[Episode] Mark of the Feeble

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[plyr=misc]"Alright!"[/plyr] Zein said, suddenly halting, a disconnect in the steady rhythm they had been walking at. [plyr=misc]"You two go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in a bit!"[/plyr]

"Zein! Hold up…" Arlo called after him, but the tanned teenager in a cream dress shirt and sand brown pants was already running away. His thick, wavy,  jet black curls and durable leather cape moved up and down in an increasingly rapid rhythm as he dashed away. “Argh!" Arlo grunted as Asia sighed. "Always rushin’ for no reason!"  

In reality, Zein did have a reason to be in a rush. They had already bid their farewells to their family, friends and classmates, but Zein still had one more person to see before he set off on his short journey.

[plyr=misc]"Take care of Asia for me!"[/plyr] He yelled out as he rounded a corner, his lengthy, chocolate-colored cape trailing behind him like a malformed brown shadow.

A few awkward seconds passed as the two of them stared at the spot the young girl’s older brother had last been. Asia narrowed her eyes at Arlo, a faint trace of worry appearing on her face as she hesitated, not knowing what to expect.

Despite Zein and Amir fully trusting the former delinquent, Asia still felt uneasy being alone with her brother's odd friend. It was partly due to his past, but also because his appearance gave her the chills. He was imposing—large in every sense, both height and breadth. His bald head gleamed under the sun, in stark contrast to the bushy beard beneath his nose. A stern, almost spiteful, expression masked his face.

With visible agitation, Arlo opened his mouth, as if to say something, but quickly seemed to think better of it. He paused, then sighed, mumbling, "If only Amir were here instead…" Then he forced a smile as he turned to Asia. She might have been reassured if the smile didn’t look like something a child drew with crayons.

"Ahem… What’re you waiting for, kiddo? Don’t you wanna see your big bro? Let’s get going then." He inquired, and for a brief instance his smile relaxed slightly.

For a second, Asia hesitated. She glanced at Arlo, still unsure how she felt about him, but the thought of seeing Amir again—of being with her brother—pushed her doubts aside. Besides, Zein trusted him, and that had to count for something. Slowly, a wide smile found its way onto her face. “To the docks!” she yelped enthusiastically, darting ahead, her excitement making her momentarily forget her qualms about Arlo. Amir had been gone for a few months, and his warmth and caring nature had been missed by all.

"Wait!" Arlo hollered as he tried to catch up to the girl, his stomach bouncing from side to side. Running at a den den mushi’s pace and huffing as he tried to catch up, Arlo couldn’t help but grumble to himself 'Zein ain’t the only hasty snob in this family… Why couldn’t they all be like Amir?'



WC: 500 | 500 | 5000

Knock.

Nothing.

Another, harder knock.

No answer. No sound. No movement.

[plyr=misc]“Hey- Old Man Lysander! I’m coming in!”[/plyr]  

Zein pushed open the ebony door and stepped inside, scanning his surroundings.

In the shack’s dim interior, a wrinkled old man lay still and silent on a tiny wooden bed. Aside from the bald patch in the center of his head, his silver hair hung to his shoulders, surprisingly thick. A scruffy white beard extended to his chest, blending with the thick cotton blanket that enveloped him.

A faint shudder ran through Zein as he studied the old man. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was dead.

On a bedside table, a cup of coffee, long gone cold, sat alongside an open notebook filled with scribbles. Dry ink pooled around a fallen jar, like dark water surrounding a lone island.

The air inside the hut felt frozen, as if time had been paused. Zein sank into a chair facing the old man’s bed and sat still for several seconds. The expression on his face slowly shifted as memories etched emotion onto his face. A deep sigh escaped his lips,  and filled the room with heavy, unspoken sentiment. The sigh lingered in the air, drawing Zein into a dazed trance, as if the room's stillness weighed on his chest…



WC: 218 | 718 | 5000

A terrifying beast, striped yellow and black, gave chase to a helpless little boy. The sound of the boy’s rapid footsteps pounded against the dirt as he ran, his stamina draining with every stride.

[plyr=misc]‘Faster…’[/plyr] the boy pleaded, struggling to keep his legs moving, to stop himself from giving up. [plyr=misc]‘Even faster, or…’[/plyr]

Unable to finish the thought, he glanced back, his eyes widening as the monster’s sharp, lethal stinger reflected in them. Images of the stinger piercing deep into his flesh, into his heart, flashed through his mind. In a desperate attempt to dispel the fear, he forced his eyes shut. Heart pounding, he kept running, adrenaline propelling him forward from the imminent horror.

“BUZZZZ!!”

He could feel the creature’s growing agitation through the rapid vibrations on the back of his neck. With each pulse, his heart seemed to beat faster.

[plyr=misc]‘I’m… I’m going to d-’[/plyr]

THONK!!!

