Doctor Zein, Zara, Eman, and Dadan departed the training grounds in measured silence, their footsteps tracing a quiet path towards Eman’s private quarters nestled within the western wing of the dojo’s compound.
As they walked, Eman halted momentarily. His gaze fell upon the karate practitioners still scattered across the yard, their faces marked by a haze of uncertainty.
“You there!” he snapped, his voice cutting through the still air. “Why are you loitering? Resume your drills at once!”
The students, however, regarded him with puzzled expressions.
Not one among them appeared to recognise the imposing man with jet-black hair.
Their memories of Eman deliberately erased by Zara only moments before, had vanished like mist under morning sun.
A quiet murmur swept through the group.
“Wait… is that Sensei?” one student whispered.
“Can’t be,” replied another. “Sensei’s older. This guy looks barely forty!”
Sensing that confusion might ferment into suspicion, Dadan stepped forward with practiced ease.
“Everyone, attention!” he called out, projecting his voice with confidence. “This is Master Jiwo, Sensei’s nephew. He’ll be overseeing your training temporarily while Sensei attends to other matters.”
Eman shot Dadan a sideward glare, his jaw tight with visible displeasure.
“Master Jiwo?” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “What an absurd name…”
Yet he let the matter drop and held his peace.
Dadan, unfazed, turned back to the students.
“Now, carry on! Sensei’s having a quick breakfast, but he’ll return shortly with a new kata to teach.”
That was enough to dispel any lingering doubts.
The students straightened with newfound enthusiasm and resumed their routines, their earlier bewilderment dissolving into the rhythm of practice.
Eman looked sidelong at Dadan, disbelief etched into his features, “A new kata?” he asked, tone clipped.
Dadan chuckled softly, “Would you rather they ask about memory spells?”
Doctor Zein and Zara exchanged no words. With a quiet, almost imperceptible nod, Zein gestured for Eman to proceed inside.
Without further protest, Eman obeyed, vanishing into the western corridor alongside them.
Left behind, Dadan turned and headed towards the kitchen, where a simpler duty awaited, one far more grounded than the morning’s theatrics.
He would finish preparing breakfast for Doctor Zein and Zara, his mind already shifting from ancient powers to boiling kettles.
Upon reaching Eman’s private chamber, the three of them, Doctor Zein, Zara, and Eman, settled once more upon the tatami mats, assuming a posture that struck a balance between the formality of ancient custom and the ease of mutual understanding.
The air, though still heavy with the remnants of earlier tension, now carried a quieter, more contemplative energy.
“My sincerest apologies for the disorder just now, Your Majesty,” Eman said, bowing low, his voice filled with a rare and genuine humility.
Doctor Zein inclined his head slightly, his gaze steady yet kind, “There is no need for apology, Master. You were unaware. That, I understand.”
Zara spoke then, her tone measured, her presence returned to its familiar form, not the regal bearing of Queen Vexia, but Zara, the disciple and confidante Eman had long known.
“Sensei, in future, it would be wise to listen first to seek understanding before allowing anger to take the reins,” she said, not unkindly, but with the quiet authority that now seemed intrinsic to her.
“Y-Yes, Queen Vexia…” Eman replied, the words stumbling from his lips.
“Zara,” she corrected gently, exhaling softly. “At this moment, I am Zara.”
“Ah… yes, Zara,” he said quickly, though his eyes betrayed the unease that still lingered in his heart, a residue of awe that had not yet faded.
Doctor Zein allowed himself the trace of a smile, observing Eman’s struggle to reconcile what he had seen with what he thought he knew.
Then, with a calm and deliberate voice, he posed the question.
“Now then, Master Eman… why don’t you tell us what you know of King Aramia?”
Eman lifted his head slightly, his brows knitting in thought, “I shall tell you all I know, my Lord. But if I may, allow me to ask first! What is it that you know of King Aramia? That is to say how far does your knowledge truly reach concerning the man behind the legend?”
