The silver Knight

Kaizen sat upright in the passenger seat, arms folded, his gaze steady, as if this chaotic scene was a perfectly ordinary commute. Raze, meanwhile, grinned broadly, his teeth gleaming through the haze of smoke. A loud metallic clunk echoed through the cabin, the unmistakable sound of something important hitting the road.

"Hey, what was that?" Raze asked, his voice cheerful, clearly impressed with himself.

"Nothing much," Kaizen replied, glancing over his shoulder. "Just the door. It flew off along with the one on the back."

"Doors, huh?" Raze nodded sagely, his grin undeterred. "Aren't they, you know, important? Those two in the back might tumble out or something."

Kaizen turned his head slightly, regarding Raze with the calm authority of a teacher correcting a student. "Doors are not that important, Raze."

There was a pause as Raze processed this information, nodding slowly. "Oh," he said at last, his grin returning as he eased the jeep over a bump in the road. "I see."

The jeep—if it could still be called that—came to a shuddering halt before the rusted gate that marked the forest's entrance. Its body wheezed and groaned as though relieved to have made it this far. Raze, with an air of triumph, slapped the steering wheel and declared, "Perfect parking!" despite the vehicle listing slightly to one side.

Kaizen leaned over and placed a firm hand on Rai's shoulder, rocking him gently but insistently until he stirred awake. Rai blinked groggily, his vision clearing just in time to see Giro vaulting out of the jeep, his movements sharp and jittery, as though escaping a near-death experience.

"We're alive!" Giro exclaimed, clutching his chest. "I thought we'd burn in this thing before even getting to the scroll."

Rai yawned and stepped out of the jeep, his hands sliding casually into his pockets. He glanced at the gate, then back at the vehicle. "According to my calculations, we should have died. Even if we survived this time, we'll definitely die on the way back."

"You're planning to return in this deathtrap?" Giro shouted, his voice tinged with incredulity and lingering panic.

"It's the best option," Kaizen interjected calmly, his broad hand landing on Raze's shoulder like a seal of approval. "Raze is driving. We'll make it back just fine."

"Thanks, you guys!" Raze beamed, clearly taking their words as a compliment rather than the grim acknowledgment of their predicament.

They turned their attention to the gate, standing tall and imposing despite its neglect. Rai stepped forward, his hand brushing against the cold iron bars. The rust flaked beneath his touch, and the sharp metallic smell lingered in the air. For a moment, he stood still, his fingers tracing the jagged texture, as if gauging the gate's strength—or its intent.

With a low creak, Rai pushed the gate open, the sound echoing into the shadowed forest beyond. No one spoke as they crossed the threshold, their boots crunching against the gravel path. The air inside the forest felt heavy, dense with secrets and something else—something alive, watching.

Kaizen took the lead, his broad frame moving with quiet certainty, while Rai and Giro followed close behind. Raze lingered for a moment, looking back at the jeep as though reassuring it they'd return. Then he turned, his usual grin dimmed just slightly by the foreboding stillness of the trees. Together, they stepped into the unknown.

The path was narrow and winding, swallowed on both sides by towering trees whose dense, interwoven branches devoured the morning light. It felt as though night had descended early, the air thick and cool beneath the canopy. The ground was uneven, a churn of mud and scattered leaves, broken up by roots that reached like gnarled fingers across the path. Lines of crisscrossing twigs and exposed roots warned of treachery; one careless step, and the earth would claim them. Every so often, broken branches blocked their way, as though the forest itself was half-alive, intent on testing their resolve.

Ahead, the path abruptly faltered and vanished, only to reappear some distance to the left. Giro hesitated for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. Nostalgia came to him like a scent on the wind, bittersweet and sudden, pulling him back to a time when he was younger, when this forest had been a training ground rather than a place of danger.

