The Youngest Blue Cellodian: Chapter 6 - A Sidewalk Slam Story
Chapter 5: Blades and Verses
They trained under the sky’s breath, in a court stitched between stars and gravity.
The floor wasn’t solid, not exactly—it shifted subtly with the rhythm of whoever stepped on it. You couldn’t fake your balance here. The Verse Court was one of Firstsky’s oldest grounds, reserved for moments of formation and reformation. It responds to truth.
Yero stood barefoot on the centerline, eyes closed, arms by his side. His voice, barely louder than a whisper, spoke in the Old Language of Firstsky, slow and deliberate.
“Tevolan suri... Viya len tolanar…”
Jerry stood across from him, mimicking the stance. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, and his legs ached. He’d been repeating the same verse-stance loop for hours. It felt like yoga written by an alien poet who’d once been a martial artist.
“What does that mean again?” Jerry asked, trying not to wobble.
Yero’s eyes stayed shut. “Truth walks better in rhythm than in armor.”
Jerry grunted. “Yeah? Tell that to my calves.”
Yero finally opened his eyes. “You want to freestyle in time-anchored space? You need to learn how rhythm feels in your spine, not just in your words.”
Jerry dropped the stance, flopping onto his back. “Okay. That’s enough deep discipline for today.”
Yero sat beside him, looking out over the edge of the court. The four towers of the clans glowed in the distance. From here, you could see the subtle difference in how each one pulsed, breathed.
Yero pointed.
“That’s Stillroot, always dim, always listening. That’s Burnwake—loud, aggressive, flickering like it’s ready to burst. And there—Glassfall. Always changing. And Firstsky…”
He gestured to the center, the citadel where they’d first met. “...is always singing, whether anyone’s listening or not.”
Jerry sat up. “How do you keep them all from killing each other?”
Yero frowned. “We don’t. Not always.”
Before Jerry could ask more, the Court dimmed.
A ringing hum rolled through the ground. The floor shook once, then stopped. A tear in the air opened across from them, smooth and vertical, like a door carved into fabric.
A figure stepped through.
Same build. Same skin tone. Same face.
But this Jerry wore dark armor laced with obsidian chainlinks and a cloak that trailed sparks. A long spear hung casually from his back, and a set of verses—burned into his arms in Cellodian script—glowed faint blue.
Yero stood instantly.
“What is this?” he whispered.
Jerry stared at himself—at another self. The other version looked older. Sharper. Not cruel, but cold.
“I’m here to talk,” the armored version said.
Jerry found his voice. “You... you’re me.”
The version gave a brief nod. “One of you. From another Cellodian branch. We call ourselves the Chain-Born.”
Yero narrowed his eyes. “That’s not one of the Four Clans.”
“No,” the armored Jerry replied. “We were cut out. Separated before the first lines were ever spoken. A rogue verse. We’ve been preparing.”
“Preparing for what?” Jerry asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
The Chain-Born Jerry locked eyes with him.
“For the Collapse of Verse. And the war that follows.”
The Court’s wind stilled. Even the sky held its breath.
“Your existence here isn’t coincidence,” the Chain-Born continued. “You’re the keystone. You were never supposed to stay on Earth. You’re our Jerry—the one who turned left instead of right.”
“Why are you here?” Yero asked, stepping protectively between them.
The Chain-Born stared at Jerry. “To warn him.”
He turned to leave, then stopped.
“You’re not ready. When the doors open again, it won’t be me walking through. It’ll be the ones who don’t ask questions. Who don’t talk first.”
And then he was gone.
The tear sealed behind him like it had never been there.
Jerry was silent for a long time. Then he looked at Yero.
“So,” he said quietly. “What happens when I meet one of me who wants me dead?”
Yero’s jaw tightened.
“Jerry,” he said, “I’d rather not find out.”
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