Meanwhile, within the modest confines of the dojo’s kitchen, Dadan was immersed in his task, diligently preparing a special meal for Doctor Zein and Zara, as per Sensei Eman’s exacting instructions.
The pan hissed with fervent life, the scent of rare spices dancing in the air until, quite suddenly, his hands stilled.
His eyes flew open in sheer disbelief.
“That aura… it’s Sensei’s!”
His heartbeat surged into a frantic rhythm.
Without pause or further thought, he tore off his apron, casting it to the floor, and bolted from the kitchen with the urgency of a man possessed.
Amongst the hundreds of disciples who trained beneath the dojo’s eaves, only Dadan had been entrusted with the ancient discipline of internal energy by Eman himself.
Not even Zara, the most favoured of pupils, had been permitted to so much as glimpse that hidden knowledge.
“What in the heavens is happening? For Sensei to release such force...”
Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts as he raced down the corridor, breath ragged but spirit unwavering.
“If he’s been pushed to summon such overwhelming power… something is gravely amiss.”
“There’s no more time for hesitation. I must reach him at once!”
Doctor Zein and Zara had arrived first, standing upon the sun-dappled training ground nestled within the dojo's inner court.
Neither spoke, their stillness was not born of fear, but of solemn expectation. They waited, silent sentinels, for the one who would emerge.
From afar came the hurried patter of feet.
One by one, the students once stunned by the earlier eruption of energy began to stir, driven by something far stronger than fear, the pull of unanswered questions.
Then, with a slow, echoing creak, the great hall’s doors parted. And there he stood.
The figure framed in the doorway silenced the murmurs and widened the eyes of all present.
This was no longer the Eman they remembered.
No longer the bent, weary master whose voice cracked with age as he demonstrated the forms.
In his place stood a man reborn, broad of shoulder, sinewed with strength, and cloaked in an aura so commanding it bent the air around him.
He looked to be in the prime of his forties ageless in the way war gods are.
“Who… who is that?” a student asked, his voice barely above a breath.
“His face, he looks exactly like Sensei!” another replied, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“But Sensei is old… isn’t he?” muttered a third, almost to himself, as though saying it aloud might restore the world’s order.
“Could it be… he’s invoked a forbidden art?” a senior disciple whispered, his brow furrowed in alarm.
“There’s no time to speculate,” said another, already moving. “Come. We must see for ourselves.”
As if drawn by unseen thread, the students followed.
Dozens of them, feet treading in rhythm down the long corridor, hearts thudding not just with wonder, but with unease.
They did not yet know what awaited them at the end of their path.
Only that something ancient had awakened. And it wore the face of their master.
Dadan, breathless from a frantic sprint, finally came face to face with the striking figure before him.
No longer the frail elder he once knew, but a man in his prime, formidable and commanding.
His chest heaved, sweat trickled down his temples, yet he dropped to his knees without hesitation.
His countenance wavered between disbelief and mounting dread.
“Sensei… why have you... why have you taken this form?” he asked, his voice faltering.
“King Aramia,” came Eman’s curt reply, as cold and unyielding as forged steel. “Zara uttered that name in Zein’s presence.”
“What?!” Dadan gasped, horror dawning in his wide eyes. “Then… does that mean you intend to...?”
Eman inclined his head, slow but resolute, “Remove their tongues. Not just the boy, Zein, but Zara as well.”
“Sensei! But Zara is...” Dadan protested, only to be cut off by a stare so sharp it cleaved through speech.
“I do not care,” Eman declared, his voice ringing with finality.
He turned and walked onward, his rejuvenated frame moving with a majesty that chilled the air.
Each stride resonated with unspoken weight, as though the very ground bowed to his will.
Dadan remained motionless, shaken, as if the world had shifted beneath him.
“What am I to do…?” he thought, his heart pounding. “If Sensei continues to draw on that power… then…”
A grim realisation etched itself across his features.
“…his internal wounds will deepen. And in the end… he will perish.”
Driven by urgency, Dadan launched himself forward once more. Faster, harder, more desperate.
Eman, meanwhile, advanced with the unhurried assurance of a man walking toward destiny.
Yet each step emitted a faint pulse, a ripple of force that pushed the air aside as though unwilling to stand in his path.
There was nothing ordinary in his movements.
Every gesture, every footfall bore the grace and pressure of a master whose body had become a vessel of boundless inner strength.
Hairline cracks appeared in the polished dojo floor beneath his feet.
Imperceptible to most, but thunderous to those attuned to the deeper flows of energy.
Dadan fought against the mounting resistance.
Each step felt like climbing into a gale, each breath snatched from him by the weight of the aura now filling the air like a storm before the tempest.
Finally, with great effort, he reached Eman’s side.
“Sensei…” he rasped, “have you truly thought this through? The toll this will take… could be irreversible.”
Eman did not break stride. He cast a glance toward his student, his eyes calm yet steeled, like a warrior who had counted the cost and embraced the inevitable.
“I am well aware,” he said, voice low and steady. “This wound has lived in my body for nearly twenty years.”
His breathing was steady. His soul, immovable.
“No physician could mend it. No remedy, no passage of time. In the end, I would have died all the same. Whether sooner, or later.”
“Sensei…” Dadan murmured, the word hanging in the thickening air like a prayer.
As though, by voicing it, he might halt the march of fate just for a moment longer.
The karate disciples, who had been trailing at a cautious distance, now paused, rooted to the spot by the weight of what they had just overheard.
“So… it truly is Sensei?” murmured one, his voice barely a breath, eyes wide with disbelief as they drank in the powerful figure striding ahead.
“It must be! We all heard Senior Dadan address him as Sensei! There can be no doubt,” another replied, awe threading through his voice like trembling silk.
“What kind of technique could turn back the years so completely? This… this borders on myth,” whispered a third, glancing down at his own youthful hands as if half-expecting the same ancient magic to awaken within him.
“Enough with the questions,” a senior hissed, eyes locked on the fast-disappearing figure. “He’s accelerating. If we don’t move now, we’ll lose him.”
No further urging was needed. As if stirred by some silent command, they surged forward as one.
Their footfalls pounded the wooden corridor like distant war drums, a phantom legion in pursuit of a warrior god returned from legend, striding with quiet inevitability toward a battlefield none yet understood.