Arka woke up with a heavy feeling. His head was still spinning, the remnants of the absurd family drama—accusations of "sugar mommies," a fake "King," and his mother's hysterical tears—still fresh in his mind. He hoped this morning would at least be calm.
He pushed open his creaking bedroom door.
The cold morning air slipped through the cracks of the wooden house, raising goosebumps on his skin.
Instead of silence, he heard a riotous noise. It sounded intense.
"PASS IT, YOU IDIOT! PASS IT HERE! WHY DID YOU SHOOT?! DAMN IT!"
That voice... was that his Mother?
But the tone wasn't angry, sad, or hysterical. It was... competitive.
It was the same tone she used when winning a corporate tender or crushing a debate opponent—full of fire and confidence.
Confused, Arka quickened his pace toward the living room.
He stopped dead in the doorway.
The scene before him defied all logic. The "mountain range" of shopping boxes from yesterday still filled the room. But there were two major changes.
First, a large box labeled "Latest PS-Series" had been torn open on the floor.
The plastic wrapping was shoved aside, reflecting the faint light from the rain-darkened window.
Second, his new 85-inch super-wide screen TV—which Arka hadn't even had the chance to unwrap—was neatly mounted on the wall, broadcasting a crystal-clear image.
The blue-white glow of the screen highlighted the stack of cardboard boxes, creating a silhouette that was chaotic, modern, and absurd all at once.
And on the sofa, his Mother, still wearing expensive silk pajamas, sat hunched forward. Her legs were crossed inelegantly, her eyes glued to the screen, and her hands gripped Arka's new controller tightly.
Even the tips of her curly hair bobbed every time she leaned forward like a professional player in a tournament final.
She was engrossed in a soccer video game.
"GO! RUN! RUN! CHASE HIM! GOOOOOL! YES! IT'S IN!"
His mother hopped slightly on the sofa, raising the controller into the air in triumph.
Her cheers sliced through the dim atmosphere of the house, clashing with the sound of rain tapping on the roof tiles.
"TAKE THAT! WHO TOLD YOU TO PLAY AGAINST ME! YES! YES! YES!"
She shouted. She cursed. She exclaimed with pure enthusiasm, completely swept away by the moment.
As if the dramatic tragedy of the night before... the hysterical tears... and the conspiracy accusations of "sugar mommies"...
...Had been completely forgotten.
Arka just stood there. Frozen. His mouth slowly fell open.
He even blinked twice rapidly, ensuring his brain wasn't playing a strange dream.
He stared at his Mother, who was now busy cursing out the virtual referee on the TV. He stared at his hijacked PS box. He stared at his used new TV.
He rubbed his eyes once. Hoping this was a dream.
"Mom...?" he mumbled softly, barely audible.
This. This was far crazier than last night's drama.
Arka ignored the surreal sight of his mother cursing a virtual referee. He shook his head slowly. The level of insanity in this house had exceeded the limits of his understanding. He decided not to interfere.
He took a deep breath, trying to establish focus.
He turned, stepping out of the living room, heading toward the training hall at the back of the house.
He walked along the long wooden veranda connecting the main house to the temple and the hall. The morning drizzle fell silently, and strangely, the sky was still so dark, as if the morning sun was reluctant to shine fully.
The scent of wet earth mixed with the smell of old wood, adding to the heavy impression of the morning atmosphere.
The air felt cold and dense.
He pushed open the heavy wooden sliding door at the end of the veranda.
Sreeet...
The hall was dim and quiet, lit only by several oil lamps on the walls, not electric lights.
The dim orange light trembled softly with the unstable flames, casting moving shadows on the wooden floor.
The scent of sandalwood mixed with the stinging smell of sweat.
His Father was already there.
He stood in the center of the room, his black training shirt soaked through, clinging to his athletic frame. Sweat poured from his buzz-cut hair, and his breathing sounded heavy. He looked as if he had just finished dozens of sessions without a break.
His back muscles rose and fell rhythmically with his breath, making his silhouette look like an ancient warrior statue just returned from battle.
His Father turned as Arka entered. His eyes were sharp and incredibly serious, no trace remaining of the resigned attitude he showed in front of his Mother last night.
"Come in," his Father said, his voice heavy.
Arka nodded. He walked to the corner of the room, toward the wooden rack where the bokken wooden swords were neatly stored. It was his routine. He was just about to reach for his usual practice sword.
"No," his Father's voice stopped him.
Arka turned.
"Use a real sword."
