Riven ran.
The sting above his eyebrow pulsed with every step, blood still trickling down his temple, hot and sticky against the morning air. He didn't stop, even when his lungs burned and his legs screamed.
He reached the school gates just as the first bell rang—late.
People stared.
Not because he was late. But because of the blood.
He kept his hood low, head down, trying to slip through the halls unnoticed. But of course, someone noticed.
"Riven," a gentle but firm voice called from the classroom doorway.
Mr. Joo.
His literature teacher. The only adult in that entire building who ever looked at him like a human being instead of a problem.
Mr. Joo stepped forward, his face etched with concern. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Riven mumbled, brushing past him.
"You're bleeding," Mr. Joo insisted, following him inside. "You need to see the nurse."
"I said I'm fine," Riven said, sharper than he meant to.
Mr. Joo paused, then simply nodded. "Okay. But if you need to talk, you know where to find me."
Riven didn't reply. He just slid into his seat, eyes distant, hands clenched under the desk. The rest of the class buzzed around him, but he barely noticed. His mind was stuck in a loop: Kael's words. The fight. They've got friends.
They're coming.
All day, he felt eyes on him. Every time someone brushed past, he flinched. He couldn't focus, couldn't breathe properly. His world had turned into a quiet storm—one he couldn't escape.
Evening came.
Riven dragged himself to work, exhausted, mind still buzzing. As usual, he tied on his apron and got to chopping vegetables in the back kitchen.
That's when the bell above the front door jingled.
He heard unfamiliar voices. Loud ones.
Then—
"Hey," one of them called, stepping halfway into the kitchen. "Kid in the back—Riven, right?"
Riven stiffened.
"You're needed outside. Alley behind the shop."
There were two of them. Same age group as the ones from yesterday—lean, tall, smirking like they had the upper hand.
Mr. Joo, who had stopped by the restaurant to drop off a book he promised Riven, happened to be sitting at a nearby table when they walked in. He looked up from his seat. Something about the way they spoke... the way their eyes lingered on Riven...
He didn't like it.
Riven hesitated for a second too long, and the guys gave a mocking grin before walking toward the alley.
Without a word, Riven untied his apron and followed.
Mr. Joo stood quietly, pretending to read the menu, then rose and slipped out the side door. He followed at a distance, eyes alert.
The alley was quiet. A little too quiet.
"Hey, tough guy," one of them jeered, cracking his knuckles. "Heard you roughed up some of our boys."
Riven froze.
"We're here to return the favor."
They didn't wait.
Fists slammed into his ribs, his back, his gut. He stumbled, shielding his face. He didn't fight back—not yet. Someone might see. Someone might—
CRACK!
A wooden rolling pin came crashing down on one of the thug's heads.
"What the hell—?!"
Mr. Han stormed out of the restaurant's back door, apron still on, fury in his eyes. "You think you can mess with my kid?!" he barked, swinging the pin again. It connected with someone's knee. Another thug tried to grab him, only to be smacked with a frying pan.
It was chaos. Beautiful, absurd chaos.
Mr. Joo appeared next, grabbing one of the thugs' arms and twisting it behind his back, surprisingly quick and precise for a literature teacher. "Didn't anyone teach you boys manners?" he muttered coldly.
"You okay, Riven?!" Mr. Han shouted between swings.
Riven nodded, stunned.
The attackers stumbled away, cursing and limping. "This ain't over," one growled before disappearing into the alley's darkness.
Mr. Han huffed, straightening his shirt. "Damn punks. I swear—what kind of coward jumps a kid?"
Riven was speechless.
Mr. Joo gave him a glance, brushing off his sleeves. "You really should be more careful. But… I'm glad you're okay."
Mr. Han turned to him too, frown softening. "You alright?"
"…Yeah," Riven finally said, voice low. "Thanks."
That night, Riven sat in his room, staring at the ceiling. His body ached, but something deeper hurt more.
Kael was right.
He'd gotten soft. Rusty.
And now, everything was catching up.
He got out of bed, walked over to his closet, and reached behind an old stack of clothes. His fingers touched the edge of something solid.
He pulled it out.
A book. Its cover worn but solid. Faded lettering etched across the front:
"The Path of Precision and Power."
He didn't even open it.
Just holding it told him everything.
It's time.