Episode: - 10 What Still Hurts Doesn’t Mean I’m Broken

The air was heavy—metal, sweat, nerves. Typical.

The crowd roared louder than needed. The kind of sound people made when they were far from pain.

Mee-Toh filtered it out like static.

Across from him, Aalora grinned like she’d already penned the ending.

“Mee-Toh, don’t take it personally—but I hate losing. Good luck, boy.”

He didn’t blink. Just rolled his neck—slow, deliberate.

Arms loose. Fingers twitching like they were rehearsing the end.

“Cute,” he said. “I’ll try not to wreck your pride too much.”

Then—

Steel. Motion. Echo.

The match began.

Mee-Toh moved with the precision of someone caging something monstrous.

Each step engineered. Tight. And tight. And tighter.

His steps made no sound.

His jaw begged to crack.

Her strikes came fast.

His parries came faster—on rhythm, too clean, too practiced.

But he was adjusting more than he should.

His grip was rigid. Overcompensating.

She cut wide—he ducked.

The blade kissed air. Nicked skin. Just enough to sting.

He blinked. Slower than usual.

Focus, dammit.

His breath was shallow.

His shoulders stiff.

He hadn’t noticed either.

“You good, kid?” Aalora called mid-swing, smirking. Mocking.

“Just a bit of skull thunder,” Mee-Toh muttered.

His grin was all wires and fatigue. Nothing behind the eyes but steel fog.

He pivoted. Parried. Slipped left.

But his body hesitated—fractional.

Not enough for the crowd to see.

But he felt it.

Every second dragged like wet lead.

“Vicky,” someone whispered in the stands—Sophia, maybe. “He’s off. Something’s wrong.”

Mee-Toh blinked again.

And then—the crack.

Not a blow. Not exhaustion.

Memory.

“You’re too cold for this world, Mee-Toh. Try being human.”

“He’s reliable. Just don’t expect warmth.”

“He’s a void with manners, Ghost.”

The voice didn’t echo.

It carved.

Estella’s face flickered. Then vanished.

“Alex wanted to see you.”

He hadn’t. Alex had just stood with him and Vicky that day, quiet. Watching.

And that silence had screamed louder than anything else.

Mee-Toh had wanted to ask.

He didn’t.

Because silence, he’d learned, was a kind of answer too.

Kindness must be real if you let it be. Right?

Friendship should mean something. Right?

Every version of love he’d known had slipped into silence.

So he learned not to beg.

Not to need.

Not to show if it’s worth.

Not even once.

Fine. I’ll be the one who doesn’t fall apart. That’s what I’m good for, right?

His jaw tensed.

He gripped the hilt tighter—too tight.

Scream or swing.

He chose swing.

He missed.

His world narrowed.

Not now. Not here. Not in front of them. Not while they still think I’m whole.

They were never meant for you. Really? Or just a cruel joke I keep telling myself?

I’m just reckless. Useless. Dumb. A pathetic ghost.

Aalora arched a brow.

“Where’s the fire, guy? You fighting or thinking?”

Mee-Toh gave a breath that almost sounded like laughter.

“Left it with my dignity. It’s having a grey smoke around my brain.”

She lunged.

He dodged.

His foot slipped—barely.

He caught himself. Pretended.

Just the fool. Like always.

He whispered it—low, bitter.

Not for her. For himself.

Aalora faltered—thrown.

“Wait—you’re serious? You were holding back?”

Mee-Toh stepped forward.

One step. Then another.

Like a glacier learning to walk.

“Not on purpose,” he said. “I just... forgot I was still breathing.”

He pivoted. Sharp. Surgical.

“Good game.”

Like it wasn’t.

Their blades clashed—louder than necessary.

Screamed.

Then—

Silence.

He looked at her with eyes like shattered glass—held in shape only by habit.

Then something inside him yanked.

And he moved.

No more precision.

No more mask.

Just speed. Brutal. Surgical. Clean.