Arka froze. His eyes widened in shock, but also a little curiosity.
His heart pounded, half nervous, half excited—this was the first time he had been given permission to touch the weapon.
"Huh??? Really..."
His Father didn't answer. He simply pointed with his chin to the weapon rack on the other side of the wooden hall. The rack that had always been covered by cloth and forbidden for Arka to touch.
It was a rack filled with complete metal weaponry.
"Real weapons," Arka whispered to himself.
His drowsiness vanished instantly, replaced by a slightly nervous excitement.
The oil lamp light reflected off the metal surfaces, creating thin beams that shimmered like electric lines.
He walked closer to the rack. There, hanging neatly, were swords that glinted faintly under the lamplight. He ignored the large two-handed swords or the long spears. His eyes fixed on a single slender blade.
He picked it up. A thin, light sword with a one-handed grip. It felt cold, dense, and far heavier than he had imagined.
The subtle vibration of the metal could be felt all the way to his wrist, as if the weapon were alive.
He carried it to the center of the room, trying to feel its balance.
"Begin," his Father ordered.
Arka took a breath. He started his training session—the sequence of forms and breathing exercises his Grandfather had taught him since he could walk.
His Father didn't join in. He simply leaned against the wall, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his neck.
The look in his eyes turned sharp and calculating, like a military instructor assessing a new recruit.
His sharp, tired eyes watched Arka's every move, every swing of the metal sword that now whistled softly in the humid air.
The air in the hall felt heavy with silence and the drizzle outside. The only sounds were the soft creak of the wooden floor as Arka moved, and the sharp hiss of the thin metal blade slicing the air.
For Arka, this felt completely different. The wooden sword was blunt and familiar. This sword... was alive. Its weight was real, and its balance demanded absolute focus. Every swing, every thrust, felt like it had consequences.
The blade seemed to warn: 'One slip, and you lose a finger.'
His Father stood leaning against the wall, the towel draped over his sweaty neck. He no longer looked like the man resigned before his wife; he was an officer, an Aksesa, analyzing.
His sharp eyes didn't blink. He noticed every detail.
Even Arka's smallest movements—the shift of body weight, the way his wrist rotated, the position of his feet as they gripped the floor—did not escape his observation.
He watched how Arka shifted his weight—fluid and controlled. How his feet stepped on the wooden floor—almost soundlessly. How his wrist twisted when changing the direction of the blade.
His Father murmured softly, more to himself, his voice barely audible over the hiss of Arka's sword.
"Posture..." he mumbled.
His tone sounded like he was taking technical evaluation notes.
"...Step... stance... movement..."
He watched Arka finish a complex sequence of moves with a clean finishing swing. The blade stopped instantly, without the slightest tremor.
His Father nodded slowly, his expression rigid, but there was a glimmer of admiration in his weary eyes.
The corner of his eye moved up slightly—almost invisible to others, but enough for Arka to catch a glimpse.
"...Perfect."
Arka finished his final form with the single sword, holding the posture for a moment before exhaling and lowering his weapon. He didn't rest.
He placed the thin sword back on the rack carefully. His eyes traced the metal weapon collection again. Then, he reached for another similar sword, and another identical one.
Now he held dual blades, one in his right hand and one in his left.
Double swords.
He returned to the center of the hall.
He took his stance. Silence for a moment. It felt as if the entire room held its breath with him.
Then, he began to move.
If earlier was precision training, this was a dance. He spun, the blades in both hands moving in deadly harmony.
His movements cut the humid air with an almost musical rhythm—the whir of metal becoming a beautiful, brutal melody.
His movements were decisive—every slash had a purpose—yet flowed elegantly. He was like a small controlled storm, the two swords becoming extensions of his arms, singing in the dim air.
His shadow danced on the walls, moving with the flickering reflection of the oil lamps.
Across the room, his Father, who had been watching with a stiff and analytical expression, couldn't help it.
The corner of his lips lifted slightly.
It was a father's smile shown only to his son—faint, but proud.
He smiled a small smile. A thin smile full of weary pride.
The dance ended.
The two blades in his hands stopped simultaneously, freezing in the air in a defensive posture. Arka was panting. He lowered his weapons, letting sweat drip from his chin and arms, flowing freely down his bare torso.
His sweat felt cold as it met the humid wind from the cracks in the wooden walls.
He walked over to his father, who was still leaning against the wall. The metal swords in his hands felt heavy.
"Dad..." he said, still trying to regulate his breathing.
