Astrals: The Fallen Spirits

Zen staggered, his breath uneven as the dull ache in his left hand morphed into searing pain. His fingers twitched involuntarily, veins beneath his skin darkening for a brief moment before fading. He clenched his jaw, gripping his wrist as if that could stop whatever was happening.

His vision blurred, the vibrant streets of Ingara twisting into indistinct shapes. What the fuck is happening? He forced himself forward, each step heavier than the last. If he could just reach the central district, maybe he'd find answers. Or maybe—just maybe—he was already too late.

Zen collapsed. Just like that. One moment he was walking, the next his legs gave out, and the ground rushed to meet him. His vision blurred, his head spun, and somewhere in the distance, Muki's panicked meows clawed at his fading consciousness.

People turned, glanced at the commotion, and then—without a shred of concern—walked away. Because, of course, an unconscious boy in the middle of the street was none of their business. Typical.

The last thing Zen heard before the darkness swallowed him whole was Muki's desperate cries.

When his eyes fluttered open, everything was wrong.

First, there was no sky. No warm evening light. Just pitch-black darkness stretching in every direction. Second, he was sitting. No, not just sitting—he was tied to a chair.

Zen yanked at the restraints. Rope. Tight. His wrists burned as he struggled.

Okay. Not great.

"MUKIIII!" His voice bounced off the walls, swallowed by the void. No response. His chest tightened. That little furball—where was she? Was she safe? Had she run away? Or worse… had someone taken her? "MUUKKIII where are you?".

Focus. Panic wouldn't solve anything. He forced himself to breathe. To think. How did I get here?

Flashes of memory rushed back—pain in his arm, dizziness, collapsing. Then nothing. Someone had taken him. Someone strong enough to carry him off without anyone noticing or, more likely, caring.

Then, an even worse thought crawled into his mind.

Was it him?

Zen clenched his jaw. The Astral Knight. Could he have tracked him down? No, no way. Zen had imprinted on too many cores. Any normal tracker would be lost in the mess of magical signatures he'd left behind.

Unless… unless the Knight had a way. A trick Zen didn't know about.

His stomach twisted. If that man had caught him, Zen was already dead.

The door creaked open, slicing through the darkness like a blade. A warm, flickering light spilled into the room, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls.

A tall, slender figure draped in flowing white robes stood at the entrance. The moment Zen saw him, his blood ran cold.

The Knight.

"Good morning, little boy," the man said, his voice smooth, almost amused. In his hands, cradled like a prized possession, was Muki.

Zen's breath caught. "MUKI!" His voice cracked between relief and rage. He struggled against his restraints, glaring up at the man. "I swear if you hurt her—"

The Knight laughed, a rich, condescending chuckle. "Hurt her?" He took slow, deliberate steps forward, stopping just inches from Zen. "If I wanted to hurt either of you, I would've done it already."

With that, he placed a firm hand on Zen's forehead—then shoved.

Zen toppled backward, crashing onto the cold floor, still tied to the chair. Pain shot up his spine, but it was nothing compared to the fury boiling inside him.

"You won't be able to do shit to me," the Knight said, his voice calm, confident—like he was stating a fact rather than making a threat.

Then, with a lazy snap of his fingers, the ropes binding Zen vanished.

Zen gasped, scrambling to his feet. His hand instinctively reached for his waist—where his dagger sat. The one he had forged with his own hands.

He gripped it, holding it between himself and the Knight.

The man barely reacted. He just... looked at him. Then, with a sharp breath, he threw his head back and laughed—really laughed, like Zen had just told the funniest joke in the world.

"Oh, hold on, sir!" the Knight mocked, clutching his stomach as he wiped a fake tear from his eye. "I'm so sorry. Did you—did you really think that was gonna do something?"

Zen's grip on the dagger tightened.

The Knight exhaled, shaking his head. Then, slowly, carefully, he bent down and placed Muki on the ground. The little cat wasted no time—darting straight into Zen's arms.

Zen held her close, heart pounding. His mind raced.

He needed to get out of here.

"Wh-Why didn't you kill me?" Zen's voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. His grip on the dagger tightened. "What's the point of all this?"

The Knight tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Where's the fun in that?" He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles with deliberate slowness. "You want to fight, don't you?" He raised a single hand, fingers curling in a taunting gesture. "Then let's do it."

Zen swallowed hard. He had never been trained to fight—only to survive. But survival was enough, wasn't it?

Gritting his teeth, he set Muki down and lunged forward, dagger aimed straight at the Knight's chest.

It was pathetic.

The Knight sidestepped effortlessly, watching Zen stumble past him like he was swatting away an annoying fly.

Zen turned, gritting his teeth, and attacked again. And again. And again.

Each time, the Knight barely moved—just a shift of weight, a slight tilt of his body, an effortless dodge that made Zen look like a fool.

Then, just when Zen launched his next desperate strike, the Knight caught his wrist mid-air.

Zen's eyes widened, Shit.

A sharp tug. A blur of movement. And then—

WHAAAPP.

Zen's head snapped to the side. A loud ringing filled his ears. His cheek burned.

A SLAP.

Not a punch. Not a kick. Not a throw. A slap.

Zen staggered back, stunned. His fingers brushed his cheek, feeling the sting spread across his skin.

It wasn't just an attack. It was an insult.

A punch would've been painful. A kick would've been expected. But a slap? That was something else entirely.

Memories crashed into him. His father. That one night. That same burning humiliation.

Zen clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his dagger.

The Knight smiled. "Ready for another?"

Another slap. This time, across his other cheek. The impact echoed in the silent room.

Zen didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just stood there, frozen, his head slightly tilted from the blow.

The Knight let out a disappointed sigh. "Know your place, boy," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "You're nothing. Not stronger than me. Not stronger than anyone."

Zen's breath was shaky. His fists clenched, but his body refused to move.

The Knight leaned in, his voice a whisper now, dripping with mockery. "The man who saved you? The Captain?" He chuckled. "Dead. Because of you."

Zen's stomach twisted.

"Your town? Safe." The Knight smiled. "Because they gave you up."

Zen's eyes widened. His vision blurred—not from the slaps, but from the tears spilling down his cheeks.

"You have no worth." The Knight straightened, stepping back. "No power."

Zen's knees felt weak. His dagger slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the cold floor.

I have no worth, I am useless, he thought.