Across the arena, his father stood near the lower benches with Mira. His arms were folded, his face like stone. When Zack's gaze met his, his father gave a single, slow nod.
Then the Elder's staff struck the stone dais. The sound cut through the noise.
"Zack of Zoe. Kael son of Dren."
Zack walked down the steps into the ring. The chalk dust from earlier fights crunched under his boots. The space felt smaller from inside. The crowd's noise became a distant ocean roar.
Kael waited in the center. He was taller, broader. He bounced on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. A faint shimmer of copper light clung to him, the telltale glow of Body Path energy reinforcing muscle and bone. He smiled, but his eyes were serious.
"Don't faint too early," Kael said. "I need the practice."
"I'll try to be helpful," Zack said.
The Elder raised his staff high. He brought it down with a crack.
"Begin."
Kael closed the distance like a door slamming shut. His first punch was a straight line to Zack's chest, fast and hard.
Zack did not block. He twisted his upper body. The fist grazed past his shirt, the displaced air cold on his skin.
The crowd made a sound, a low wave of surprise.
Kael's smile tightened. He reset, his feet sure. He threw a combination. Jab, cross, low kick. The movements were clean, trained. The force behind them was real.
Zack retreated. He parried the jab, slipped the cross, and took the low kick on his thigh. The impact was a bright bloom of pain. He absorbed it and moved back, creating space.
He was not seeing Kael's fists. He was seeing the energy. The dense, warm glow that gathered in Kael's shoulder before a punch. The slight cooling in his lead leg before a kick. The shifting patterns in the air around him, compressed by his motion. Zack moved between these currents, a fish in a stream.
He could not match power. So he refused the contest. The croud seemed puzzeled they couldn't understand how zack could move that fast, some admired his reflexes, some were starting to regret the 30 second knockout bet they made. The chief new zack was able to predict kaels moves but even he was unable to understand how easy it looked.
...
Kael pressed, his attacks coming faster. A hook aimed at Zack's head. A knee driving up toward his ribs. Zack weaved and dodged, each movement smaller than the last. He was not fighting Kael. He was fighting the space Kael occupied.
He saw an opening. After a powerful right cross, Kael's left shoulder dropped a fraction. His weight settled too much on his front foot. A tiny window.
Zack stepped in. He did not throw a power shot. He threw a fast, tight jab, aiming not for Kael's face, but for the inside of his bicep, at the precise moment the muscle was relaxing.
His fist connected. The impact was not heavy. But it was precise. It disrupted the rhythm.
Kael grunted, more from surprise than pain. He stepped back, his eyes narrowing. He looked at his arm, then at Zack.
"Good," Kael said. The word was not friendly. It was an acknowledgment. The game was over.
Kael changed. His movements became economical, stripped of any waste. He stopped trying to overwhelm. He started to cut off the ring, to herd Zack toward the stone edge.
Zack felt the pressure build. His breath came harder. The mental effort of reading the energy flows was a constant drain. His body ached from near misses and blocked blows.
Kael feinted high. Zack saw the energy flash in his shoulders, a false signal. He knew it was a feint. But Kael's real attack was not a follow up punch. It was a sudden forward stomp that shook the ground under Zack's feet.
Zack's balance wavered for a half second.
It was enough.
Kael's fist came in, a straight line driven from the hip. It was too fast to dodge fully. Zack got his arms up. The punch slammed into his guard.
The force was immense. It felt like being hit by a cart. It drove him back, his boots skidding in the chalk. His forearms went numb to the elbows. The air left his lungs in a painful rush.
Before he could recover, Kael was on him. A hook to the body. Zack twisted, taking it on the ribs instead of the stomach. Pain exploded along his side. A knee came up. Zack dropped his elbow down to block, the impact jarring his teeth.
He was against the stone rim of the arena now. No more room.
Kael measured him for the finish. He would throw the right cross. The wide one Mira mentioned. He always did.
Zack saw the energy gather. A concentrated pool of hot, copper light flooding into Kael's right shoulder and fist. He saw Kael's hips start to pivot.
There was no time to duck. No space to slip.
The ring on his finger turned icy cold. The Warden's voice was a chip of frost in his mind. *Do not meet it. Unmake its path.*
It was not a lesson. It was an instinct.
As Kael's cross fired toward his jaw, Zack did not raise his hands. He focused on the air in the direct line between Kael's fist and his face. He did not pull energy. He pushed the void. He made that line of air empty. Not just still. Dead.
