Untitled to Unrivalled

"It looks like, the next Ascendant who will become Exalted has been decided."

Those words fell on deaf ears as Unrivalled's pristine white cape fluttered wildly under the pressure of his own existence. A calm breath filtering through his powerful lungs and shaking the ground around him with a chilling vibration as he closed his eyes and focused on those words, remembering a time where he could only dream of hearing such a hypocritical statement. 

He remembered a time when... 

FIVE YEARS AGO

Untitled stood motionless, his back straight, his feet planted firmly on the ground. The air hung heavy, oppressive, pressing in from all sides. Time seemed to slow, the world quiet, as though it had withdrawn from him.

His body felt like stone, veins pulsing against the darkening skin. His muscles trembled, barely contained under the strain of years, of memories that refused to die. His fists clenched. The pressure of the dojo's walls, the weight of the world, the weight of a lifetime of failure, bore down on him.

He had reached the peak. He had mastered every technique. The years had drained him, every fight, every sacrifice. And for what? His chest tightened, his breath shallow. The title had never been his. He had given everything and received nothing in return.

His eyes closed, but the past still burned. The hours spent training, fighting through endless pain, had led him here standing alone, untitled. His skin darkened even further, his veins rising like cables of pure agony beneath the surface. He could feel his body wanting to collapse, to surrender, but he would not. Not yet. 

His mind sharpened, the years of suffering and struggle collapsing into a single moment. The power still lingered in him, a bitter reminder of all that was lost. He willed it to move, to react, to push him forward. The ground beneath him groaned under the pressure of his force. His body shuddered, but he stayed still, anchored.

With a slow exhale, Untitled opened his eyes. There was nothing but the weight of his existence, of all he had failed to achieve. His breath caught, his chest aching as the wind stirred around him, carrying with it the sting of old regrets. His hand lifted, trembling, as though the very act of moving threatened to break him.

But he did not falter. 

The wind picked up, sweeping across the barren ground, the sound of it deafening in his ears. He closed his eyes again, focusing on the emptiness. There was no more fight, no more struggle left in him. He had given everything, and now he was nothing but the shadows of what he had once been.

The world seemed to wait. His body, heavy and worn, sank into stillness, the weight of it pressing against him. The energy within him waned, slowly, like a flame dying out. No one would remember him. No one would remember the warrior who had stood at the peak and fallen short.

Slowly, his eyes closed once more. The last breath, shallow, quiet. His body, unmoving. The world, empty. 

___

Untitled's body was still, but within, a phantasmic surge stirred. It was as though he was caught between life and death, his form suspended in the grip of an ethereal tide.

A dark abyss, colder than the deepest void, pulled at his very being. His breath, once steady, now came in shallow bursts, ragged and uneven, as though the weight of existence itself sought to crush him. Then, like the sudden strike of lightning, his eyes flickered barely open, just a sliver, a brief glimpse into the world that had once been his.

But it was the chanting that roused him.

Faint at first, a hum in the void that became a ripple, then a wave. The words, old and familiar, bled into his mind like ink through paper. Martial techniques. Discipline. Power. The woman's voice his sensei cut through the dark fog of his mind, guiding him, coaxing him.

"ONE TWO"

"ONE TWO"

"ONE TWO"

The chanting echoed through his body in a rhythm that locked into his chest and forced him to breathe with it. His pupils ripped open, as if the very force of the words shattered the walls of his mind. The dark fog parted. Clarity washed over him like a cleansing tide.

He was no longer lying in the dark. He was standing.

Before him was a pristine dojo, the polished floor reflecting the light from lanterns hanging above. The air was thick with purpose and discipline. The scent of wood and sweat lingered, comforting and familiar. Students stood in perfect, unwavering horse stances, their feet planted like roots. Every movement, every breath was synchronized.

Under the command of their Sensei, they threw punch after punch after punch.

He looked down at himself, his hands trembling slightly as they clenched into fists. His gi, white and oversized, hung loosely on his slim frame, the sleeves trailing slightly past his wrists. His spiky white hair seemed to shimmer under the warm light, radiating a strange, ethereal glow. His skin, dark and smooth, glistened with the faintest sheen of sweat. His brown eyes flickered over the room, wide with awe, though they held an undeniable fire.

"I... I have been reborn!!"