Chapter 11 — The Witness of Witnesses

In front of the duo, a lone man in an ancient garb walked in, the door of the room closing behind him, and he looked at the duo with curious, yet calm, golden eyes that seemed to have witnessed many a storm, many a battle, and many a tragedy through his marble mask. "You're still alive." He muttered to himself.

"I thought your purpose was to help me achieve my goals." Basim told him. "What happened?"

"It was. However, there are things that are beyond the control of a mere mortal like myself. I am but a puppet in the end." The witness sighed.

Jean-Baptiste and Basim exchanged a brief, confused look. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

The old man didn't pay attention to them, his eyes set on them and, in a flurry of motion, twirled his staff. As it made contact with the ground, a shockwave of power erupted, sending Basim and Jean-Baptiste tumbling backwards, their bodies flung away from the epicenter. As the force of the blast subsided, the man in ancient garbs raised his voice.

"You, Basim Hikmat." He spoke. "And you, Jean-Baptiste Roy-Valenti." He paused. "Do you want to live? Truly live?"

"What are you talking about, man?" Jean-Baptiste inquired.

"Do you not feel it, boy? This sensation in the back of your head? That gnawing feeling that everything is not as it seems."

The marble-masked man tilted his head—not inquisitively, but like an archivist inspecting old ink, already knowing what came next.

Basim picked himself off the ground, cracking his neck with a slow roll of his shoulders. "Yeah, I feel something,” he said, spitting blood to the side. “It’s called you’re pissing me off."

Jean-Baptiste stood beside him, arms loose, body shifting into a brawler’s stance. "If you’re here to talk us to death, at least be original about it." He scoffed, "That was probably the worst villainous monologue I’ve ever heard."

"Fine, then," the robed figure sighed, and the atmosphere around them changed, growing thick and oppressive. A whisper filled their ears. "I still possess some control over myself, and I shall grant you the opportunity to learn from me before I become another puppet in this show. Come and fight." With that, the man readied himself, taking up a combat stance that seemed to echo the distant past.

The Witness raised his staff, and it was like watching history itself breathe—his stance was not elegant, but inevitable. Every inch of his body spoke of battles fought not in moments, but in eras. It was the stance of a man who remembered war before time had names.

"Then, let's start. If you don't mind." With that, he threw his staff like a javelin, hurtling towards his opponents with a speed that defied its size. Basim was barely able to dodge, while Jean-Baptiste managed to sidestep at the last second, the weapon grazing his arm. Without a moment's hesitation, the stranger surged forward to retrieve his staff. Before he could reach it, however, Jean-Baptiste intercepted him, throwing a hard punch at his jaw. The man, instead of avoiding the attack, leaned into it. Using Jean-Baptiste's momentum, he redirected the force, sending the young man tumbling past him.

Jean-Baptiste often found himself in street fights, and in those unpredictable scuffles, he learned the importance of rolling with the punches—sometimes figuratively, but today, quite literally. He let his momentum carry him into a controlled roll, springing back up to his feet just in time to see Basim lunge at the old man.

Basim closed the distance with a savage sprint. He swung low, a hook meant for the man’s ribs, but the Witness didn’t block. He stepped sideways—just once, just barely—and Basim’s blow passed through nothing. In the empty space of the miss, the old man leaned close, and the words he spoke were not the hiss of an assassin or the snarl of a brute, but a whisper, a library hush.

"I see your future. It will be a cruel one."

Basim didn’t respond in words. Instead, he snapped his forehead at the man’s mask, a sudden, vicious headbutt that should have smashed that marble visage. But the Witness wasn’t there—he had slipped away again, a phantom in his own skin. Basim staggered back, his vision exploding in white-hot pain.

The man in ancient robes regarded the two young men, his gaze calculating. "Is that the limit of your resolve?"

Basim shook his head, trying to dispel the fog of pain, and charged again. But it was like trying to grapple a mirage—the man slipped around and under his strikes, never where he seemed, always just out of reach. "What are you doing?!" Basim demanded.

The man chuckled. "Teaching." With a sudden, explosive move, the man kicked out at Basim’s knee. The blow landed, and Basim crumpled to the floor, a shout of agony bursting from his lips.

Jean-Baptiste rushed in to aid his friend, only to find himself ensnared. The stranger, with an agility that belied his age, swept his leg, sending the younger man tumbling to the ground. The fight had barely begun, and both young warriors were on the defensive.

"Basim, are you alright?" Jean-Baptiste whispered, concern etched on his features as the stranger paced before them.

"No," Basim grunted through clenched teeth.. "My pride’s hurt…"

"That's...not what I meant. You're not seriously considering continuing to fight, are you?" JB's brow creased in disbelief. "Look at this man; he's not normal. What is he even?!"

