Chapter 12: The Dam Over the Flood

Leon felt a single, uncontrolled burst that would have vaporized the boy’s head if he listened to his heart.

The image of what would have happened after played in Leon’s mind in a satisfyingly vivid image. The air around his hands got wrapped with heat so hard he felt like he was inside a rising tornado.

Then, in that instant, Leon’s mind spiraled as memories flashed back:

He was twelve, holding a brush, and trying to paint a bird on a scrap of wood.

His hand shook with frustration, ruining the lines as he daubed too much paint. It was a mess. A large, blurry smudge of color. His father, Andrew, knelt beside him, his own hands stained with permanent, industrial paint.

He didn’t scold him. Instead, his father placed a calm, steady hand over Leon’s.

“The strength is in the restraint, son,” his father whispered, his voice a low rumble.

“Your anger is a flood that destroys everything, including the paint. Controlling it changes it into a dam. It directs the water.” He paused, stirred the bucket of paint with a cooking ladle.

“Patience and training turn the flood into power. Feel the current, but do not let it feel you.” He guided Leon’s hand, showing him the gentle pressure and the careful stroke. The next line came out clean and perfect.

Then, Leon’s mind jolted back to the assembly. The memory turned like an anchor in the storm of his rage. Feel the current, but do not let it feel you.

Leon could feel his inner energy screaming, begging for release. The energy threatened to shatter his bones from the inside out. Yet still, he made all effort to contain it.

When he blinked, he saw Tiger’s alien smirk superimposed over the curly-haired boy’s face. With a gasp, Leon managed to fully calm down the energy and channel it back.

Even with that, the pain he felt was like holding a star inside his ribcage. For the first time, he had chosen the dam over the flood. But he wasn’t sure the walls were strong enough to hold it.

The warping air around his hands stilled as sweat slicked down his face. Leon saw how terrified the boy was before he finally took a step away.

When Leon shifted his gaze to the stage, he met the proctor’s eyes, sharp and missing nothing.

The eyes lingered on Leon for a fraction longer than they were on another student as they inspected them.

With steps like a king, the proctor walked toward Leon’s queue and loomed over him. Leon could feel the proctor’s presence like a vast and immovable tree.

In that instant, Leon didn’t dare blink or move as his eyes gazed forward, unaware of the intensity they carried.

“What’s your name?” he asked, voice like rolling thunder.

When Leon tried to answer, his mouth felt heavy and refused to let him say a word.

“Are you deaf?!” the proctor’s voice roared again.

“My… my,” Leon’s voice came in shallow breaths. His words cut short as he saw how alarming the proctor’s body structure was.

“Speak up, boy.” The proctor shouted, his voice piercing Leon’s ears like a blade tearing fabric. Every gaze burned into him, harsh and unrelenting so hard he swore to never visit the assembly again.

Murmurs flowed through the crowd like shifting wind. But as the proctor shifted his gaze, everything went back silent.

The air itself felt frozen, as if a black hole had sucked out their essence of speaking.

“Name!” he questioned.

“I’m Leon Storm.” Leon’s voice came in thin and brittle, ready to snap. Heat prickled his skin so hard it caused a single drop of sweat to slide down his temple like lava.

The proctor moved, but his gaze lingered on Leon like a hungry lion shifting position toward prey.

All the students beside Leon held their breath and maintained composure until the proctor turned his back to them and walked on the stage.

Mocking laughter chased Leon on his way back to the dorms like sharp knives. He kept his head low, every step heavier than the last. Even the air he inhaled felt pressing like a collapsing ceiling.

’Why…?!’ Leon’s thought screamed as his door lock rejected his key. In that instant, he felt as if the world had rejected him as well.

Lazily, he slumped himself against the locked door, gripping onto the now useless key in his trembling hands. He sighed countless times, saying words his ears couldn’t hear until a low voice cut through the haze: “Why are you outside?”

He looked at the legs of the person standing before him with wild eyes, but cooled down as he noticed the person was none other than Mr. Lee.

Then, he scrambled to his feet and fumbled around as if he was searching for the key.

“Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” Mr. Lee asked, nodding at the red triangular shard peeking from Leon’s pocket.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Lee whispered and stretched his hand over Leon’s. He took the key calmly and opened the door with just one attempt.

“Thank you, sir.” Quickly, Leon dashed inside, washed himself, and then sat opposite Mr. Lee, who had fully relaxed into the single chair in Leon’s room.

“What is your preparation toward the tournament?” Mr. Lee questioned, his voice low but cold as ice.

“I’m preparing well.” Leon answered, but his answer wasn’t one that was expected of him to say. His flinching eyes and darting cheeks gave a different definition of his own words.

“You are not. It’s high time you’ve got to stop lying to yourself.” Mr. Lee hissed, standing up from the chair with a furious face.

Then, slowly, he pulled out a book from his bag and stretched it to Leon.

“Take this. It will help you understand what you are and how you move through struggles.” Mr. Lee handed Leon a dark grey book that looked heavy inside but lighter in Leon’s grip.

’How to master Tai chi.’ Leon recited the title in his mind and opened to the first page with a smile.

“I don’t have any knowledge; how can I learn it?” Leon flipped the first sheet to the back. “Only one of true blood and mind can acquire,” he muttered, tightening his grip on the book.

“Yes, I know. But that’s not what you should have read. Read what’s written at the back.” Mr. Lee murmured, voice soft but echoing like a dragon spurting fire.

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