The wind whispered, carrying the faint smell of dust and scorched earth. His fingers brushed the cool glass, almost expecting it to bleed warmth, almost hoping it could pull him back to simpler days. But there was no going back. Not tonight. Not ever.
Chakar’s chest tightened, a slow, aching reminder of everything he’d lost. Yet beneath the pain, something darker stirred. A hunger. Not just for revenge… but for power. For a way to make the world pay attention.
The stars blinked, indifferent. The moon didn’t care. Only the night understood… and maybe, just maybe, it was enough
Chakar gritted his teeth. “I have to be stronger… stronger and stronger.”
His fists pounded against the glass, over and over, each strike a drumbeat of rage. The window shivered, spiderweb cracks spreading outward like lightning. Blood oozed between his knuckles, warm and sticky, but he hardly noticed—the pain was just background noise to the storm raging in his mind.
“Stronger. Stronger to defeat him.” The words were both prayer and threat. He didn’t stop. His punches became frantic percussion, the moonlight catching on a dozen glittering fractures. Tiny shards fell to the floor like broken promises.
Memories hit him with the force of his blows: Rahim’s cruel laughter, the village engulfed in flames, smoke that clawed at his throat. Each memory fanned the fire growing inside him—not just a need for strength, but a hunger to tear the world open and drag his enemies into the dark with him. He tasted iron and regret.
A cold shiver slid down his spine. The air in the room felt heavier, charged with a presence that didn’t belong in daylight. His vision pulsed at the edges, and the cracks in the glass looked like veins. The Zorgor within him shifted, curious and hungry, like a beast smelling a storm.
His breath came in ragged gasps. He laughed—a short, broken sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be stronger,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous. “I’ll make him pay.” The moon watched, indifferent. The night, however, answered, and somewhere deep inside, something darker stirred.
Chakar pulled his hand back. Blood dripped onto the windowsill, leaving a smear that glimmered faintly in the moonlight. He stared at his palm as if it were a contract. Strength wasn’t given—it was taken.
The window didn’t stop him. He did. For now. But the hunger—the promise—had teeth. And it was learning to bite.
Chakar stumbled through the shadowed streets, the moonlight painting silver streaks across his bruised face. The town slept, unaware of the storm boiling inside him. His boots crunched against the dirt path as he made his way toward the training forest—a place no one ever came, a place made for solitude, for rage, for the reckoning he needed.
The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches swaying in the cold night wind. Every step he took sank into the soft earth, echoing faintly in the quiet. Here, there were no eyes to judge, no whispers of pity or awe—just the forest, the shadows, and him.
Chakar paused at a clearing, chest heaving. Moonlight cut through the gaps in the canopy, glinting off the droplets of water that clung to leaves. He clenched his fists.
“No one… no one to stop me. No one to see this.” His voice was low, dangerous, barely more than a growl. “Here, I can push… I can become…” He let the word hang in the air, unfinished, because he didn’t know what he would become yet.
The forest was still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Chakar’s eyes glinted with something cold, something sharp. This was his arena. The place where pain would be turned into power, where rage would be shaped into technique, and where the Zarvani would rise…
He drew a deep breath, letting the crisp night air fill his lungs. Every muscle ached, every bruise screamed—but inside him, a storm churned, ready to break loose.
“Time to train.”
And with that, he stepped forward into the clearing, the shadows bending around him like water, waiting for him to awaken them.
The town slept. Chakar didn’t. He slipped through the quiet streets, bloodied hands still throbbing, toward the training forest where no one dared to tread. The trees waited like dark sentinels, and the moon carved silver paths through the canopy. This was his arena. No eyes to judge, no voices to stop him—only shadows, wind, and the beating of his own heart.
He dropped into a clearing and let out a low growl. “I have to be stronger… stronger and stronger.”
He began, slowly at first, letting the water inside him respond to his will. Streams coiled around his arms, twisting like living serpents.
“Water Technique: Water Style!”
“Water Technique: Choking!”
“Water Technique: Dragon!”
“Water Technique: Drowning!”
The night echoed with the roar of surging water, twisting and snapping through the clearing. Waves slammed against invisible walls, and the wind joined in, shredding leaves into the mist. Chakar pushed further:
“Water Technique: Blowing!”
“Water Technique: Explode!”
