In an instant, the overwhelming heat and blinding light vanished, leaving Waylon suspended briefly in midair before gravity reclaimed its hold. He dropped heavily, splashing back down into the shallow pool, the icy water embracing him gently as ripples danced outward. Silence filled the cavern once more, broken only by the quiet lapping of disturbed water.
Waylon awoke slowly, blinking his eyes open beneath the water's surface. Bubbles escaped from his mouth as he gasped and sat upright with a splash. He sputtered for breath, coughing lightly, shaking droplets of water from his face.
"How many times am I going to have to wake up like this?" he murmured bitterly, his voice sounding clearer and stronger than it had in days. Despite his irritation, an odd calm had settled over him—almost peaceful, like the aftermath of a violent storm finally passing.
He took a deep, measured breath, filling his lungs fully. It felt impossibly refreshing, as if he'd spent his whole sixteen years suffocating, only to now finally experience the true freedom of breathing deeply. It was a profound sensation, powerful enough to make him pause and savor the moment.
He slowly lifted his hands from the water, examining them carefully in the dim cavern. His eyes widened in surprise. He could see every detail—the lines in his palms, each individual droplet of water clinging to his fingertips—as clearly as if he were standing in sunlight.
"Wait…what?" Waylon whispered in disbelief, turning his hands over repeatedly. "How am I seeing this clearly in the dark?"
He glanced quickly around the cavern, startled to discover that every shadowed corner was now perfectly visible to him. Each rock, every tiny patch of moss, every faint crack in the cavern wall was as clear as day. It was as though the darkness itself had been stripped away, leaving his vision unobscured.
Waylon's heart quickened slightly, and he instinctively touched his chest. Beneath his fingertips, he felt a soft, rhythmic pulse of warmth—gentle and subtle, but ever-present. It still existed, hidden beneath his heartbeats, yet now it was manageable, contained.
Unless he actively focused on it, he could barely tell it was there at all. He smiled faintly, relieved to have the inferno reduced to a mere whisper within his chest. "I guess that's… a good thing?" he murmured uncertainly.
Then a sudden idea struck him, and excitement bloomed rapidly in his chest. "Wait a minute—" he said aloud, leaping quickly from the pool with renewed energy, water streaming off him.
He flexed his fingers eagerly, eyes bright with anticipation. "Did… did I just gain some kind of crazy superpower or something?" he wondered aloud, the corners of his lips lifting in childish excitement.
The thought made him grin wider, and with newfound enthusiasm, Waylon assumed a stance he'd seen countless times in cartoons as a kid. His eyes narrowed dramatically, and he thrust his hands to his side, palms together, fingers extended.
With mock seriousness, he began to chant dramatically, "Ka…me…ha...—"
He shoved his hands forward, expecting—or at least hoping—for a surge of power to erupt. But nothing happened. No energy beam. No brilliant flash. Just silence, the faint drip of water, and the soft echo of his breathing.
Waylon blinked a few times, then burst out laughing. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Well, guess I won't be getting any yellow or blue hair from this, huh?" he chuckled softly, feeling foolish but happier than he'd felt in ages.
His laughter faded into a quiet smile, and he shook his head at his own absurdity. Still amused, he wandered toward a calmer section of water and glanced down, curious about his appearance after such an ordeal.
He stared into his reflection, and a sharp intake of breath escaped his lips. Staring back at him weren't the brown eyes he'd grown used to seeing—but radiant, brilliant gold irises, shimmering softly in the dim cavern.
"What…?" he gasped softly, leaning closer to confirm the impossible sight. The golden hue seemed almost to glow, catching the faint bioluminescent light and reflecting it back with uncanny brightness.
He touched his cheek, examining his face carefully. Aside from his striking eyes, he looked healthier, his skin no longer pale or sallow. The exhaustion that had marred his features had vanished completely, replaced by an unmistakable sense of vigor.
He stepped back from the reflection, flexing his fingers, rolling his shoulders experimentally. Every joint moved smoothly, every muscle responding effortlessly. The ache and pain that had lingered relentlessly within him was now utterly gone.
"I… feel great," Waylon whispered softly, voice tinged with awe. "Not just better, but actually… incredible."
Waylon stepped slowly from the shallow water, droplets trailing down his refreshed skin and falling silently onto the cavern floor. He felt invigorated, his muscles responding smoothly, energized in a way they never had before. Despite the absence of radical physical changes, he was keenly aware of a shift—a newfound clarity permeating his every sense.
