The next morning, Riven didn't sleep in.
He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection—the bruises from the fight had started to fade, but the shadows in his eyes remained. He didn't want to be that version of himself again. The one who lost control. The one who hurt people he cared about.
He grabbed the book—The Path of Precision and Power—and flipped it open.
It wasn't just some collection of techniques. It was a reflection of who he used to be. Every page held notes, footwork diagrams, strategies he'd spent years developing. Some parts were almost too detailed—he could practically hear his younger self yelling corrections in his head.
He took a deep breath and closed it. Then, without hesitation, he made his way to the gym.
The metal clang of weights, the rhythmic slam of punching bags, the distant grunts of other fighters—it all came rushing back the moment Riven stepped in.
He started slow. Basic stances. Jab, cross, duck. Elbow hook. Spin kick.
His body remembered, even if his mind felt rusty. Hours passed. Sweat drenched his shirt. Muscles burned with every motion. But the more he moved, the more familiar it became.
It was like unlocking a muscle memory library—one move at a time.
He had just begun shadowboxing in the far corner when he noticed the vibe in the gym change.
People started clearing out.
Not just walking out—but running.
That's when he heard it.
Footsteps. Many.
He turned—and froze.
They were back. Thugs. Dozens of them. Maybe more than a hundred. Filling the space, climbing over equipment, pushing through lockers. All of them glaring at him like he was the reason they hadn't slept in peace.
Because he was.
"No more hiding behind darkness, freak!" one of them yelled.
Another cracked his knuckles. "This time, you're not walking away."
Riven dropped into a stance and exhaled. "I wasn't planning to."
They charged.
And he fought.
The first wave was easy—predictable attacks, clumsy punches, poor coordination. Riven flowed through them like water with blades. His old moves came alive. The techniques in the book had teeth. He could feel them biting back into his core.
A palm strike to the throat.
Sweep. Elbow. Elbow. Duck. Twist.
But the numbers started to pile on.
They weren't stopping.
He was kicking, punching, dodging—but his breathing got heavier. His limbs slowed. Even the sharpest technique couldn't overcome exhaustion forever.
His back hit the gym wall.
Another one came swinging at him—and Riven caught the punch just in time, barely deflecting it.
His vision blurred.
And then—
He saw him.
Kael.
Standing near the entrance, arms folded, watching like a king enjoying a brutal game.
Smiling.
Something inside Riven snapped.
The world blurred into red and shadow. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Every fiber of his being screamed. His body moved—but it wasn't him anymore.
He roared.
Fists flew like bullets. Elbows cracked jaws. Shadows twisted around him like a cloak. He didn't think. Didn't breathe. Didn't care. He tore through the crowd with precision that looked feral, like a storm with a purpose.
The crowd thinned—fast.
When it was over, the gym looked like a warzone. Bodies groaned on the ground, walls were cracked, and the silence was deafening.
Riven stood in the middle, bloodied, shaking.
Kael was gone.
He stumbled outside, limping through the street, breath ragged and mind racing. His fists were stained. His shirt torn. His knuckles raw. His eyes burned with guilt and frustration.
Why do I keep losing control?
By the time he reached home, he could barely stand. He collapsed on the floor of his room, chest heaving.
"Training like this won't cut it," he muttered to himself. "Just remembering… isn't enough."
He looked up, jaw clenched.
There was one person left. The one he didn't want to turn to.
But he had no choice now.
He was going to find him.
The one who could really train him.