I was such a fool. I am alone in this world. I had thought that the world was better than they said. My world has been split in two. I refused to believe them. There are those who wish to rid of me.  I kept this childish hope that they were wrong. I have but one purpose. That there was nothing for me to hide from. There are eleven more like me. That my powers could be used for good. I will only find five. I was wrong.  The world is a terrible place. I learned that firsthand when I ran away from the temple.

Before that life-changing moment, the temple was my home. It was a simple place, made of stone, placed in the middle of a dead city. I was raised there and nothing changed except me. The monks kept the same earthy, yellow tunics and shaved heads. They wore brown pants that had spare room around the thighs then became tight at the calves, and traditional black moccasins on their feet. I wore a red tunic, red stringed-scarf, black pants, and black boots. Nothing changed except the size. They let me, and me alone, grow long hair. It grew black as night and always had a mind of its own. Some of the monks said that it accented my already stunning looks. It made me look like a fearsome foe, yet also like a handsome prince. I was special in their eyes, but my daily routine never changed. It was no more ‘special’ or different than the others: Wake early, pray, practice, pray, eat, practice, learn, practice, pray, eat, learn, practice, eat, practice, bathe, pray, sleep, then then the same thing the next day.

They wanted the best for me. I know that. But, it seems that what was best was not good for me. The best education possible to prepare for my future. Twice a day, yet it went on for hours. I must learn of my past and what my future will entail. The monks smothered me in the lore of the tree of life and the red force and stories of the “new world”. They told me what to expect of the eleven others like me. They taught me of my powers with limited knowledge. All of their teachings were based on ancient scrolls. Some of the elders believe they were made when the world was one. Their proof: some scrolls seemed to be in halves, and some halves were missing. They told me of the dangers of my powers. They tried to teach me how to use my powers: how to control it. When to use I, when not to. What could happen should I misuse it.I learned some on my own, some things the monks couldn’t teach me.

They made sure that I was the best in martial arts.  I would practice until my bones felt like jelly or until I fainted. Practice was endless. Every single day, like a drone: Dao, Nandao, Gun, Changquan, Nanquan. Sometimes I was forced to do the same technique until I perfected it. It wasn’t all bad though. In fact, I loved the practice of Wushu. It made me feel powerful, accomplished even. It helped me focus my mind and calm myself. Wushu has not only physical aspects but mental. In order to perform with--as the monks would want me-- perfection, a certain sense of serenity is needed. It is like an internal peace, yet an absence of emotion. Apathetic tranquility. It is the ultimate emotional stand point for a martial artist. It allows you to judge an opponent, anticipate their next move, and weigh each option. All of which could be added to my practices of time control.

They would force protection upon me, so much so that I felt like a rich, holy treasure. An entire crowd—or as much as one can get—would surround me. I would stand out among them. I was taller than most of them. I most definitely looked different than the. I was never allowed out of the temple grounds.  Was bound to the insides of the humble stone building and fenced-in, hidden garden. I could never be alone save in the dark of night, when I used my powers to sneak away to an empty practice room. There I could meditate and relax. Yet that sole relaxation was a paradox. The curse of my power is endurance. It takes a certain kind of energy, not necessarily physical or mental energy, to apprehend my powers. Either way, it tires me faster than wushu. I learned young where my boundaries lie, yet they became wider as I grew.

Time control, though, cannot be taken lightly. The monks called time a doubtful mistress. You must treat her kindly and not test her limits. Do not place too much trust in her, for her trust is not in you. One simple act could alter an entire life. Going forwards in time is foolish. It is like predicting the future while participating in it. You simply being there before you should alters it. Going backwards in time could give you the chance to amend a mistake, but can alter the outcome already seen. Freezing time s too much energy. Speeding time is dizzying and slowing time is almost as bad as freezing time and speeding it up at same time.

Now  I run on this dry, cracked, wasted land in the real world. I am no longer under the safe roof of my patrons. I am truly alone.  I reminisce upon the lessons that they taught me. It seems they all were not in vain. Now I find myself at the point where I must find my other elements. This apocalyptic world is a dangerous place alone. The red force’s followers await at every turn. I don’t now where my next meal will be or when my own stash will run out. I must find the others as soon as possible, and before the planets align.  I can only focus on what is ahead.

It is here on this broken cliff face, far away from the small remaining society of an ancient countryside, where I find my way. The wind blows on my face, whispering to me. On its back rides a single, fragile butterfly. Its black body is decorated with scarlet wings and pasted upon them, like a stamp, is the seal of wind. It lands on my finger and the stamp glows blue. Then, it takes off again to the sky, beckoning me to follow. Now I know my next destination. It is the only thing on my mind as I follow after the insect, sword in hand ad pack on back: Wind.