The crowd became ghosts.

Only heartbeat.

Only the dance.

This isn’t about winning.

This is about making sure no one sees the crack.

Mee-Toh stood, sword still raised, chest heaving.

The crowd roared—but it was faint. Like waves behind glass.

He reached a hand down to Aalora.

She was bruised, but grinning like a fire that wouldn’t quit.

“You okay?” he asked—flat, but not cruel.

She took his hand, grimacing.

“I’ll live. You? You look like you left something behind.”

Mee-Toh didn’t answer right away.

Just gave a nod. Gaze unfixed.

“Yeah. Just... remembered something I shouldn’t have.”

“Bit reckless,” he added, almost like a joke. Almost.

From the stands, Vicky was already vaulting the rail.

Emma followed, worry scribbled across her face like a warning sign.

Vicky asked Aalora, “You okay?”

Aalora, with a crooked grin and a wince. “Couple bruises. Pride’s intact, mostly.”

Her gaze shifted to Mee-Toh.

“You, though? That was a little scary. You snap often, or was that a special treatment just for me?”

Mee-Toh tilted his head, as if considering.

“You earned it.”

Aalora blinked, then chuckled under her breath.

“You really are messed up. That’s almost a compliment.”

He didn’t reply. Just gave a curt nod, eyes already somewhere else.

“Mee-Toh!” Vicky called. “Wait! Don’t brush this off again! What the hell just happened?”

He turned. Slow. Jogged to meet her.

Scanned her face like it grounded him.

“You okay?” he asked first.

Vicky’s voice caught.

“That wasn’t a normal flare-up. Mee-Toh, you shook. What were you thinking? You could’ve gotten hurt—don’t be dumb!”

He paused. One breath.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just... remembered something I buried a little too well.”

Emma stepped forward. “What kind of memory?”

He hesitated. Half a beat too long.

“A ghost,” he said. “Nothing dangerous. Just... quiet. Smiling. With a knife where the warmth should’ve been.”

Vicky blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

But Mee-Toh was already walking off.

Vicky caught him—hands on his shoulders, grounding, urgent. Eyes searching his face.

“Mee-Toh,” she whispered. “What’s going on with you?”

He turned slowly. Too calm.

And this time—looked her full in the eye.

His fingers clenched with perfect steadiness.

Not a tremble. Not a twitch.

Like he’d trained the emotion out of them.

But still, something in that silence felt...

Too quiet. Too rehearsed.

Like stillness forged under threat, not peace.

Mee-Toh’s gaze didn’t flinch.

“I’m not breaking, Vicky,” he said, voice like a blade unsheathed.

“Just sharpening.”

And he walked off—not like someone retreating,

but like someone reforging the parts of himself

he’d almost forgotten were blades.

_____

Later, long after the lights dimmed and the world forgot its noise, Mee-Toh stood before Carel's door.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

His hand hovered near the wood.

But he didn't knock.

The door opened anyway. Too fast.

She'd been waiting.

Mee-Toh looked at her the way a storm watches the coast—

calm. distant. inevitable.

"So," he said, like an executioner naming the hour,

"you're the dear client."

No emotion. Just a truth, dropped like a blade.

Carel blinked. "I—"

"You planned it."

His voice was still. Barely air.

"You sent them."

Silence followed, dense as iron.

"You knew Ana was already hurt," he said, colder now. "You shouldn't have dragged the rest of us into this mess."

Her mouth opened—her breath caught—but no defense arrived in time.

"I didn't mean for it to go this far," she whispered.

Her voice was already breaking.

Mee-Toh didn't flinch.

He stood still—carved of frost and stone.

"But you meant something," he said.

"You meant for me to bleed. Even just a little.

You meant to play me."

"It wasn't like that." Her voice cracked.

"I thought—if it got too dangerous, Vicky would pull you out. That maybe... maybe you'd stop pushing yourself so hard."

He tilted his head. Not mockery—just disbelief.

