My Tribrid System.

It took about an hour for Tahir to take down the beast. With precision, he carefully dissected the creature, removing its crystal with practiced ease. All this time, the entire dojo had been watching Tahir through a flying drone, capturing every move he made. His calm demeanor and precise techniques spoke volumes to the others watching, a silent reminder of his growing power.

To Tahir, he had simply grown stronger. But to those who had trained him, it was more than that—his evolution was evident. Only the master, with his discerning eye, could see the deeper change within him.

"Finally, you've become like him. I hope you'll protect humanity too," the Shadow Fang leader thought to himself, watching from the shadows as Tahir stood victorious. The master's expression, however, held no triumph, only silent observation of what his student had become.

Meanwhile, at his family's estate, Kris sat in his room, trying to ignore the silence that pressed in on him. His phone rang, and without looking, he knew who it was. His father. The calls always came when he least expected, a reminder that, no matter how far he was from home, they were still watching.

"Kris," his father's voice was cool, sharp as always. "I trust you haven't forgotten what we discussed. No slip-ups."

Kris didn't reply immediately. He had learned early on that his father wasn't asking for a conversation. "I know," he said quietly, his voice controlled.

His father's words were always the same. It wasn't about his life at the academy or his training. As long as Kris kept his family's secrets, they didn't care what he did. But no matter how many times he heard those reminders, a part of him couldn't shake the emptiness that followed each call.

They had always given him everything—anything a child could want. Money? It was never a problem. Security? His family had more power than most, and protection came naturally. But all those luxuries felt like nothing.

What he hadn't been given was the one thing that mattered most—love. He thought back to his childhood, the long halls of the estate that were filled with luxury but felt so hollow.

Growing up, Kris remembered how his parents barely looked at him unless it was to discuss the family business. Dinners weren't for bonding; they were for talks about beast crystals, profits, and alliances. His father spoke as if Kris were just another piece in their grand plan, not a son who needed guidance or affection.

His mother was much the same—distant, focused on her affairs, leaving Kris to fend for himself emotionally.

The only constant presence in his life was Nana, the old woman who had taken care of him since he could remember. She taught him the little things—how to dress himself, how to be polite in front of others—but even her kindness was more duty than genuine care. When his parents were too busy, which was often, Nana filled the gap.

But even she couldn't give Kris what he truly needed—a sense of belonging.

At the age of nine, everything shifted. His father decided that it was time for Kris to begin his ability training. That's when the nanny was no longer needed, and the softness of her presence was replaced by harsh lessons in control. He was taught to channel his powers, to master the rare family ability that had been passed down through generations.

His trainers drilled into him that power was the only thing that mattered. Mastering it would secure his place in the family, but even then, the love he craved was never part of the deal.

Kris still remembered the first day of that training. His father had stood over him, watching his every move, offering no words of encouragement, just silent judgment. Failure wasn't an option, and even at that young age, Kris understood that. Every success only brought a nod of approval, nothing more. No warmth, no pride—just expectation.

Now, sitting in his room, Kris clenched his fists. The house felt just as cold as it had when he was a child. He was still part of their game, still the tool they would use to maintain their power and status. The call ended as abruptly as it had started, his father not waiting for a response. He didn't need one. Kris had been raised to obey.

But despite all the wealth and privilege, all the training and power, Kris couldn't shake the feeling that something important was missing from his life—something he had never known but desperately wanted. Love, affection, a sense of belonging. His family had everything, but none of it was for him.

Kris sat quietly, his thoughts drifting as he stared out of the window. The estate was quiet, as it always was, the large courtyard stretching out before him. His mind wandered back to the call with his father. No matter what he did, nothing ever changed. The feeling of being trapped, of always being watched, clung to him.

But this time, it wasn't just in his head.

He blinked and squinted, noticing something—or someone—just beyond the wall that enclosed the estate. A figure, standing still, barely visible in the fading light. Kris's chest tightened. The memory of Tahir's words crept into his mind: We're being followed.

A strange tension filled the air. He couldn't make out any details from where he sat, but the feeling of being watched was unmistakable. His hand instinctively moved to his phone, but he stopped. Calling for help wouldn't do any good here. His family wasn't concerned with these things, not unless it threatened their secrets.

And right now, Kris was just another part of the estate, expected to keep quiet and stay out of trouble.

The figure didn't move. Whoever it was, they weren't in a hurry. Kris stood up slowly, his gaze fixed on the spot, trying to decide if it was worth investigating. The weight of the estate felt heavier tonight. Maybe it wasn't just the figure—maybe it was everything building up.

Zahra stood in the garden, surrounded by the children as they ran around her, laughing and chasing the ice figures she formed in the air. Snowflakes drifted lightly from her hands, creating a gentle chill in the warm afternoon. The children's laughter echoed through the space, their joy unmistakable as they marveled at the little ice animals and shapes Zahra conjured effortlessly.

From the porch, her mother watched quietly. She smiled softly at the scene, but it didn't reach her eyes. Zahra's control over her ice ability had made her one of the family's strongest members, and the pride her mother felt for her daughter's talents was undeniable. But there was something else beneath that pride—a sadness that mirrored the one she saw in Zahra's smile.

Zahra's laughter came easily when she was around the kids, but her mother knew it was different when they were alone. There was a quiet loneliness in Zahra, one that her mother had seen for years but didn't know how to fix. She had watched her daughter grow into the family's prodigy, had seen her master their rare abilities, but no amount of strength could fill the emptiness Zahra carried inside.

Her mother's heart ached, knowing that despite all the power and praise, Zahra wasn't happy. She had seen the way Zahra's smile would falter when she thought no one was looking, how her eyes would drift off when the laughter around her faded.

It pained her mother to know that the very thing that made Zahra exceptional—the strength, the talent—also kept her apart from the warmth and comfort she deserved.

As Zahra continued to play with the kids, her mother wished, not for the first time, that she could reach her daughter. But in a family where strength was everything, she wasn't sure how. So, she stood there, watching, her own sadness mingling with Zahra's, hoping that one day, Zahra wouldn't have to hide behind her smiles.

Cassy sat in the damp dungeon, her wrists bound, the cold stone pressing into her skin. The replica sword lay beside her, a reminder of her failure. The silence around her was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of dripping water.

The door creaked open, and a figure stepped in—one of the organization's leaders.

He moved slowly, purposefully, his gaze fixed on her. The cold in his eyes was sharper than the blade he drew. He raised it, the steel gleaming faintly in the dim light, and brought it closer, its edge now dangerously close to her throat.

"You know the consequences," he said, his voice low and emotionless.

The sword tip hovered just above her skin. Cassy's breath hitched as the final moment drew near. But before the blade could fall, a sudden, sharp tone echoed in the room—a call.

The leader's expression barely changed, but he turned and glanced at the communication device on his wrist. With a sigh, he sheathed his blade and turned away, his voice barely a whisper as he walked toward the door.

"Remember your place," he said coldly before leaving her alone in the dark.

Cassy let out a breath of relief, her chest tightening as the weight of the moment finally lifted. She glanced down at the wrist tag Tahir had given her—the one that had been with her through all of this. She couldn't help but think, Maybe there's still hope.