Basim pushed himself up from the ground and rolled his shoulder. His eyes flickered briefly, his voice low and determined. "Who knows. But I do know we don't have a choice in this situation."

Jean-Baptiste ducked and dodged a swift jab from the masked man, the air whistling past his ear with each narrowly evaded blow. The man was relentless, his movements fluid and unpredictable.

Blocking a punch with his arm, JB retaliated with a swift kick aimed at his adversary's side. The man caught his foot with one hand, twisting it and sending him sprawling onto Basim. "Ow," JB winced, rubbing his sore leg.

They stood up, circling the man. He didn't seem interested in attacking them at that moment. Perhaps he was waiting, analyzing, or just enjoying their struggle.

With a quick step forward, Jean-Baptiste threw a feint at the masked figure, a simple jab that turned into a wild hook. The man's reaction was instantaneous; he leaned back and blocked his strike, his face betraying surprise.

At the last moment Jean-Baptiste turned his feint into a hook, and the masked figure's eyes widened behind his marble façade. With a grunt, he pivoted, deflecting the unexpected attack with the haft of his staff. Jean-Baptiste's fist met the wood, the force of his blow causing his knuckles to crack audibly. But the impact did little more than spin the Witness around. He completed the rotation with a graceful, almost mocking pirouette.

"You’ll never grow if you’re too afraid to try."

"Shut up!" Basim blocked the staff before it collided with Jean-Baptiste who quickly stepped in to deliver a barrage of rapid-fire punches. The Witness, agile despite his age, evaded most of the strikes, the sound of fists cutting the air echoing throughout the chamber. However, the last punch—a haymaker thrown with all of Jean-Baptiste's strength—connected squarely on his jaw.

"Good." The man acknowledged.

As the masked man staggered back from the impact of JB's final punch, the two young men saw a flicker of something—pride, respect—in his eyes. It was gone in a blink, and the fight resumed.

Basim saw a glint of gold in his vision—a golden eye, looking directly at him, and the sight was so bizarre and jarring, it almost froze him on the spot. The Witness of Witnesses took advantage of the opening and delivered a devastating kick to the chest. JB rushed in, only to be caught by the same kick, both men falling to the ground.

Again and again, they clashed—Basim and JB's youth and vigour against the old man's seasoned experience. Sweat dripped from their brows, their breaths grew laboured, yet they continued. Each punch, each kick, was a testament to their resilience, their refusal to bow down.

Basim saw a glint of gold in his vision—a golden eye, looking directly at him, and the sight was so bizarre and jarring, it almost froze him on the spot. The Witness of Witnesses took advantage of the opening and delivered a devastating kick to the chest. JB rushed in, only to be caught by the same kick, both men falling to the ground.

The Witness moved again—faster this time, faster than before. He shot forward and planted his staff between the two boys. The old man spun the shaft of his weapon, the end catching them on the backs of their necks and sweeping their legs out from under them.

Their bodies shuddered, as if they were flickering between versions of themselves.

Basim saw something flash across his vision—no, rather it was in his mind: a blade of ink. A mask in his hand. Screams beneath the sand.

Jean-Baptiste gasped—he saw paintbrushes snapping. A crown of mirrors. A crowd of eyeless people clapping in reverse.

And both of them saw the one who lost his name, bloodied and bruised, standing at the precipice of a cliff overlooking an ocean of broken mirrors. He was speaking to a shadow.

And then they were back. Their heads felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to their skulls, their minds were on fire. The world was upside down, their vision blurry. Their limbs, once strong, now trembled from exertion, and the ground beneath their palms was cold and unyielding.

"Wh-What the hell was that?" JB's question echoed their shared disorientation, his voice hoarse and his breathing heavy.

The man in ancient garb leaned on his staff, the weight of countless years pressed into that single gesture. A faint smile—cryptic, almost mournful—pulled at the corners of his mouth beneath the mask.

"Should you continue to seek ‘truth’ in a world written to make you suffer for seeking…" His voice was not cruel, nor triumphant. It was tired, like a man who had watched too many stars fall. "Then this—" he gestured to their bruises, the shattered breath, the flickering visions—"this is your first, true taste of combat."

Basim, still on his knees, looked up through the pain. His breath came in ragged bursts.

"...This isn't just a fight anymore, is it?" Basim asked.

Then, his fingers curled tighter around his staff. His spine straightened. His stance shifted—not to prepare, but to declare. In that moment, he became something else.

Not an old man. Not a mentor.

A harbinger of violence.

A memory of war sharpened into flesh.

The echo of every weapon history ever forged.

— "They’re listening now. The ones beyond the veil…"