truth-lies-in-darkness
When Zed descended the Kinkou temple’s steps with anger--hurt--weighing his every step, he had only two things with him: his blades, sheathed not with honor but with shame, and power. And it was this power rather than coin that found him food and residence when he cared for both only as much as necessity forced him to, and this power that steadily wore at the chains he had already begun to untangle from around his throat.
But power was an answer, not a cure, and ire still burned hotly within his chest as he wiped the sweat from his brow and summoned yet another shadowed clone to fight him. It was an exercise for both body and mind, and a challenge angled both for and against him. The shadows were nothing like the Kinkou and their traditional teachings; there was no balance, no equilibrium, and no state of peace. Nothing was static, not unless it was suffocating and whole, and Zed was spared no mercy by neither darkness nor himself in destroying what shackles his old master had placed around his wrists.
It was nearing midnight by the time Zed finally allowed himself some rest, though it was more or less forced upon him when exhaustion anchored him in place and brought him, shamefully, to the floor. Not yet, he urged himself; not when there was still so much more to learn, to master; not when he was still too weak to get what he desired with almost a burning, consuming sort of obsession.
With his jaw clenched tight and his teeth grinding painfully against each other, Zed rose to his feet again with a deep, slow breath. Pain was nothing--he had long since been trained to overcome it--but his limbs were heavy. It was not yet time to stop.
But even in his exhaustion, Zed was acutely aware of footsteps--quiet, light, near inaudible to the untrained ear--approaching him. It was the only thing, he convinced himself, keeping him rested for a while longer.
“Akali.”
