CHAPTER 10: The Tenth Fracture

The wind was still warm on my face as I followed Zamaneh through the endless field of green. The grass barely rustled under our feet. In the distance, I could still hear the echo of Sukara’s energy—his fight wasn’t over yet.

But mine was only beginning.

Zamaneh walked with perfect posture, hands clasped behind her back. She hadn’t said a word since we left. It was almost intimidating—like walking behind a queen. Or a god.

I guess in some ways, she was both.

Eventually, we reached a flatter section of the field, where the grass had been cleared into a wide circle. At the center stood a simple weapon rack—spears, wooden staves, weighted gloves. No artifacts. No elegance. Just tools.

She turned to me at last. Her eyes were sharp and unreadable.

“You have potential,” she said, plain and direct. “But potential is a fragile thing. If left untrained, it dies.”

I stood a little straighter. “I understand.”

“No,” she said, already walking past me. “You don’t. Not yet. But you will.”

She stopped at the rack and tossed me a wooden spear. It was heavier than it looked. My arms dipped slightly when I caught it.

“You’ll train in stages. First: hand-to-hand combat. Then: spearwork. Only after that—when your body can move without thinking—will I allow you to use your cause-and-effect ability in battle. Until then, forget it. You fight with your own strength.”

I swallowed. “Understood.”

The first blow came before I could breathe.

Zamaneh struck—not with a spear, but with her palm. A clean, fast jab to my shoulder. My stance broke. My legs stumbled. I hit the grass before I even understood what happened.

“Lesson one,” she said, standing over me, “a fight doesn’t wait for speeches.”

I gritted my teeth and climbed to my feet, spear still in hand.

She circled once, slowly. “Before we begin properly, there’s something you need to understand.”

She gestured toward the perfect, cloudless sky—eternally blue.

“This realm doesn’t obey the same laws as the outside world. Here, time is still. It doesn’t pass. We could train for a year… ten years… and not a second will move outside this space.”

I blinked. “You’re saying I could master everything—and no time would pass in the real world?”

Zamaneh nodded. “Exactly. But don’t mistake that for ease. Your body still feels every moment. Your muscles will ache. Your bones will bruise. Every lesson will cost you something.”

I tightened my grip on the spear. “Good,” I said softly. “Then there’s no excuse not to become strong enough.”

She allowed herself the faintest smile. “That’s the spirit.”

I adjusted my stance—feet shoulder-width apart, spear gripped loosely, not tightly. Just like she showed me.

Zamaneh paced slowly around me, eyes never leaving my form.

“The spear is not just a weapon,” she said. “It’s an extension of intention. Distance. Timing. Precision. All the instincts you’ll gain here will carry into every form of combat. Even unarmed.”

I nodded. Then she attacked again.

Not a warning. Not a word. Just movement.

Her spear came low—aiming for my legs. I jumped, clumsy. She twisted the shaft and swept upward, striking my ribs. I hit the ground, hard.

“Too slow,” she said. “You hesitated. You reacted to what was already happening. That’s not instinct. That’s survival.”

I grit my teeth, pulling myself up again. “Got it.”

Again.

And again.

The strikes came without rhythm. Sometimes high, sometimes sweeping low. Sometimes just a feint—meant to draw me off-balance. My arms burned. My hands blistered. My legs ached from sidestepping and spinning, falling and rising.

Hours passed. Or days. I couldn’t tell.

She didn’t let up.

And I didn’t stop.

When I collapsed, she threw me water. When I got sloppy, she struck harder. And when I showed even the slightest improvement—she said nothing. But I saw it. The flicker of approval in her eyes.

Eventually, my body started to move before my mind.

I parried without thinking.

Dodged without flinching.

The spear stopped feeling like a stick I held—and started feeling like part of me. My reach extended. My perception shifted. I began to predict. Not just react.

One morning—I don’t know how long it had been—I blocked a strike from behind. I didn’t even hear her approach.

Zamaneh stepped back, lowering her weapon.

“You’re beginning to listen,” she said quietly. “Not with your ears. With your body.”

I stood there, panting. Covered in sweat. Bruised, sore, exhausted.

But upright.

Alive.

“I’m ready,” I said. “To move to hand-to-hand.”

Zamaneh walked past me, toward the open field.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

I blinked. “But I thought—”

“You will learn hand-to-hand,” she said. “But first, you need to unlearn something else.”

She stopped at the center of the circle again. The sky above remained unchanged. The wind carried only silence.

“You’ve learned to trust your weapon. Now you’ll learn to fight without it. And that,” she turned to face me, “will be the hardest part.”

She pointed to the rack. “Leave the spear.”

I obeyed. Slowly.

My fingers resisted. It had become familiar. Safe.

And now it was gone.

I stepped forward, bare-handed.

Zamaneh raised her fists.

The first strike came faster than any before

The first strike came faster than any before.

My body barely had time to react.

I raised my arms, but the blow slipped past, grazing my ribs. I stumbled, breath knocked out, heart hammering.

Zamaneh didn’t pause. Another strike, this time aimed low. I rolled, narrowly avoiding the edge of her fist.

Every attack was precise—designed to expose my weaknesses, to shatter my reliance on instinct alone.

I fought back, but it was clumsy. My hands and feet moved without rhythm, too slow, too unsure.

The sting of failure burned hotter than any hit.

But I kept going.

Minutes stretched into hours. Or maybe days—time was meaningless here.

Each block, each dodge, each strike chipped away at my hesitation.

My muscles screamed, my skin ached, but my resolve hardened.

Zamaneh’s attacks shifted from overwhelming to calculated—testing me, probing for growth.

At one point, I caught her wrist mid-punch, twisting sharply. The look in her eyes was sharp—a flicker of surprise.

She smiled briefly.

Then pressed harder.

Montage:

Dawn after dawn, Saaya’s movements grew sharper.

The rhythm of combat synced with her heartbeat.

She learned to read Zamaneh’s subtle shifts—eye flickers, breath changes, muscle tenses.

Her punches gained precision, her blocks firmed.

She fell less, stood taller.

Her body stopped reacting like a stranger and started moving like a weapon itself.

One afternoon, sweat dripping, lungs burning, Zamaneh threw a flurry of strikes.

I ducked under the first, sidestepped the second, parried the third.

Without thinking, my fist met her shoulder—a solid, clean hit.

Zamaneh staggered. For the first time, I saw respect in her eyes.

She stepped back, arms lowered.

“Enough.”

I stood panting, bruised, but victorious.

She nodded. “You have learned to fight without your spear.”

My breath steadied.

Zamaneh smiled—almost gentle.

“Now,” she said, “you are ready to wield your power in battle.”