ZE-RAK stepped forward.
The air, already heavy, became thick as honey, saturated with barely contained murderous intent. Each step echoed with an abnormal heaviness on the packed earth.
MASSI, the instructor, crossed his arms. A muscle in his jaw twitched imperceptibly, the only sign of tension on his seasoned warrior's face.
"All you have to do is touch me. However you can. A hand, a foot, brush my tunic." His voice was calm, but it smelled of challenge, of testing.
"Alright," replied ZE-RAK, his own voice sounding strangely distant, as if he were listening to someone else speak.
In an instant, the real world tore apart.
The training ground, the apprentices holding their breath, the huts in the background... everything disappeared, sucked into a silent whirlwind. A vast and silent desert enveloped him, more real than reality itself. The sand crunched under his feet, the white, cold sun burned his retina. In his hand, a spear. His spear. It was heavy, solid, real. The wood was rough under his palm, the flint tip sharpened.
And facing him, a figure with sharp, threatening features, sculpted from the desert light: MASSI.
"He'll try to unbalance me with KPATOU... then immobilize my arm with Gbonu..." he thought, the techniques from the class resonating like physical laws in his mind.
ZE-RAK advanced in the desert, his spear held ready.
He had barely closed the distance when the instructor, in both worlds simultaneously, made a subtle step, imperceptible to any other eye, a simple pressure of the foot that engaged his weight.
In the desert, his double did the same.
And ZE-RAK knew. He immediately leaped back, a bad feeling twisting his gut. In reality, his body reproduced the movement, stepping back sharply just as MASSI had only made a tiny shift.
His eyes narrowed. He lowered his stance, muscles taut like bowstrings, and resumed his advance. Another step from MASSI, almost a flicker. Another instinctive, sharp recoil from ZE-RAK.
He sought an angle, tried to circle around... but the instructor pivoted constantly, his ghostly gaze glued to him like a second skin, his center of gravity always low, always protected.
The apprentices, spectators in the real world, understood nothing. They only saw two men sizing each other up, advancing and retreating without touching, in a deathly silence, as if following the steps of an invisible, mad dance.
But for ZE-RAK, it was clear. Every gesture, every micro-movement from MASSI resonated in his mind like an overly familiar memory, triggering flashes of déjà vu so violent and precise they were physically painful. His power was no longer guiding him toward victory; it was pulling him back, screaming at him not to reproduce the mistakes he had already seen, the futures where he was thrown, immobilized, broken.
MASSI finally stiffened. A flash of keen interest, almost suspicion, crossed his gaze.
He seems to anticipate my movements. Not guess. Anticipate. As if he's reading my intention in my posture, before I even act. Interesting.
He sketched a faint smile, a predator's grimace sensing strange prey.
Let's see how far he can go. How far this... talent can carry him.
ZE-RAK took a deep breath, regaining control of his breath that whistled in the desert's silence. In the desert, his gaze became as sharp as his spear's tip. He had to retake the initiative. He had to force the future to change.
Then... he charged.
His feet slapped against the earthen ground. In reality, his hand shot out, straight and fast, aiming for MASSI's shoulder.
MASSI, as expected, bent his knee, his arm preparing to grab ZE-RAK's arm to unbalance him (KPATOU).
But with a sharp jerk, ZE-RAK arched his torso and spun on himself, using his momentum to surge into the instructor's blind spot.
A trap.
MASSI had anticipated it. His other arm shot out like a serpent in that direction, his large hand ready to capture his student's wrist to immobilize him (Gbonu).
"No!" ZE-RAK's mind screamed in the desert.
But instead of letting himself be caught, he chose to trip. He unbalanced himself on purpose, deliberately slid on the dusty ground of the real world and crashed heavily onto his back, narrowly avoiding MASSI's grasp.
In reality, as he fell, he made a sudden, desperate movement with his hand...
In the desert, the spear vibrated.
Driven by accumulated rage, by the memory of his father, by the terror of failure, he hurled the imaginary weapon with implacable brutality, aiming not to touch, but to kill. The flint tip sank straight into the double's throat, a perfect strike, a Dzoko of lethal precision.
One heartbeat. A moment of suspension.
Then the desert shattered.
It shattered like glass under the violent shock that exploded in ZE-RAK's chest.
MASSI had struck. Too fast. Too hard. The blow (Dzoko) was meant to stun, to score the point, but the panicked, animal fear he had felt facing the imaginary spear – that pure murderous intention he had read in ZE-RAK's movement – had made him strike as if his life truly depended on it. His fist sank into ZE-RAK's sternum with the dull sound of a club hitting a sack of grain.
ZE-RAK was torn from his imaginary world and thrown to the ground like a rag doll, the wind knocked out of him, his vision blurred with pain and white stars. A taste of blood filled his mouth.