A head-splitting thud replaced the buzzing, and an overwhelming pang of pain—like an army of ants biting at every inch of his flesh—overtook him, immediately dwarfing the fatigue. His body straightened against the trunk of an enormous tree, then collapsed to the ground as if his limbs had given way. Hot liquid oozed across his face, and an unpleasant metallic taste filled his mouth. Two bumps began forming on his forehead, as if demonic horns were about to thrust out. He imagined the pain as a descent into hell, the horns ready to break through.

The boy howled, rolling and writhing in agony like a worm cut in half. The pain swelled, and time itself seemed consumed by it, frozen. Seconds or an eternity could have passed—it felt the same to him.

Then came the cool, refreshing water. A cold wave washed over him, bringing brief relief. It rinsed the hot liquid from his face, drenching him in a revolting mixture of water and blood that turned into mud as it mixed with the dirt beneath him. Slowly, he opened his eyes, trying to remember what had happened, where he was, what he was doing. He tried to get up, but his muscles were too weak, pinned down by the mud like quicksand. As the blur around him began to clear, like a smudge of paint being wiped from his vision, an old man came into view.

“Ar-... -ight… -ild?”

Puzzled, the boy tilted his head and squinted at the old man. The man repeated himself until the boy understood.

“Are you feeling alright, child!?”

[plyr=misc]“Alright…?”[/plyr] he muttered, trying to make sense of it all.

“You’re a tough boy, huh?” the old man chuckled softly, gently turning the boy’s head to inspect his wounds. “With injuries like that, most children—adults even—would be in tears by now.”

Furrowing his brows, the boy looked at his reflection in the muddy puddle around him—bloodied, bruised, and dirty. Realizing the state of his injuries, he began to cry noisily. [plyr=misc]“Th-the monster! Did it g-get me!?”[/plyr] he asked in a high-pitched panic.

The old man kneeled, placing a firm hand on the child’s shoulder. The boy flinched at the touch. “I’ve encountered many monsters in my life. Those experiences taught me a valuable lesson,” the man began. With a sudden burst of speed, he reached out and caught the bee between his thumb and index finger. The boy’s jaw dropped in awe of the man’s speed. “A monster can only be as frightening as you allow it to be.” He freed the bee from his grip. “And sometimes…”

The bee flew to a nearby yellow flower and began pollinating it. “What we believe to be a monster is, in reality, a helpful ally.”

[plyr=misc]“Allow it to be? Helper?”[/plyr] the boy muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion as he tried to understand. His eyes darted back to the bee, now calmly buzzing around the flower.

Suddenly, and all at once, an uneasy realization crept in. He blinked and looked around, noticing for the first time where he was—a dense forest, surrounded by bees and a strange old man. His heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here? And who was this man?

Instinct took over. Without a second thought, the boy turned on his heel and bolted, legs pumping as fast as they could carry him. Running was the only thing that made sense—and the one thing he did best.



WC: 726 | 1444 | 5000

“At that moment, an angel descended before the prophet, its colossal wings stretching as far as the eye could see—spanning the equivalent of 70 years of travel. Lightning flickered in its glowing blue eyes, and when it spoke, its voice crashed like a storm.”

[plyr=misc]"Whoa! He must have been crazy powerful!"[/plyr]

"He was. So powerful, in fact, that a single strike could have wiped out the entire island. And that’s exactly what he offered the prophet."

[plyr=misc]"But… wasn’t the prophet supposed to be the good guy?"[/plyr]

"Mockery. Slander. Persecution. They subjected him to every cruelty you could imagine—and then some. They tried to kill him in ways too horrific to describe. The book ‘100 Ways to Kill a Man’? Yeah, that’s based on his story. So, tell me… if you were in his shoes, what would you do? Now that you’ve finally got power over those who abused you?”

The boy furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin, thinking hard. [plyr=misc]“Well… killing is bad, but… if an angel offered, they must have really deserved it, right?”[/plyr]

"You’re right. I used to think the same way. When I had the power, I believed people deserved punishment too. But you know what the prophet said?"

[plyr=misc]"I don’t know… maybe he said something like ‘Wipe them out and their sins too?’ Or maybe… 'Send them to hell forever'?"[/plyr]

The old man’s lips curled into a soft smile as he shook his head slowly.

"He said, ‘Leave them be. They might still repent. And if they don’t, then maybe those after them will… and those after them.’"

The boy sat in silence for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ground. [plyr=misc]"So… he just forgave them?"[/plyr]  he whispered, almost to himself. The old man nodded, his smile soft but firm. The boy’s brow furrowed as if trying to understand something much larger than himself. [plyr=misc]“That’s… really hard, isn’t it?”[/plyr]  he finally said.

“It is.” The old man sighed, staring off into the distance. “It’s not always easy to leave the past behind, but sometimes the greatest strength is found in restraint,” he said, almost as if reminding himself. "It’s the hardest choices that make us stronger. Remember that, boy. Someday, you may have to choose for yourself."




