Chapter Text
He was hungry.
He was hungry, he was thirsty, he had a massive headache—probably the dehydration—but most of all, he was tired.
Not for lack of sleep, no, he'd slept more in these past three days than he had in the past three months—because what else can you do when you've trapped yourself at the bottom of a well.
He was tired of himself. Tired of his studies, tired of his classmates, tired of his fruitless efforts, tired of his life. He had exhausted himself trying to keep up his arrogant delusions of grandeur that he was anything but the same as his peers, and now it seemed he'd reached his limit.
For so long, he'd been the best. He worked his ass off, day and night, to make sure every one of his lousy classmates knew how undeniably wide the gap between them was. They had to know they could never reach him.
Because if they believed it, then it was true.
They wouldn't know that his natural talent was carefully crafted bullshit.
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“Zanka, where the hell do you think you're going?”
He didn't know, it just couldn't be here.
Their faces. Pity, condescension, confusion. They weren't supposed to look at him like that. Those punks, so far beneath him, weren't supposed to be looking down on him.
All because of this stick!
What was he thinking? What kind of an idiot looks at a table covered in metal and blades and chooses wood?
Turns out, though, that they were a match made in heaven. It really was just an ordinary stick, a mistake among weapons, not some diamond in the rough, powers untold hidden away in this unassuming vessel, waiting for someone special to bring it out.
What a joke.
They were the same, him and this stick; something mediocre hiding behind their audience's perception that they weren't.
He walked as quickly as he could down those imposing corridors, his hubris still clutched in his hand. His grip tightened around the wooden handle as he stepped outside.
…
The sun was shining far too brightly for the mood he was in, but anything was better than the training field, filled with prying eyes ready to skin him alive for faltering in his charade.
The streets of the city bore down on him from all sides as he walked. Where was he going? Hopefully his legs knew, because his head sure didn't. It was far too filled with every instance of his shortcomings during the past three months. Ever since she joined their class. Ever since she shoved him from his throne.
He felt like she still had that knife pressed to his throat. Maybe she had never removed it.
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If what he'd told that man was true, it really had been three days since he'd stormed out of their training session to test their new weapons. Three days of this hole in the ground. Three days of holding onto this stick like a lifeline. Three days of wallowing in self-pity.
Did anyone notice he was gone? Well, of course they did– but did they care? They wouldn't. All he ever did was treat them like he was somehow better, like they were just innately different from him. No one would miss him if he let himself rot away down here. They all thought he was a snobby, self-important asshole.
Am I?
He gripped the stick harder, his knuckles growing pale. He should've thrown it away the second he got the chance, tossed it in a pile with all the other trash this hellscape catches.
“You're probably still holding that stupid stick. Most people would have tossed it, but you're still holding on.”
The man's words rang through his head. Why hadn't he thrown it away? After his honestly pathetic loss in their training matches three days ago, why hadn't it been the first thing on his mind?
He had failed because of it. Obviously he had, he was up against swords and axes, what was his stick going to do?
It couldn't help it. His mind supplied. It's not its fault it was created mediocre. It wasn't made for battle, to cut through armies, it wasn't even supposed to be on that table.
“But don't the mediocre surpass naturals in the end?”
He brought the stick down from shoulder, to his eye level. It was as unremarkable as when he chose it—rough wood grain and un-sanded edges—but before, he'd somehow looked at it and seen potential. Seen greatness.
What could be said about Zanka?
That man said he could tell from his voice that he wasn't ready to give up. Had Zanka been ready to give up? He had thrown himself in this well with no intention of climbing out, so did that mean he'd been ready to die down here with this stick?
He wasn't so sure of what he wanted anymore.
He wanted very much to just stay in this hole, to never have to face the light again, his expectations and responsibilities. Never have to try and keep up that perfect performance so that his superiority complex could be satiated.
The rational part of him wanted to climb out of here, leave the stick at the bottom, and pretend as if none of this had ever happened. He'd put that oh so familiar charade back up, laugh the stick off like it was a joke, and secure his future with the Hell Guard. He shouldn't be jeopardizing his career, all his hard work during his years at the academy, over a silly little thing like this.
But most of all, he was finding he wanted to prove that man right. He, Zanka Nijiku, was a mediocrity? So be it. If he truly was so average, then why was he judging this stupid-ass stick– he had no right.
The smallest smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He was so jealous of Hyo, and all her natural genius and flawless moves and mysterious edge. The real-deal wouldn't be throwing herself a pity party.
What was he still doing down here, curled in a ball of childish self-loathing? He needed to get his act together, dammit.
He wanted to get back up there, with this stick in his hands, and kick her natural talent ass.