His Father just looked at him, his analytical expression still in place.
"Dad, why do we train with swords?" Arka asked, his tone genuinely confused.
His eyebrow raised slightly, looking like a small child questioning the logic of the world.
"Shouldn't we... just practice with guns?"
He shook the swords in his hands slightly, demonstrating how ancient the weapons were.
"It seems like in a real fight," he continued,
"Wouldn't I get taken out first if the enemy used a gun? Huh..."
His Father stared at Arka for a moment. The small smile that had graced his lips vanished, replaced by an expression of disbelief at the question.
Then, laughter exploded.
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
His Father's loud, deep, and raspy laugh echoed throughout the training hall, startling Arka.
The sound of his laughter bounced off the wooden walls, producing a heavy echo like war drums.
His Father laughed so hard he had to push himself off the wall to stand upright.
He slapped Arka's shoulder hard, his laughter still not subsiding.
"Stupid boy."
His Father's loud laughter finally died down, but his eyes still held amusement. He looked at Arka, who was still standing confused with two swords in hand, waiting for a genius explanation.
"Stupid boy," his Father repeated, but this time it sounded more like a fact than an insult.
He patted Arka's shoulder firmly.
"Listen," his Father said, his tone suddenly turning serious, as if delivering a brilliant war strategy. He looked Arka in the eye.
His voice dropped half an octave, becoming heavier and full of meaning.
"If the enemy doesn't use a gun... then you are the winner."
Arka just stood silent.
He digested the sentence. Once. Twice. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"Hah..." he muttered softly, his voice laden with disbelief.
What kind of logic is that?
He looked at the swords in his hands, then at his Father. That was the most useless statement he had ever heard. Obviously if the enemy doesn't use a gun I win! The problem is IF THEY DO!
He felt his head starting to spin again. As if the insanity level of this family had just increased another 200%.
This training seemed just as crazy as the rest of the family members.
His Father patted his sweaty shoulder.
"Enough. Go shower."
Arka lowered his swords, still panting.
"You have a morning schedule with your mother," his Father continued, turning to get a drink.
Arka frowned.
"Huh? Where are we going?"
His Father turned back, his gaze flat.
"Better to just shut up and follow along. If you don't want to add to your problems."
Arka fell silent immediately. He felt a very bad premonition. Cold sweat, unrelated to the training, crept down his spine.
But seeing how his Father—a military officer—was so obedient, he knew he had no choice.
He returned the metal swords to their rack and left the hall to shower.
The warm shower water should have been soothing, but Arka's bad feeling only grew stronger. Warm steam filled the bathroom, but it wasn't enough to chase away the anxiety clinging to his chest.
He finished showering, dried off, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
He opened the bathroom door, ready to sneak into his room to change clothes.
He froze in the doorway.
His Mother was waiting outside.
She was no longer playing PS. The "mountains" of shopping boxes that filled the front room last night had been completely dismantled.
The sofa, chairs, and living room floor were now covered in a sea of shopping plastic, price tags, and clothes hangers. Expensive leather jackets, designer wool coats, limited-edition sneakers, dozens of branded t-shirts, and fashionable ripped jeans were scattered everywhere.
The distinct scent of new fabric and premium softener filled the air, mixing with the residual smell of freshly opened plastic packaging.
His Mother stood in the middle of this fashion chaos, holding a black cashmere turtleneck.
She turned as Arka stepped out. Her eyes sparkled with a strange enthusiasm, one far more terrifying than her anger the night before. There was an obsessive glint in her gaze—the kind that only appeared when she found a "new project" she could perfect.
"Hehehe..."
Arka swallowed hard.
"Hurry up," his Mother said, her voice cheerful.
The cheerful tone clashed with the dim atmosphere of the morning house, sounding like a mix between a professional stylist and a dangerous mother.
"Throw away that ugly towel. Here, try this first."
She threw a set of branded underwear and slim-fit jeans at Arka. Arka, still half-naked, caught them clumsily.
"Mom..."
"Put them on quickly! Mom wants to see."
Resigned, Arka turned around briefly, putting on the clothes awkwardly in the middle of the living room. His skin was still damp from the shower, making the new fabric feel slicker as it clung to his body.
"Okay, now this basic white tee."
Arka put it on.
"There... there... look," his Mother clicked her tongue in admiration, walking around Arka as if he were a mannequin.
"Perfect fit! Your shoulders look broad. So stylish!"
His Mother adjusted the hem of his t-shirt without being asked, furrowing her thin brows like a haute couture designer.