He remembered the days spent here with Zane and their master—a stern but kind-hearted man who had taken them in when they were little more than wayward boys. The memory unfolded like the turning of a delicate page. Their master's house was small and simple, a modest refuge nestled among the trees. Outside, a stage had been laid out, a rectangle of grey concrete tiles, set there like a patch of civilization amidst the wilderness. That was where they sparred—two boys striving to show how much they had learned, how far they had come.

Giro could almost see it now: the low, golden glow of the evening sun stretching shadows across the forest floor. After a long day of training, they would sit together on the edge of that stage. The master, cross-legged and steady as a stone, occupied the middle, while Giro and Zane sprawled like untamed pups on either side. He would talk to them then, his voice steady and measured, explaining the true purpose of their veil—how it was a gift meant to protect, not to harm. "Never hurt anyone with your veil," he would say, his tone firm as though the words carried weight that could anchor a man's soul.

But the memory darkened, as all memories do when they slip too far back. That had been the evening he arrived—a man in battered armor, its polished plates dulled by dust and streaked with the stains of war. He came with a weapon that seemed alive, a black sphere gripped tightly in his gauntleted hand. Two others flanked him, men cut from the same cloth, their movements sharp and practiced. They looked like commanders—soldiers of a distant war, men who carried with them the smell of blood and the chill of unspoken violence.

Giro could still feel the way the air shifted that evening, how the familiar warmth of the forest seemed to ebb away at their presence, leaving only a cold, gnawing tension in its place. He remembered his master rising slowly to meet them, his face calm, his shoulders straight. That was how the night had begun. And how everything had changed.

Now, Giro stepped carefully, the weight of those memories pressing against him with every movement. He could feel his past threading itself through the present, intertwining like the roots that lined their path. He said this to his friends accompanying him, as they walked on, deeper into the forest.

"Captain, this looks like a good place to camp!" one of the men called out, his voice carrying through the trees. He was lean and wiry, with a glint of cruelty in his eye as he gestured toward the clearing.

The captain lumbered forward, his bulk making the earth beneath him tremble faintly. He was a mountain of a man, his armor stretched tightly over his frame, and a massive, furry mustache curled up above his lip like a coiled snake. His gaze landed on the master, who stood calmly, his hands resting at his sides, eyes steady as stone.

"Seems there are some animals around here," muttered another of the soldiers, scanning the trees with disdain.

"Let's just kill them," the captain grunted, waving dismissively at the notion. His voice was thick and gravelly, carrying the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed. He ignored the master entirely, taking up the black sphere in his hands.

With deliberate force, he spun the sphere in tight, violent rotations, the motion meant to intimidate. The sphere hummed with power, the air around it rippling faintly. It was a gesture that had sent many fleeing in fear before. But the master didn't flinch. He didn't so much as blink.

"Giro, Zane," the master said softly, his voice carrying an edge of steel. "When you face men like these, you can go all out."

The two boys stood frozen at the edges of the clearing, wide-eyed and tense. They knew what that meant—this wasn't a lesson. This was something real.

With a practiced motion, the master reached up and tied back his long hair, the dark strands falling neatly into place as he bound them. The air around him seemed to shift, charged now with an unspoken intensity. Slowly, he let his veil unfurl.

It was cloudy, of course. Pure white, like a winter storm just beginning to gather. It wrapped around him, translucent and shifting, and yet solid in its presence. The captain hesitated, his bravado faltering for the briefest moment as he watched.

The master stepped forward, and in an instant, the fight began.

The first exchange was swift and brutal, the captain's sphere colliding with the master's veil in a shower of sparks and light. The sound was deafening, like metal striking against metal, and the air rippled with the force of their blows.

But the master didn't waver. His movements were fluid, precise. Each strike he delivered was calculated, measured, and yet carried the weight of unyielding power.

The captain, for all his size and bluster, was struggling. He swung his sphere again and again, its energy pulsating with fury, but each attack was met with calm deflection. The master redirected them effortlessly, his white aura growing brighter with every movement.

It was a stalemate, for now—but only just. The master had the upper hand, and it was clear to anyone watching that the captain was beginning to realize it.