"And you thought that was your choice to make?"

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't have to.

The edge was in the words.

"Who the hell are you to rewrite my story?"

"I didn't want to lie," Carel murmured.

"You just wanted to steer me without saying it.

You wanted to remind me where I belong."

Mee-Toh took a step forward—not violent.

But she could feel it: the pressure behind his restraint.

"You took away my choice."

"I was trying to protect you," she said.

Almost pleading.

He blinked. Slowly.

"I'm not your object."

Carel folded—folded like paper under rain.

"I didn't know what else to do. You were falling apart.

You didn't see what was coming.

You weren't watching the bigger picture."

"And that scared you," he said.

His voice was low—surgical.

"So you pulled strings. Like everyone else does.

And you told yourself it was love."

He tilted his head again. Still no anger. Still no pity.

Just the clearest kind of cruelty—truth.

"I don't need anyone.

And if I die—or breathe—why should it matter to you?"

Her throat moved. But nothing came.

"You didn't trust me," he said.

"Not really. Not enough to tell me the truth."

"I thought," she tried, "if I could stop it before it hurt more—"

"That's not your concern."

His voice sliced. A frostbitten blade.

"That's my life.

I've said it a hundred times."

He leaned in. Just slightly.

"You don't get to cut open a wound

and call it medicine."

She stepped back, trembling.

"I trusted you," he said. "That was the mistake.

After everything I've seen... all the masks, all the vultures.

I still trusted you."

His voice cracked—but didn't break.

Maybe he didn't let it.

"Maybe that's on me.

Maybe being this cold in a sick world makes me forget that I still feel."

Carel's breath hitched.

"You looked at me and saw a weakness.

Someone quiet enough to control."

"I never—"

"You did."

He didn't give her space to deny it.

"You're just better at lying than the rest.

You smile while you do it."

Silence fell like ash.

Heavy. Inevitable.

Mee-Toh stepped back. Eyes steady.

"I'll clean up the mess. Like always."

"I—I didn't want to hurt you, I—"

"Too late."

His voice didn't waver.

"Congratulations," he said, softer than before.

"You did. Perfectly."

Then—lower, meant only for her:

"Never wish to meet me again. For your own sake."

He turned.

Carel reached out. Just once.

"Please—wait—"

But he didn't.

He left without a sound.

No slam. No fury.

Just footsteps—measured, final.

And Carel stood alone in the space he left behind.

And she understood—

Some people don't break loud.

They just walk away.

And never look back.

----

Mee-Toh placed both hands against the cold wall, fingers splayed wide, breath catching in the hush of the room.

The stone was rough beneath his skin, but steady—

More than he felt.

More than he had felt in days.

His head bowed, as if gravity remembered him too well.

A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes—not sharp, not blinding.

Just there.

Like sorrow that had overstayed its welcome.

The doctor’s voice echoed again—calm and maddeningly kind:

“Mee-Toh, your mental fatigue is alarming. Oakwood Sanctuary is not a place to prove yourself, but to heal, kid.”

He’d laughed then. Dry. Hollow.

“Thanks for caring, Doc. I’ll keep an eye. Not sure it’s that serious.”

Turns out—it was.

Turns out, it had been serious for a long time.

He leaned forward, forehead pressing to the stone now, the chill seeping into his skin like both balm and curse.

His breath trembled—caught between restraint and collapse.

Inside his chest, a knot twisted.

Not dramatic. Just persistent.

Like grief with no expiration date.

He dragged his nails lightly along the cracks in the wall—not hard, not enough to bleed.

Just enough to feel.

To remember he was still here.

Still breathing.

Why does it always feel like

I’m not enough?

Maybe I never was.

The thought slid through him like smoke—too soft to scream, too real to silence.

He remembered the night Estella had found him—outside the gates, shivering, silent, stubborn.

She’d draped her coat over his shoulders without a word, sat beside him under the stars like silence could be a kind of shelter.