It was a perfect combo. KPATOU (his own fall), Gbonu (avoiding the grab), Dzoko (the lightning counterattack). But alas, there was no spear... only the empty gesture, and the intention, palpable, in the boy's gaze.
Some apprentices burst into nervous laughter. To them, he had just tripped pathetically, and the instructor had illustrated his lesson with brutal efficiency.
But the reality was quite different.
MASSI, an intermediate hunter, was pale. A cold sweat beaded on his temple. He looked at his own fist as if he didn't recognize it.
This kid... at the last moment, his gesture, his gaze... he forced me to react. He made me believe I was going to die.
Him, a seasoned warrior, had lost his composure facing an apprentice. He had overreacted. He had wanted to hold back his blow, but instinct had been stronger. Much stronger.
ZE-RAK lay on the ground, inert, his face turned to the white sky.
A heavy silence settled, the laughter cutting off sharply, replaced by deep discomfort.
Then, in a superhuman effort that made the audience shudder, a shadow rose up behind MASSI.
ZE-RAK.
His eyes were closed, his body swaying, one hand pressed against his chest where a throbbing pain was setting in... but he was standing. Tenacious. Untamable. Like his father in the arena.
A shockwave ran through the audience. MASSI clenched his fists, an indecipherable emotion – a mix of anger, shame, and newly born respect – in the depths of his gaze. Then, in a firm voice that didn't tremble, he barked, masking his unease under authority:
"It's over. The session ends here."
In the assembly, a weak voice, almost an ecstatic murmur, rose, that of an apprentice with a gaze shining with fanatical admiration:
"Hehe... very interesting. That's it... a man. A real one."
--
When he opened his eyes,the thatched ceiling of the infirmary greeted him. The pungent, familiar smell of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils. The sensation of a hard bed under his back.
"Where am I...?"
ZE-RAK sat up with a grimace, a dull, deep pain instantly reminding him of the impact. A hand pressed against his chest, he felt the regular, albeit painful, beats of his heart. Immense relief washed over him.
"Phew... I'm not dead."
"You're awake?" asked a feminine, composed voice from a corner of the room.
Surprised, ZE-RAK turned his head. A young woman he had never seen before approached. She was pretty, her oval face marked by a professional and attentive expression, but her brown eyes scrutinized his face with intense curiosity.
"I apologize if I startled you," she said.
"Who... are you?" asked ZE-RAK, his voice still hoarse, strangled by pain.
"Oh, you can call me TINA. I'm a healer. I'm the one who took care of you."
"I... thank you."
"Don't mention it, it's my role. But..." She paused, tilted her head. "I have a question. Does everything seem normal to you? Any strange... sensations? Dizziness, visions?"
ZE-RAK blinked, wariness immediately overwhelming him.
"No. Why?"
"Well," TINA continued, lowering her voice a little as if sharing a secret, "we used KPATIMA on you while you were asleep. To check your reflexes, make sure there was no hidden injury. Normally, it makes you sneeze violently and wakes the person instantly. But you... nothing. Not a shiver. Not a spasm. You slept like a rock. It's... strange. Very strange."
ZE-RAK slowly shook his head, his mind on alert. KPATIMA? That herb that made even the dead sneeze? His father's immunity... him too?
"No. Nothing strange," he lied, his face becoming a neutral mask again.
A silence settled. TINA seemed to want to insist, to scrutinize his soul, then she reconsidered, understanding she would get nothing more.
"Alright, if you say so..." She stood up. "Ah, I almost forgot. There's the spirituality class tonight, on the training ground. If you feel well enough, you should go. It's essential for you apprentices. Understanding the world you hunt in is as important as knowing how to throw a spear."
With these words, she left the room.
ZE-RAK remained alone, the images of his fight against MASSI coming back to him, sharper than ever.
I was impulsive. Stupid. I almost got myself killed.
He breathed deeply, and the pain reminded him of the lesson.
But thanks to that, I understand. This feeling... it's not just a premonition. It's knowledge. I felt so uneasy this morning as if I was receiving a warning. And then, facing him, I felt confident at times, as if I was being given a green light for certain actions. It's a guide. Imperfect, but real.
Suddenly, a thought struck him, more terrifying and exciting than anything.
Wait... I didn't have a spear. So why did I have one in the other world? And I only realized its unreality near the end. My mind had accepted it as real. And besides... would it really have happened like in that world if I had one?
He shook his head, chasing away the dizzying idea. It was an abyss he must not lose himself in. Not now.
Anyway... it's already night. I have to go. I can't miss this class.
He stood up, aching but determined, and went out to head to the training ground, unaware that this particular day, which had begun with a bad omen, was far from over. Spirituality, perhaps, had answers to the questions his body and mind were only beginning to ask.