He closed his eyes momentarily, drawing a deep, calming breath. The cavern seemed quieter, yet every sound was clearer. The gentle drip of water from distant stalactites, the faint rustle of unseen insects—each was perfectly distinct, their subtle nuances easily distinguishable to him now.
Opening his eyes, Waylon once again marveled at how bright the dim cave appeared. Details that had previously been hidden now stood out sharply, allowing him to navigate confidently, even in near-total darkness. He turned his hands over again, flexing his fingers, noticing the minute ways his body shifted and adjusted with each movement.
His gaze shifted toward the mantis blade resting near the smoldering fire pit. With renewed confidence, he walked toward it, feet landing softly and steadily on the uneven stone floor. Every step seemed lighter, more balanced, as though his body was suddenly aware of its own subtle flaws and correcting them instinctively.
Picking up the blade again, Waylon gripped the handle firmly, testing the weight in his palm. It felt unchanged, yet his perception of it was entirely different. He could now sense tiny imperfections in his grip, the awkwardness of the angle he'd chosen, the minor tension in his forearm as he held it.
"Interesting," he whispered to himself, swinging the blade experimentally. The motion was still clumsy, lacking grace, but this time he felt exactly why. He could pinpoint each tiny misalignment—his elbow slightly out of position, his wrist tensed at the wrong angle, his stance a fraction too wide.
He paused, adjusting his posture slowly, thoughtfully. Swinging again, he corrected those small discrepancies one by one. It wasn't perfect, but it was vastly improved—enough to astonish him.
"Have I always been this clumsy?" he murmured aloud, half amused, half concerned by his discovery. He wondered briefly if his earlier struggles had always been due to this subtle lack of coordination, hidden beneath layers of unconscious movements.
Driven by curiosity, Waylon decided to test the extent of his newfound bodily awareness. He started jogging lightly around the cavern, noting immediately the slight asymmetry in his stride. His left foot landed heavier than his right, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, his head dipped unnecessarily low.
He corrected each movement consciously, adjusting his posture step by careful step. As he did, the sensation of awkwardness faded, replaced by a smooth, efficient rhythm. Each correction gave way to smoother strides and greater ease, his body quickly adapting to these refined motions.
Encouraged, Waylon jumped experimentally, feeling the tension in his calves, thighs, and lower back. He landed unevenly, stumbling forward slightly, recognizing immediately what had gone wrong. "Too rigid… need to soften the landing," he noted quietly, more to himself than anything else.
He jumped again, this time absorbing the landing through bent knees and relaxed ankles. He smiled softly in satisfaction as the impact barely registered, his body instinctively adjusting, balancing with newfound ease.
Next, he began to skip—a simple, childish movement he'd never given a second thought. But now, as he moved lightly across the cavern floor, he could feel each unnecessary shift in weight, each misalignment in his posture. His hips tilted awkwardly, his arms swung unevenly, and each skip sent feedback instantly to his newly heightened senses.
Waylon stopped abruptly, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head. "I've wasted so much energy my whole life," he realized quietly. Every unconscious motion he'd previously ignored now stood out starkly, clearly unnecessary and inefficient.
Determined, he began again, slowly retraining his body from the ground up. He moved methodically—stepping, hopping, jumping—each repetition aimed at eliminating imperfections. He slowed each motion down, analyzed, adjusted, and repeated until it became smooth and effortless.
Minutes turned into hours as he immersed himself entirely in the process. Sweat began to bead lightly on his brow, a pleasant warmth spreading through his muscles, but fatigue never came. Instead, he felt a surge of quiet exhilaration as his movements became cleaner, sharper, more graceful with every repetition.
Waylon soon returned to the mantis blade, gripping it confidently now, and resumed swinging. His corrections were subtle yet precise, refining each stroke, finding an efficiency he'd never before achieved. Each swing became sharper, more controlled, more intentional.
His heart raced with excitement—not from exertion, but from the realization that he was unlocking something extraordinary within himself. He was learning, adapting, becoming something more refined than before. The journey was slow, meticulous, and demanding, yet deeply rewarding.
Eventually, Waylon paused, breathing steadily, staring thoughtfully at the blade in his hand. The cavern around him was quiet once more, peaceful, yet filled with possibilities. His senses felt sharper than ever, each input crisp and clear, guiding him forward.