Every movement burned him, every surge of power drained the last of his energy. His lungs screamed, but his teeth were clenched, his eyes alight with Zarvani fire. “Bad… bad, damn… why am I getting tired? I won’t sleep. I have to find it… I have to—just do it, Chakar! You’re a Zarvani!!!!”
The night became a blur. Hours passed—or maybe minutes. He summoned wave after wave, beast after beast:
“Water Technique: Desert!” A scorching torrent of vapor and heat.
“Water Technique: Beast!” A snarling water creature rose and lunged at his commands.
His muscles quivered, vision blurred. The forest seemed alive, trembling beneath the storm of his techniques. Still, he refused to stop. Still, he pushed.
By dawn, his body was trembling uncontrollably. Sweat mixed with blood, his hair plastered to his bruised face. His hands twitched uselessly; his knees buckled. “No… I… can’t…”
Finally, the storm of water around him collapsed, fading into mist. Chakar fell to the damp earth, utterly spent. He had poured everything into the night, and in return, his Zorgor—his lifeblood of power—had nothing left to give.
And yet, even as he lay broken in the clearing, a spark remained in his eyes. The Zarvani hunger didn’t sleep. It never would.
The pale light of dawn draped over the clearing, mist curling around Chakar’s exhausted form. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each ragged breath a reminder of the storm he’d survived the night before. Bruises darkened his face, blood crusted at his knuckles, but his body still radiated that Zarvani aura—dormant yet dangerous.
From behind a twisted oak, a figure crouched, eyes locked on Chakar with a criminal intensity, as if studying a prize, or a threat. Every muscle was coiled, ready to strike. The wind whispered through the leaves, but the figure didn’t flinch.
Nazim stepped forward, his presence slicing through the still morning like a blade. His gaze bore into Chakar’s, sharp and unwavering, a hint of both curiosity and challenge burning in his eyes.
“Chakar…” Nazim’s voice was low, almost a growl, carrying through the mist. “Huh… it’s… unknown that a stranger like you could surpass me.”
Chakar stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering, sensing something off, but still half-drowned in sleep and exhaustion. Nazim didn’t wait. His movements were smooth, silent, predatory—a single step and the tension snapped, the air thick with the promise of confrontation.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Chakar’s dormant Zarvani hunger stirred faintly, like a shadowed heartbeat, reacting to the presence of someone strong enough to watch him without fear. Nazim’s smirk deepened. This encounter was no accident… and the morning would not remain quiet for long.
Nazim: “Anyway… I’m not here to fight you. Come on, let’s go.” His tone was calm, but the smirk on his face carried that unshakable confidence.
Chakar: “Didn't ask, cocky.” His voice was low, dangerous, a growl that barely contained the storm inside him.
Scene to The academy courtyard buzzed with tension. Students lined up in neat rows, hearts thundering in their chests. Today wasn’t just a ceremony—it was the moment Noshken marked its next generation of warriors.
A master stepped forward, tall and imposing, eyes scanning the students like a predator reading prey. In his hands were rows of headbands, each bearing the gleaming symbol of Noshken, embossed on polished metal, straps perfectly aligned.
A hush fell over the crowd. The sun glinted off the metal plates, making the sigils shimmer with an almost supernatural glow. These weren’t just accessories—they were badges of allegiance, identity, and destiny.
Names were called. Nervous hands reached out; some students strode forward with pride. Others hesitated, eyes darting at friends, rivals, and the masters watching every movement.
Chakar’s turn came. He stepped forward, every muscle tense, Zarvani hunger flickering behind his eyes. The master held out a headband, its wave-like sigil of Noshken glinting faintly.
Chakar clenched his fists, yanked the band over his head, and adjusted it. It sat snugly, heavy not just in weight, but in meaning.
Next, Nazim approached, his steps precise, measured. The wind-inspired emblem pulsed faintly as he tied it in place, reflecting his sharp, calculated aura.
Gull Banok’s fire sigil glimmered as she accepted her band, fingers brushing over the metal, feeling the latent power hum beneath her touch.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath as each student received their symbol. Whispers of excitement and rivalry drifted through the air, but beneath it all, a silent pulse of destiny throbbed.
For the students of Noshken, this was more than a ceremony. This was the first real mark of who they were—and what they would become.
Chakar’s eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on his peers. His Zarvani hunger stirred, sharper, ready. Today the headband had been placed… but tomorrow, power would be taken.
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