Kürdiala, Hakakit Oasis – Day, Year 7002 A.A.
Adam stepped through a shimmering portal, its edges crackling with quiet mana, as though it breathed in time with his heart. The air shifted instantly—cool, damp, alive—enveloping his blue fur with a breath of gentle stillness. The portal closed behind him with a sigh, like the world exhaling.
He was somewhere else now.
The Hakakit Oasis.
It wasn't a place so much as a memory the land had chosen to preserve.
Waterfalls poured from cliffs that had no visible height, their silver-gold streams arching in slow spirals through the air like ribbons of time. Trees with emerald-glass leaves stood rooted in silence, swaying in a breeze scented with jasmine, dew, and something older—like rain that fell before the world had a name. Petals glowed faintly with inner light. Insects flitted like living jewels, their wings refracting color in prismatic arcs.
The ground was soft, blanketed in grass so fine it glowed slightly under each step. Mana hummed through it—not loudly, but like the low thrum of a heartbeat.
Adam paused.
The stillness here wasn't absence.
It was presence. It moved around him gently, like a parent might tuck in a child.
He let out a breath, long and quiet. His muscles, still raw from facing Toran's Perfect Sphere, slowly loosened. His mind, a storm ever-churning in the background, dulled to a slow tide. The Crescent Moon necklace at his throat pulsed—not with power, but with peace.
And yet… beneath it all, a question.
What does Toran want with me now?
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At the center of the oasis, King Azubuike Toran sat cross-legged on a bed of grass, his black-and-white fur shimmering under the misty light. His robe—midnight blue and woven with silver thread—rested against his shoulders like a mantle of starlight. He faced the largest waterfall, which curved slightly toward him mid-air, as if the cascade itself leaned in to listen.
"How are you feelin', Adam?" Toran asked without turning. His voice was softer than before—less king, more elder, worn by time and memory.
Adam approached slowly. "Before I stepped in… I felt like my body was made of stone."
He stopped a few paces behind Toran, taking in the way the sunlight danced on the moving waters.
"Now… it's like I can breathe again."
Toran nodded, violet eyes half-lidded. "Hakakit does that. A gift from Asalan himself, or so the Chronicles say. It changed the day he rested here. Became somethin' more. A place of healin'. Of clarity. It doesn't hide your pain. It uncovers what's been buried beneath it."
He turned, and the look in his eyes was not kingly, nor analytical. It was familial.
"Sit with me."
Adam hesitated, then crossed the grass and lowered himself opposite the panther. The grass cradled his body like water, cool and living. Mist clung lightly to his blue fur. The Crescent Moon against his chest hummed again—fainter, yet deeper.
"You're wonderin' why I brought you here," Toran said.
Adam nodded, throat dry. "I am."
Toran's gaze held his for a moment longer than comfort allowed. Then he looked down, folding his hands in his lap.
"You carry more than just legacy, Adam. Loss. Anger. The burden of bein' a king without a throne. All that... that's real. That's yours to own. But there's another weight, one you've never understood. One you've felt since you were a cub. A voice you never heard, yet always followed."
Adam's heart skipped.
The question that had never left him—not during exile, not during war, not even in silence—rose again, unbidden:
What is wrong with me?
"How do you know this?" he asked, voice low.
Toran looked toward the waterfall. "Because I've seen it before."
Adam's ears twitched.
"Before the Great Narn War," Toran said, "there was an Arcem unlike any other. Passed down through bloodlines not by force… but by resonance. It didn't just bend mana—it commanded it. Could crystallize it. Mold it. Define it."
Adam leaned forward. "What Arcem?"
Toran's voice was a whisper. "Kurtcan."
The name struck like a bell rung too deeply.
Adam's breath faltered.
Toran continued. "An Arcem that lives. A soul, fused into form, ancient and eternal. It doesn't just obey the wielder. It chooses them."
Adam blinked slowly. "That's… that's not possible. Arcems are mana-formed abilities—living things can't be made of…"
"Don't tell me what's impossible, boy," Toran cut in gently. "Tell me what feels familiar."
Adam looked down at his paws, trembling.
"Kurtcan was the first king of Narn. The first Wolf Tracient. He poured his soul into the Arcem when he died—not to become immortal… but to make sure his vision survived. That Arcem didn't vanish. It waited. It passed through bloodlines like a shadow."
A long pause.
"You have it, Adam."
The words settled like a boulder in his chest.
"No…" Adam shook his head. "I awakened Kirin. My father's Arcem. That was enough."
Toran's eyes darkened. "Yes. You did. Which proves your blood. Kirin isn't exactly a lineage blade, but it was tied to your father's side. But the voice inside you… the chaos, the cold fire that rages when you don't even summon it—that's not Kirin."
Adam's eyes burned, yellow flecks beginning to stir.
"You inherited two Arcems, Adam. Kirin from your father. And Kurtcan… from your mother."
Adam froze.
"My… mother?"
Toran nodded solemnly. "Amaia Kurt. The White Witch of Narn. Hazël #1. Stronger than you can imagine. She bent reality to her voice, and her silence could stop time itself. She was my friend. My family. And she loved you beyond reason."
Adam swallowed hard. "Then why did she leave me? Why let me grow up hunted and abandoned, with power I don't understand? Why not prepare me?"
Toran reached out, his paw resting on Adam's.
"She didn't get the chance. And your father died tryin' to protect you. But listen to me: You are not alone. Their souls live on—in you. And through Kurtcan, you can speak with them."
Adam's voice cracked. "How?"
Toran gestured to the waterfall. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Don't listen with your ears. Listen with what remembers."
Adam shut his eyes.
The sound of water dulled. The light dimmed.
He breathed in.
And something opened.
A warmth stirred in his chest—not Kirin's sharp weight, but something older, softer. A lullaby not sung, but remembered. A warmth like stars hiding in a storm. Something that had always been there, hidden behind breath and blood and pain.
"Mom…?" he whispered.
And then he felt it.
Not words. Not a vision.
A presence.
A touch that bypassed time.
Like fingers brushing his fur when he was still a cub. Like the echo of lullabies from a voice long silenced.
His breathing hitched.
The grass cradled him.
The waterfall curved toward him.
Tears spilled from his closed eyes.
He didn't cry like a warrior. Or a king. He cried like a son.
"I hear you…" he whispered.
And the oasis answered.