“You don’t have to win all the time, Mee-Toh,” she’d said, voice soft like the falling dusk.

“You’re allowed to rest.”

And he—so young, so proud—had looked away.

Afraid that if he spoke, he’d fall apart.

Now it felt like a memory that belonged to someone else.

A warmth he didn’t get to keep.

Estella had vanished without goodbye.

No letters. No words. Just absence

—where loyalty should have been.

He used to believe she’d come back.

Now, he only hoped she wouldn’t.

Because if she saw him now—

she’d see the cracks.

His teacher had removed his name from the trial roster. Quietly.

“For his own good,” they said.

“For his health.”

They thought he wouldn’t notice.

But everyone else did.

The looks. The whispers.

The expression worn like a mask—polite, pitiful:

Poor thing. He just couldn’t handle it.

They never said it aloud.

They didn’t need to.

Their silence was louder.

He didn’t scream. But the criticism still found him—

creeping under skin, wrapping around his ribs.

And somehow, without even trying,

he had become entertainment.

Just standing there.

Face lowered.

Folding in on himself.

And as he stood there now, breath ragged, memory thick,

he remembered that last day.

The corridor felt too quiet.

Too still.

And then—

Her voice.

Older now, but no softer.

“Well, guess you really did fall behind, huh?”

Mee-Toh didn’t move.

She stepped closer, voice sugar-laced with mockery.

“They took you off the trials, right? Or whatever. You’ve basically become the gossip club’s favorite soap opera.

Poor thing. Must’ve been all that dead weight, huh?”

A fake gasp.

A painted smile.

She laughed like cruelty was still fashionable.

He turned, finally.

Slow. Measured.

Like turning toward a storm, not away from it.

His eyes weren’t angry.

Just tired.

Ancient.

Cold.

“Still repeating the same pathetic joke,” he said, calm as frost.

“Still stuck in the same ugly mirror you mistake for a personality.”

She blinked.

“Yup. Some things never change. Like your face back then—

always smiling, always fake.”

The smirk on her lips twitched.

Just a little.

“Don’t take it so seriously,” she offered, with a shrug and a smile too practiced.

“I mean—we all break sometimes. I’m just here to be supportive, y’know?”

Then, a wink:

“Still got that good-looking face though. Shame it’s paired with an ego the size of the Academy.”

Mee-Toh’s reply cut sharper than knives:

“People like you don’t support.

You spectate pain and call it concern.”

He stepped just a little closer.

“And no—your cheap charm isn’t welcome here.

Go laugh somewhere else.”

Her breath caught.

A flicker.

Quick.

Masked.

“I just say what everyone’s thinking,” she muttered.

“You mock healing because you’re scared of your own silence.”

He looked her in the eye—and this time…

She couldn’t look away.

“Next time you want to laugh—

make sure you’re not the punchline first.”

Silence fell. But this time, it didn’t settle.

It stung.

Mee-Toh stepped past her.

Quiet. Final.

And just before he vanished around the corner, he murmured—

“Don’t worry. I’m not behind.

I just stopped running with people who trip others to stay ahead.

And if you’re still dragging your glamorous ego around—

next time, try dropping it. Might move faster.”

He was gone.

She didn’t follow.

This time, she couldn’t.

Estella had left not long after.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

Just gone.

Why would someone like her explain herself to someone like him?

Aunt Estella.

And somehow, that silence hurt more than any insult.

A brittle laugh slipped from his lips—small, bitter.

Not amused. Just tired.

His voice cracked like ice as he whispered to the stone:

“You all wanted me gone, right?”

He stared at the wall like it might answer.

“Rotten. Weak. Always the careful one.

Always the ghost at the edge of the fight.

The quiet one. Cold. Pathetic ghost.”

His fists clenched, nails digging deep into skin.

“Fine. Go enjoy your lives.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m not some broken thing.

So, stop looking at me like I am.”

He punched the wall.

