The next day, the ground vibrated under the rhythmic pounding of feet. The apprentices panted, forming a long line that snaked around the training ground. Sweat streamed down their temples, sticking their light tunics to their skin. Their ragged breaths mingled in the already heavy, warm morning air, creating a symphony of fatigue.
Before them, motionless but overwhelming in his mere presence, stood Instructor MASSI. He wasn't running, wasn't sweating. He observed, his eyes sweeping the line with professional coldness, lingering on an unbalanced stride, on a back beginning to hunch.
ZE-RAK was among them, his chest on fire, every breath torture. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned. But this physical suffering was a welcome distraction, an anchor in the real world against the inner turmoil that had been consuming him since he woke up.
Because he had woken with a visceral sensation, a lead weight in his stomach. It wasn't fear. It was worse: an organic certainty, a premonition so strong his hands were clammy. "I didn't get up on the right foot." The ZORA expression didn't just mean bad luck; it was a warning from nature, a sixth sense that said: Today, danger prowls. Something was going to happen.
"Perfect! Stop running and gather!" MASSI's voice cut through the air like a machete blow, sharp and final.
The apprentices stopped in dreadful disorder, some collapsing on the spot, others struggling to catch their breath, hands on knees.
"Good," MASSI growled, scanning the ranks with an inquisitive look that made even the most exhausted straighten up. "Before we begin, let's talk a bit about EVALA. As you know, EVALA isn't just wrestling. It's a sacred ritual, a pillar marking the passage from child to adult. From this ancient practice were born combat techniques that use only our body, our instinct, and our intelligence. Today, you will discover three main ones."
ZE-RAK felt his heart beat faster, not from the run, but from a fascination despite himself. Despite the hatred he bore him, a part of him, hungry for knowledge, opened up. His mind, starved, prepared to welcome every word, every detail, like pieces of a new puzzle to experiment with, to dismantle and rebuild in the desert of his mind.
"The first technique is called KPATOU: the breaking of balance," MASSI announced. "In a duel, whether against a man or a beast, the one who is off-balance is already half defeated. Your goal is to create that flaw, to unbalance your opponent, to break their anchor."
Immediately, ZE-RAK's world shifted.
The training ground, the panting faces, MASSI's menacing silhouette... everything dissolved. The white, infinite sand enveloped him. The silence. And facing him, an agouti sprung from nowhere, sharper, more real than ever. The animal charged, zigzagging unpredictably, its agile paws raising tiny clouds of dust.
Too fast.
A stone appeared in his hand. He didn't throw it at the animal, but slightly ahead of its trajectory, where its next bound should take it. The agouti, surprised by the sudden obstacle, stumbled, its momentum broken. The scene stopped abruptly, frozen.
"Oh, I lost the thread." His mind was brutally pulled back to reality. He had missed part of the explanation.
MASSI was giving a concrete example. "This cunning animal, the agouti, zigzags to throw off the hunter. The mistake is to chase after it. The intelligent hunter throws a stone, not to hit it, but slightly ahead of its trajectory. Surprised, the agouti changes its footing abruptly, slows down, or stumbles. That's the moment, that instant of imbalance, when you must pounce on it."
But ZE-RAK had already lived it, truly lived it, in his head. The coincidence was too perfect, too synchronous. A shiver much colder than sweat ran down his spine. His power didn't just simulate; it synchronized with the teaching, anticipating concepts before they were fully explained.
"Now, in a desperate close-quarters fight," MASSI continued, "if a heavier animal, a boar, a young predator, jumps on you, don't try to stop it. Use its momentum against it. Bend your knees slightly, shoulder forward, and throw it to the ground by guiding its fall."
Another shift. An imaginary boar, a mass of muscle and fury, charged at him in the desert. ZE-RAK dodged by a hair's breadth, felt the beast's weight, accompanied its movement and threw it to the ground with a satisfying crack of bones. Then his analytical mind took over.
"And if instead of the ground, I aimed for a tree? The impact would be more fatal. But for that, the tree needs to be in the line...".
He calculated, adjusted the scene. "... or I use more force, pivot on myself to direct it there."
He stopped abruptly, a glimmer of pure understanding in his inner gaze.
"Wait... all this would be useless if I don't foresee the assault from the start. The key is anticipation... staying alert, always. Reading the intention in the gaze, in the tension of the muscles."
"The goal," MASSI concluded, like a distant echo, "is not brute force, but breaking the rhythm, seizing the initiative."
ZE-RAK emerged from his trance, short of breath. He had just understood, integrated the lesson much more deeply and quickly than anyone else, by living it. Fear had given way to a terrified fascination with the capabilities of his own mind.
Then MASSI moved on to the other two techniques, and each explanation was a catalyst for ZE-RAK's mind:
"The second technique: Gbonu, immobilization. After unbalancing, the animal remains dangerous. You must control it. Pin it to the ground, knee behind the shoulders to break any attempt to raise the front quarters, hand on the hips to prevent kicking. It will be unable to leap. But not from the front, never face-on to a biting animal... always from the side or from behind.
Finally, the third technique: Dzoko, the precise strike. Here, it's no longer about controlling, but striking with deadly precision. A hunter never strikes randomly. Every blow aims for a weak point. The eye, the temple, the base of the skull. A single blow. Definitive."
His inner world teemed with applications, variations, catastrophic scenarios that he solved at a dizzying speed. It was intoxicating. And frightening.
And then MASSI's name hit him full force, bringing him back to the cruel reality.
MASSI. The one who testified. The one who lied. The one who helped kill his father.
The joy of discovery was instantly extinguished, replaced by a black cold, a tenacious bitterness that tightened his throat. He had momentarily forgotten. Forgotten the pain, the betrayal, his father's bruised face in the dust. Anger rose, dull, burning. He felt it rumbling within him, ready to explode. He met MASSI's gaze. Had the instructor seen this hatred burning in his eyes? Had he perceived the almost supernatural intensity of his concentration?
"Good, I think you need a demonstration," MASSI called out, interrupting his thoughts. "But for that, I'll need a volunteer. To show how these three techniques chain together on a resisting partner."
A leaden silence fell over the group. Nobody moved. Gazes dropped, fixed on the packed earth. Volunteering to face MASSI? It was pure madness. It was offering oneself as a sacrifice.
ZE-RAK's voice burst out before his consciousness had time to approve, driven by an explosive mix of contained rage, defiance, and a visceral need to test his power in real conditions.
"Me."
The word resonated in the still air, clear, sharp, and cutting like a blade. All heads turned toward him, incredulous. Some smirked mockingly. Others looked at him with pity. The traitor's son is still seeking death.
MASSI stared at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. A smile that didn't reach his eyes, that was a stone facade.
"Very well... ZE-RAK. Approach."
ZE-RAK stepped forward. His heart pounding, not from fear, but from channeled rage seeking an outlet. He hadn't thought. A force stronger than himself had pushed him. And deep down, the small voice of reason, the one that had whispered he hadn't gotten up on the right foot, screamed at him that he had just made a terrible, irremediable mistake.
The air between them seemed to condense, charged with a painful past, a dangerous present, and an uncertain future.
The duel, much more than a simple exercise, could begin.