Doctor Zein inclined his head with quiet understanding, then spoke, his voice measured, steeped in memory.
“What I know is but a thread of the whole tapestry. Most of what I’ve learned came not through study or inheritance, but from a woman, a most peculiar and formidable one by the name of Sovia Ivanisevic. She hailed from Serbia."
"A sorceress of sorts, though the world knew her better as Supremo, the supreme commander of the Serbian Storm.”
“Sovia? The Serbian Storm?” Eman repeated, his brow arched in disbelief.
Zein’s expression did not waver, “Indeed, Master Eman. It was long ago, more than twenty years past, in the days before our paths crossed."
"That was the beginning. The point at which I first encountered the power that would set me on the trail of the forgotten King Aramia.”
A heavy silence fell for a beat, before Zein continued, his tone now shaded by the gravity of recollection.
“Sovia spoke of Aramia as a monarch unmatched. Not a conqueror, but a unifier. A sovereign who, through wisdom and strength of will, forged harmony between warring nations. A king who led not by force, but by vision. A vision greater than any single kingdom.”
He let out a long, quiet breath, “That was all she would reveal. No more.”
Then, with a subtle shift in his posture, as though bracing against the chill of the past, Zein spoke again.
“She told me this while transferring a portion of her arcane knowledge into me. She claimed my body bore certain anomalies. Traits unseen in the common line. Among them, these eyes.”
He gestured lightly towards them, “Green as the spring of the ancient forests. She said the signs were written plainly upon me.”
Eman nodded slowly, his gaze distant, “Was she young, then?”
“She appeared to be in her thirties, perhaps early forties,” replied Zein. “At the time, I was but a man in his twenties, newly exposed to the unseen world.”
Eman exhaled thoughtfully, “Then it’s possible. She herself had not yet grasped the fullness of what she knew. Or perhaps...”
He paused, eyes narrowing, “...She knew far more than she ever intended you to learn. And chose, quite deliberately, to say only what she must.”
Zein’s brows drew together, a shadow of unease passing over his face, “Why would she conceal such a truth? Do you know, Master?”
Eman exhaled slowly and gave a measured shake of his head, “I cannot say with certainty,” he murmured, “but perhaps, perhaps it was this! Anyone with a true grasp of Aramian history would know the name Al-Ghifari."
"It is not a name given lightly, nor one borne by just anyone. It is a name reserved solely for the royal bloodline, the direct descendants of the ancient kings.”
His gaze sharpened, his voice low yet laced with solemn weight, “If Sovia recognised you for who you truly are, then it is possible she had known another bearer of that name, someone from the past. Someone important. And if she chose silence, it may have been a calculated choice, born not of malice, but of duty. Politics, perhaps. Or even to ensure your safety.”
Zein’s lips parted slightly, as if struck by a sudden gust of memory, “That… does make sense,” he said, his voice distant.
“Sovia’s husband, he was my uncle. His name was Zaid Al-Ghifari. But I never knew his fate… only that he vanished from our lives. Whether he is still alive or long buried, I never learned.”
A thick silence settled over the room, as though time itself had paused to listen.
The outlines of forgotten history began to sharpen, like fog lifting from an ancient ruin.
Then, Eman’s lips curled ever so slightly, not in amusement, but with the grim satisfaction of revelation.
His eyes gleamed with the clarity of foresight.
“Then it is Zaid,” he said quietly, yet with firm conviction. “Zaid will be the one who stands against you in the end. He will become your greatest adversary.”
The words rang out like an old prophecy spoken anew weighty, irrevocable.
Zara turned sharply towards Zein, her eyes wide, the tension in the air palpable.
And Zein, he remained still, as though turned to stone.
His breath was measured, but heavy. His gaze dropped to the floor, yet it seemed to pierce through the layers of wood and silence.
“My own uncle…?” he whispered.
The words were like smoke, soft, fleeting, yet tinged with the fire of disbelief.