Once.

Not to break it.

Not to bleed.

Just to feel something that couldn’t lie to him.

The sound echoed—soft.

Like a knock on a locked door.

He stayed there.

Still.

Breathing through clenched teeth.

Forehead pressed to stone.

Eyes closed.

Shoulders trembling.

No tears.

Not tonight.

That part of him had long since dried up.

But the pain?

It lived.

Not in screams.

Not in scars.

But in how hard he tried—

to stand still.

______

Later that evening, he walked the corridor in silence, the weight of the day trailing him like a second shadow. The torchlight painted shifting shapes on the walls, and the faint scent of ash lingered in the air—like something burnt and buried long ago, still smoldering beneath the stone.

Ana stood alone at the end of the hallway, arms folded, her presence calm as ever. When she saw him, her eyes softened—but only slightly. Just enough to notice.

Mee-Toh stopped a few steps away, hands stuffed in his pockets. His posture was loose but guarded, like a cat still coiled to spring.

“So...” he said, dragging the word out with a half-hearted smirk. “Thanks. For earlier. Y’know, for not kicking me while I was already halfway underground.”

Ana gave him a look—dry, unimpressed, but not unkind. “I don’t usually waste energy kicking people who already fell.”

“Ouch,” he muttered. “Cold.”

“You like cold.”

He chuckled, low and tired. “Fair.”

Ana tilted her head. “Why are you really here?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked past her shoulder like he was weighing something. Measuring the risk. Then his shoulders rose and fell in a shrug so small it almost didn't count.

“I dunno.” He exhaled through his nose. “Wanted to say something. Maybe nothing. Thought it’d sound better out loud.”

Ana stepped closer, gently. “Say it, then.”

“Mm.” He shrugged again, tighter this time. “Hard when you’re not sure what’s real and what’s just... habit.”

Ana didn’t press. Just waited.

“I guess...” he started, fingers tightening in his pockets, “I’ve been a bit of an ass lately.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” she replied, but her voice lacked bite.

He gave a breath of laughter, brief and almost sheepish. “Yeah. I know.”

Another pause. Long enough to leave room for silence to grow thick around them.

He looked at her then—really looked. “I push people. Even the ones who probably don’t deserve it. Especially them, actually.”

Ana didn’t blink. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you know more than you let on,” he admitted, voice low. “But that doesn’t mean I make it easier.”

She studied his face. The guarded eyes. The weariness.

“Why now?”

He shifted his weight, looking at the floor, then back up again.

“I guess... you didn’t look at me like the rest did. Today. You didn’t look disappointed. Or smug. Or—hell, anything sharp.”

“I’m not here to judge you.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Well, lucky me.”

She didn’t argue. He didn’t expect her to.

The silence after that wasn’t awkward—it was full. Like something almost spoken hung between them, fragile as glass.

He glanced at his feet. “You ever feel like… if you stop moving, even for a second, everything might come undone?”

Ana’s brows drew in slightly. She said nothing, but her stillness spoke volumes.

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Stupid question.”

“No,” she said. “Just not the kind people say out loud.”

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Talking.”

“You just did.”

He rolled his eyes. “Barely.”

“But it was enough.”

They stood there for a while, the flames crackling gently. His mask wasn’t gone—but it had slipped just enough to reveal a shadow underneath. Not a wound, not quite.

Just a man who never let anyone see when he staggered.

Mee-Toh shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked toward the corridor.

“I should go,” he murmured. “Still things to work on.”

Ana nodded. “Same.”

He turned slightly to leave—then stopped.

Without looking back, he said, “You’re not that bad to have around, you know. Even when you’re lecturing like grandma.”

Ana gave a small, genuine smile. “Neither are you. Even when you’re pretending not to care like ice.”

He didn’t reply. Just raised a hand in a lazy half-wave as he walked away, steps steady, back straight.

Still unreadable.

Still Mee-Toh.

But a little less alone.