Arman lay sprawled across the cracked stone floor, his chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. Every muscle in his body throbbed like a war drum, each pulse echoing pain. The mist around him curled like smoke from an unseen fire—silent, endless, and ghostly. It drifted lazily across the void, as if the Realm of Emptiness itself had exhaled and then gone still.
Not peaceful—just… still.
He couldn't feel the ground beneath him anymore. Couldn't feel anything except the pounding in his head and the dull ache swimming under his skin.
Beside him, the spirit crouched in the shadows, cloaked in stillness. His expression was unreadable, pale eyes glowing like twin moons in the fog.
"I knew it," he murmured, the words low but laced with conviction. "I knew you had potential. That's why I chose you."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried—a calm tide cutting through the silence of the void.
"You don't know it yet," he continued, gaze turning skyward, "but something is coming. Something dangerous. And only you can stop it."
A chill threaded through the mists.
"It's already begun in the Spirit Realm. A storm gathering behind smiling faces. A revolution wrapped in shadow."
The spirit looked down at Arman's unconscious face, his expression softening—almost fond.
"I want you to remember this feeling... this confidence. Hold on to it. It might be the only thing that carries you through."
Then, his eyes narrowed.
A flicker.
A twitch beneath closed eyelids.
Fingers curled slightly. Breath hitched.
Moments later, Arman's eyes fluttered open. Disoriented, blinking against the white haze around him, he pushed himself up with a grunt. His arms trembled under his own weight, but he managed to sit upright.
"…Still here," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Didn't think I'd wake up after that."
"Finally woke up," the spirit said, arms crossed as he sat beside him like a watchful guardian.
Arman winced and rolled his neck. "Yeah… I'm up. That was… something."
"You passed out for a bit. Spirit strain. First time you touch the void like that, it leaves a mark." The spirit smirked faintly. "But you lived. That's more than most can say."
"Good to know I'm exceptional," Arman muttered dryly. He slowly stood, knees slightly buckling. After steadying himself, he turned to the spirit and bowed slightly—awkward but respectful.
"You taught me Dash. That makes you my teacher. So… may I know your name, Master?"
The spirit raised a brow, amused. "Didn't know you knew how to show respect."
"I'm full of surprises," Arman said, straightening.
"If you don't want to call me 'Master,' that's fine too," the spirit said with a lazy shrug.
"Nah. It fits. You're ancient, cranky, and full of riddles. Totally qualifies."
The spirit let out a chuckle, finally standing. "Fair enough."
He extended a hand. "My name is Ievon. Ievon Leonwolt."
Arman tilted his head. "That's… a weird name."
"I come from a time older than your nations. To you, everything about me should be strange."
"Fair," Arman said, cracking his knuckles. "Alright then… Master Ievon."
Ievon nodded, eyes narrowing slightly with what might've been amusement—or warning.
"Now then," he said, stepping forward as the mist around them parted like obedient clouds. "From what I've seen, your instincts are sharp. You rely on your body. You're a hand-to-hand fighter, aren't you?"
Arman nodded. "Yeah. I learned martial arts when I was a kid. It's the only thing I could count on when facing Voidborns. I'm not perfect, but I trust it more than weapons."
"Good." Ievon's tone sharpened. "Then I'll teach you how to fight for real. Not just with fists—but with spirit, precision, and Void."
Arman blinked. "Wait… you know martial arts too?"
Ievon smirked. "I've lived through a hundred arts. I've forgotten more than most masters ever learned. Jeet Kune Do. Piguaquan. Bajiquan. Capoeira. Void-Walkers' Style. Things your world doesn't even have names for."
He pointed at his chest. "But real mastery isn't about technique—it's about intent. Control. Rhythm. Awareness."
Arman exhaled. "Right. Let's do this then."
"Good," Ievon said. "Now. Hit me. Full strength."
Arman blinked. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," Ievon replied, unmoving. "Don't worry. You're far too weak to hurt me."
Arman scowled slightly, then dropped into his stance. His fists clenched, his footing light.
"Okay… you asked for it."
He surged forward—a clean, fast lead punch. Textbook Jeet Kune Do. Direct, explosive, no wasted movement.
But—
Ievon shifted. Barely. A breath of movement.
He sidestepped the punch like it was nothing.
Arman's fist cut through empty air.
"What the hell—?!"
Arman stumbled slightly, eyes wide. "How did you dodge that?"
Ievon stepped back, lowering his stance. "Dash."
He raised one finger. "Not Blink Dash. Something more refined. Born from it."
Arman's breath hitched. "You mean… Phantom Dash?"
A grin tugged at Ievon's lips. "Exactly. Blink Dash is the doorway. Phantom Dash is the step through."
"But… you only taught me Blink Dash."
"You've already awakened the instinct," Ievon said, walking a slow circle around him. "The body remembers. Now you must guide it. Phantom Dash is not a movement—it's a flow. You do not sprint through air. You flow through intention."
Arman closed his eyes, focusing on the energy inside him. He could feel it—spirit essence humming in his limbs like a second pulse.
He remembered how Blink Dash felt: like being pulled forward by invisible strings.
This time… he shifted.
Instead of pushing forward, he leaned sideways.
He flowed with the mist, not through it.
Whoosh!
He vanished—and reappeared six feet to the right, crouched low, stance perfectly balanced.
His eyes widened. "I… I did it?"
Ievon nodded, visibly impressed. "Perfect form. You didn't just move fast. You disappeared from their awareness. That's Phantom Dash."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on Arman's shoulder. "Dash is a technique of the spirit. Once mastered, it becomes instinct. You won't forget it. Not even in death."
Arman felt something stir deep in his chest. A warmth. A confidence he hadn't felt in a long time.
Ievon turned toward the horizon where the mist thinned into gray light.
"Now begins your real training. No more basic movements. No more shadows. I'll teach you everything I know—every form, every feint, every counter."
He narrowed his eyes. "But remember… I can only prepare you. When the time comes, you'll face the real world alone. No one can fight your battles for you."
Arman stood tall, the ache in his body forgotten.
"I understand, Master."
"Then we begin."
The mist stirred.
A wind rose from the void, swirling around them as if something deeper had awoken.
Arman stepped beside Ievon, fists clenched, heart steady.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
Not of pain.
Not of failure.
Not of the storm waiting in the shadows.
He didn't want to become a warrior.
He wanted to become something more.
Something untouchable.
A phantom.