WC: 378 | 1822 | 5000

Harsh, ragged coughs tore through the stillness of the room, each one crackling like brittle stone breaking against metal. The sound echoed off the walls, filling the space with a sharp, uneasy rhythm. Zein shifted in his chair, unease tightening his chest as his eyes remained glued to the old man. The coughing fit seemed to stretch on endlessly, the man’s frail body trembling under its force.

When the attack subsided, the silence that followed was thick, heavy with the unsaid.

Zein swallowed, leaning forward. [plyr=misc]“What’s going on?”[/plyr] he asked, his voice thin but edged with concern. [plyr=misc]“You don’t look like yourself…”[/plyr]

“It’s nothing,” the old man rasped, his voice barely a whisper between shallow breaths. His chest heaved with effort. “I’m just a stubborn old fool. I’ll be fine.”

[plyr=misc]“That’s exactly why I’m worried,”[/plyr] Zein muttered, leaning forward, fingers twitching on the armrest. [plyr=misc]“You’ve never been like this. You should see a doctor—”[/plyr]

“I’m decades too old for that,” the old man cut him off, his voice cracking, but his words still held a glimmer of humor. He managed a weak chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into another cough. “And weren’t you the one just talking about that perilous voyage out to sea?”

Zein opened his mouth to protest, but the playful spark in the old man’s eyes softened him. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips despite the worry gnawing at his gut. [plyr=misc]“Yeah, of course! I’ll be braving the Grand Line, lost at sea for months, facing unspeakable horrors! But don’t change the subject. I’m serious—you need to see someone.”[/plyr]

The old man waved a shaky hand in the air, dismissing him. “Oh, I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to fix at my age. Besides, the sea doesn’t take kindly to people who tempt it with such words.”

Zein scoffed lightly, trying to hide his growing unease. [plyr=misc]“What, you think I’m going to offend the ocean now?”[/plyr]

“Be careful,” The old man wheezed, his smile fading as seriousness crept into his voice. “Mocking the sea can come back to bite you. It’s not something to take lightly.”

Zein shrugged, though the old man’s tone gave him pause. [plyr=misc]“Hey, God protects the good, right? I’ve got nothing to worry about.”[/plyr] He flashed a grin, but it felt a little forced now.

“God does protect the good,” the old man agreed, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his words carefully. “But what’s uncertain is not God’s power—it’s whether you’re good enough.”

[plyr=misc]“Huh? You’re saying I’m not good?”[/plyr] Zein replied with mock offense, trying to lighten the mood again. [plyr=misc]“Maybe you’re the one who’s not good, old man. That would explain why you’re coughing up a lung!”[/plyr]

The old man didn’t laugh this time. His gaze darkened, his smile fading into something more somber. “Zein…” His voice grew softer, almost hesitant. “You are good. Very good.” He paused, eyes searching Zein’s face. “But to be truly good… you need to face a test—a real challenge. A reason to choose otherwise. And you… you’ve never faced that.”

Zein blinked, the old man’s words cutting through the playful banter like a cold wind. His stomach knotted as the weight of those words sank in. A test? A challenge that could change everything?

He sat back, his fingers fidgeting unconsciously with the edge of his sleeve. What would it take to be truly good? Had he ever really been tested? Would he be able to stand firm if he was? Or would he crumble, like the jagged rocks in the old man’s cough?

The silence between them thickened, heavy with questions Zein hadn’t even considered before. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answers.

Finally, Zein broke the silence, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain. [plyr=misc]“Hey, Old Man… what’s your name?”[/plyr]

The question seemed to catch the old man off guard. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and a glint of surprise flickered in his tired eyes. “Hm? Where’s this coming from? After all these years, now you want to know?”

Zein shrugged, but his expression was earnest. He hadn’t thought much about it before—had never needed to. But something about the old man’s frailty, his words, made him want to know. As if the name would give him something to hold on to, something more solid than this growing fear gnawing at him.

The old man studied him for a moment, his smile fading into something softer, more melancholic. He turned his gaze away, and for the briefest moment, a shadow of something unspoken flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe, or a sadness too deep to name.

“My name?” He let out a quiet sigh, his voice almost distant. “It’s… Lysander.”

Zein’s lips parted slightly in surprise. [plyr=misc]“Lysander, like ‘liberator’?”[/plyr] His voice carried a note of wonder, as if the name suddenly made the old man seem larger, more significant. [plyr=misc]“Well, if I ever go astray, it’ll be your job to free me—from myself, and from my sins. Alright?”[/plyr]

Lysander let out a soft chuckle, though it was weaker than before, more breath than sound. “I mean… haven’t I been doing that for years now?” His voice carried a playful edge, but there was a hint of truth beneath it, buried deep.

Zein smiled, though the old man’s earlier words still lingered in the back of his mind, tugging at him, making him wonder.

Had he ever really been tested?



WC: 896 | 2778 | 5000