"Now," his Mother grabbed a pair of white leather sneakers from their box.
"Wear these."
Arka sat on the sofa, putting on the shoes.
"Not done yet!" His Mother grabbed an olive satin bomber jacket.
"Put on the jacket!"
Arka stood up and put on the jacket.
"OH MY GOD!" His Mother clapped her hands once, her eyes twinkling.
"So handsome! Gorgeous! Whose child is this?!"
"Okay, okay, take it off!"
"Huh? Done?" Arka asked hopefully.
"No! Change into this one!" His Mother now handed him the black turtleneck from earlier and a long camel wool coat.
"Mom... this is..." Arka mumbled.
"Don't protest so much! Put it on, quickly!"
Arka changed clothes again. He was starting to sweat under the layers of expensive wool.
Every fiber of the wool felt warm but suffocating, while his Mother paced back and forth like a Milan runway stylist.
His Mother shrieked again, suppressing a squeal.
"Elegant! Truly handsome! You should be a model, darling! Oh, it fits perfectly!"
For the next hour, Arka was nothing more than a living doll. He was forced to try oversized hoodies with cargo pants, flannel shirts with combat boots, then back to casual t-shirts and sneakers—every combination greeted with praise and enthusiastic squeals from his Mother.
T-shirts flew through the air, hangers fell, piles of price tags covered the carpet like chaotic fashion war confetti.
"Finally... it's over," Arka muttered to himself, feeling exhausted as if he had just run a marathon, not just changed clothes.
He was now wearing the final outfit his mother had approved—a crisp white t-shirt, well-fitted designer jeans, and white leather sneakers that probably cost as much as a month's apartment rent.
He walked to the kitchen to find a very late breakfast.
There, he saw his Grandfather standing near the dining table. His Grandfather had changed clothes again. This time not the daily temple guardian garb, but official temple robes that were layered and looked heavy, complete with a stiff headpiece. He seemed busy examining several documents and old files scattered on the table.
The pages of the ancient paper looked yellowed, with fading ink and intricate handwriting.
"Grandpa going to teach?" Arka asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of cold water.
"Yes," Grandfather answered briefly. He didn't lift his head, busy flipping through pages of the archaic-looking file.
His voice sounded distant, as if his mind were in another century.
Arka just shrugged. He took a plate, scooped up leftover fried rice from the wok, and started eating casually while leaning against the kitchen counter.
This scene was normal for him.
He knew his Grandfather was a respected Professor in the field of Ancient History and Spirituality. Even though his Grandfather had officially retired from full-time university teaching years ago, he was still very active.
His Grandfather was often invited as an expert speaker in various seminars, forums, or sometimes called by museums or national archives to research ancient manuscripts.
For Arka, seeing his Grandfather dressed formally and busy with stacks of files in the morning was normal. It just meant Grandfather had his own "work" schedule.
Arka had just placed his dirty plate in the sink when his mother's voice rang out from the living room.
"Arka, let's go. Mom will drive you to campus."
Arka dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. He stopped.
The figure who this morning had been wearing silk pajamas, screaming hysterically in front of the TV while playing soccer games, had vanished.
Standing waiting for him near the pile of shopping boxes was a completely different woman.
Arka looked at his mother, and she was dressed beautifully. Incredibly fashionable.
Her copper-brown curly hair, which had been tied up last night, was now left loose, styled in soft, glossy waves as if she had just stepped out of a high-end salon. Her face was made up perfectly—the makeup was subtle but distinct, accentuating her sharp eyes.
She was no longer wearing casual clothes. This morning, she wore an ivory sleeveless wide-leg jumpsuit that looked incredibly expensive. The cut was minimalist yet very sharp, hugging her curves perfectly.
Her slender waist was cinched by a thin tan leather belt. The belt matched a stiffly structured designer handbag and the high stiletto heels she wore.
She didn't wear much jewelry, just an elegant thin gold watch and large sunglasses now perched atop her head like a headband.
Every step she took produced a soft click from her stilettos on the wooden floor, combined with the scent of a soft yet classy floral-amber perfume.
She looked like a fashion magazine editor or a diplomat ready to attend an important event—not just a mother driving her son, who had just been accused of having "sugar mommies," to campus.
Arka looked at his mother from head to toe. He just realized where the crazy fashion sense that forced him to try on 50 outfits this morning came from.
And for the first time that morning, he could only stand silently thinking:
"...Nothing is normal in this family."
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