Kael's punch traveled through a sudden, absolute vacuum. There was no air resistance, no sound. The force of the punch was unchanged, but its guidance was gone. It was a ship losing its rudder.
The fist missed Zack's jaw by an inch. The momentum carried Kael forward, off balance.
Zack moved. He was inside Kael's guard. He drove his own fist into Kael's exposed side, right under the ribs.
The impact was solid. A deep, thudding sound.
Kael gasped. He stumbled back two steps, his hand going to his side. He looked at Zack, his eyes wide with something beyond pain. Confusion. His punch should have landed. It had never not landed.
The crowd was silent. Then noise erupted, a confused wave of shouts and questions.
The Elder's staff cracked down three times. "Hold! The match is concluded!"
Kael straightened up, his face pale. He was breathing hard. He looked at the spot where his punch had missed, then at Zack.
Zack stood, his own chest heaving. His side throbbed. His arms felt like lead.
"Victory, Kael," the Elder announced.
The sound rushed back in. Cheers for Kael, but they were mixed now. People were pointing, talking over each other.
Kael walked toward Zack, his hand still pressed to his ribs. He stopped close.
"What was that?" Kael's voice was low, raw.
"I got lucky," Zack said. His own voice sounded distant.
"That was not luck." Kael searched his face. "Something happened. The air... it changed." He shook his head, as if clearing it. "You fight like a ghost. It's annoying."
He offered his hand. Zack took it. Kael's grip was firm. He leaned in. "Be careful, ghost. People notice ghosts."
Then he turned and walked out of the ring, accepting backslaps from his friends, but his smile did not reach his eyes.
Zack climbed out of the arena. The crowd parted for him, but differently than before. Their eyes were not avoiding him. They were studying him. He saw curiosity. Speculation. A little fear.
Mira crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You made him miss! You hit him! Did you see his face?"
Bram was right behind her, grinning. "I owe Old Man Harel three coppers. I bet you'd last more than a minute. You made me a rich man. Well, a slightly less poor man."
Liddy stood a step back. She looked from Zack's face to his hands. "Your knuckles," she said.
Zack looked down. His knuckles were pale. Unmarked. He had hit Kael cleanly. There should be a redness, a scrape.
"He blocked with his aura at the last second," Zack said. "Didn't connect solid."
Liddy's gaze was steady. She said nothing.
Chief Burrel waited at the edge of the green. He said nothing as Zack approached. He just looked at him, his dark eyes missing nothing. The cut on Kael's side. The lack of marks on Zack's hands. The confused buzz of the crowd.
"You planted a doubt," Burrel said finally. "That is more than I asked for. Go home. Rest. You will feel every one of those blows tomorrow."
Zack walked home through the village. The afternoon sun was warm. The sounds of life were normal. But the world had shifted. He was no longer just the husk. He was the boy who had stood with Kael and made the air itself bend.
At home, his mother had hot broth ready. His father came in from the field earlier than usual. He sat at the table and looked at Zack.
"You fought well," his father said. The words were simple. From him, they were a monument.
"Thank you."
His father nodded, then went to wash up.
That night, the aches set in. His ribs were a purple sunset. His thigh was stiff. He lay in the loft, listening to Mira's soft snores.
The cold presence of the ring pressed against his mind.
*You used the void to create a local negation,* the Warden's voice came. *A crude application. But effective. The boy's sensory dissonance saved you.*
*It was that or get knocked out,* Zack thought back.
*A functional calculus. Your control is improving. But the expenditure was visible to a sensitive observer. The Chief felt it. The opponent felt it. This is a risk.*
*What should I have done?*
*Not been in that position. You allowed yourself to be cornered. The void is a tool for freedom, not a trapdoor. Your physical skills are still lacking.*
The criticism was cold and sharp. It was also true.
*The trial is over,* Zack thought. *Now what?*
*Now you have perhaps bought a little time. A little curiosity. Use it. The real training begins. The power you hold is not for winning village bouts. It is for surviving the things that hunt in the spaces between the Paths. You have taken the first step. Do not linger on it.*
The presence receded, leaving the cold ring and the colder truth.
Zack had won nothing today. He had survived. He had hidden a secret in plain sight. He had moved from being a condemned man to a question mark.
It was not a victory. But it was a start. He closed his eyes, the pain in his body a map of the battle, and slept.