Mukai wakes early—an hour before his scheduled meeting with Moto. The hallways are still cloaked in morning hush. As he passes his brother's door, a muffled chorus of snores escapes into the corridor. With a small shake of his head, he continues on toward the training grounds.
A forest of tall gum trees surrounds the clearing ahead, but Mukai hears something even before he sees it—the solid thump of fists slamming against bark.
As he steps through the trees, he spots Moto, shirt damp with sweat, fists red, punching away at a trunk with relentless rhythm. With a sharp shout, Moto throws a final punch, and the great tree begins to fall.
His eyes widen in panic. It's still early—if the crash wakes the whole compound, he's doomed.
Moto dashes under the falling trunk, plants his back on the ground, and catches it with his feet. The weight pins him down with a grunt.
Water rushes past him, lifting the tree aside. Mukai stands just ahead, arms lowered.
Moto chuckles breathlessly. "Oh hey. You're early."
Mukai smirks faintly. "Was about to say the same. Where's Sheu?"
"She's not coming to the trials," Moto replies, wiping sweat from his brow.
Mukai raises a brow. "Huh. At least one of you has some sense."
He still doesn't know.
Moto's gaze turns serious. "She lost her dad. It was sudden."
Mukai falls silent. "...I'm sorry to hear that."
The air between them grows still. Neither of them quite knows what to say. So they don't. They separate and train in silence until their official meeting time arrives.
Over time, Moto begins to understand what Sukai meant—Mukai isn't all bad. Just hard to read.
"You work harder than I expected from a genius," Moto notes between drills.
Mukai scoffs lightly. "Life demands hard work from everyone. Talent just decides how much you get back for your trouble."
"Wise too," Moto says, half teasing.
"I have to be. This kingdom deserves the best. And I'm ready to give it everything. I'll take the throne before my father runs us into the ground."
Moto studies him. "You really doubt him that much? He seems like he's doing alright."
Mukai stiffens. "That's because you never met the last King. My grandfather—Owen."
"Oh… what happened to him?"
Mukai's tone flattens with annoyance. "What did they teach at your old school?"
"Fighting."
"That tracks."
He folds his arms. "Every king before my father was the strongest in the land. Grandfather Owen wielded water so powerfully that the sea itself would drop when he charged his attacks. I named my water sword after him."
Moto leans in slightly, interested.
"To keep power strong, Owen married into the Lightning Village. That's how my mother was born. But in the end, he died fighting a horde of monsters from Gehen."
Moto's smile fades. That name sparks something in his mind—a brief, shuddering flash of a valley filled with horrors.
Mukai speaks with quiet bitterness. "I still hold a grudge against that damned kingdom. Maybe I'll march on it once I'm king."
Moto lifts both hands in mock defense. "Can we maybe not talk about killing entire nations before breakfast?"
Mukai rolls his eyes and exhales. "The point is, a king should lead from the front—not send people into fights they can't survive."
His gaze lingers on Moto.
Moto catches it. "Hey, I didn't die. Yet. And I'm sure the King has a perfectly good reason for putting me against Gwen."
"Believe what you want," Mukai mutters. "But we need to work on your counters."
He explains that Gwen, before being selected by the King, worked as a sports coach. His style is aggressive and up-close—midrange at best.
"You've trained your body well," Mukai says. "But this week, we focus on your power."
Moto nods, eyes burning with renewed focus.
"Alright then," Mukai steps back. "Show me what you've got."
Moto exhales and releases smoke from his skin, forming a thick screen.
"I can control the organic compounds in my smoke," he explains. "That lets me trigger explosions under the right heat. I can also form dense smoke bombs I throw as distractions to get in close. I fight best at close quarters."
"What about that day under the tree?"
Mukai refers to the ambush after school, the one that led to Najo challenging him.
"Your smoke changed. It got darker—heavier. I haven't seen you use it since."
Moto shakes his head. "I've tried to move past that. It's a regression."
Mukai doesn't press, though he clearly remembers the air warming around them that day. Something about that version of Moto unsettled him.
"Alright," he says instead.
He creates a bubble of water fifty meters away and draws a line in the dirt.
"Pop that from here without crossing the line. I'll be prepping for my own match."
Moto nods. "I'll try."
"Hmf."
Mukai walks off, leaving Moto to it.
As morning turns to noon, Sukai finds Mukai and they go visit Sheu together.
They find her in the backyard, sitting quietly beneath the shade of an old tree. The boys speak briefly with her before Mukai takes his leave. Sukai offers to stay.
Sheu nods, appreciating the company—even if her thoughts remain clouded.
It feels strange, sitting with the son of the man she's beginning to suspect… but she keeps those thoughts to herself.
"I need to rest again. Thanks for coming."
Sukai smiles gently. "No problem. I'll drop by again tomorrow."
"Okay." She offers a small, tired smile as she walks him out.
Later, she rummages through the house—through cupboards and drawers—searching for personal items to keep. She knows her uncle and his wife will come scavenging soon. As she picks things up, memories stir: quiet meals, shared laughter, the smell of home. Her fingers linger over worn keepsakes, each one a thread tying her to him.
Back at the training grounds, Moto spends the entire day trying to burst the water bubble. He throws every kind of smoke bomb he can form, but wind resistance wears them down halfway through.
When Mukai returns, he crosses his arms. "Just as I thought. You lack innate wind ability."
Moto blinks. "What does that mean?"
Mukai explains. In the kingdom, everyone possesses a degree of wind manipulation—it subtly fuels and shapes their powers. That's why wind users must excel to stand out. But Moto? He's relying entirely on muscle. No subtle guidance. No current beneath his strikes.
It means his chances of surviving against Gwen are shrinking by the hour.
Mukai says nothing more, but the doubt in his eyes speaks volumes.
Moto notices. He feels it too—that fear crawling beneath his resolve—but he turns away and gets back to work.
The sun sinks low behind the trees.
That night at dinner, the tension swells.
Mukai puts down his fork. "Why did you put Moto against Gwen?"
Douglas doesn't look up. Mukai presses on.
"He's underpowered. Doesn't even have wind."
The silence stiffens. Even Sukai looks up now.
But before the King can answer, Olivia speaks for him.
"Your father didn't become king by luck," she says coolly. "Trust his intellect."
"Trust shouldn't outweigh reason," Mukai counters. "If he knows what he's doing, why won't he just say it?"
Douglas sets down his cup. His tone is firm. "The Succession Trials are how I select the next generation of my guard. I know the kind of people I want at my side."
Then he leans back, smile creeping in. "Besides, with your strength, I'll only need one."
Mukai softens, ego momentarily stroked.
Sukai smirks. "You always know how to get him off your back, Dad."
Douglas chuckles. "Wouldn't be a good father if I couldn't."
Mukai grins. "Don't push it."
Laughter fills the room, cracking the tension.
Sukai quietly adds, "By the way—Sheu won't be participating."
Later that night, when the house is quiet, Douglas steps into the war room and calls for Aritri.
"I want a full background check on the boy," he says.
"Moto. Leave no stone unturned."