In the midst of war, Cybertron wasn't just a planet—it was a field of constant pain. Cities crumbled. Ancient temples that had once taught the balance of spark and body became targets.

Prowl ran.

He didn't drive. He didn't transform. He ran up the ancient steps, through the corridors, across the stone bridges of the monastery where he had once learned control, breathing, and mind.

Silence.

Too much.

No students' voices. No clang of training blades. No quiet hum of meditation halls.

Only the smell of scorched metal and the marks of laser fire on the ancient walls.

Prowl stopped abruptly near the main hall. His optics widened.

A body on the floor.

Yoketron.

His armor—darkened, pierced in several places. The marks of direct hits. One of the shots passed dangerously close to the spark. He was still alive... but barely.

Prowl dropped to one knee next to him.

"Master..."

Yoketron raised his head with difficulty. His voice was weak, but calm. The same as always.

He wasn't angry. He wasn't afraid. He accepted.

Prowl tried to stabilize his systems. His servos trembled—not from fear, but from a desperate attempt to keep up.

"I can transfer your spark..." — Prowl said quickly, almost breaking his voice.

The ancient technology still remained in the monastery.

A protoform. An empty body. A new frame, capable of accepting the spark.

Prowl activated the pod. The energy ignited.

But Yoketron slowly shook his head.

He knew. He had chosen.

He told Prowl that his path was over. That his spark was ready to become part of the flow. That the student must move on—not as a shadow of a teacher, but as an independent warrior of balance.

Prowl froze. His optics trembled. He didn't want to hear it.

But Yoketron gently touched his servo. Calmly. Forcing him to accept.

The Yoketron spark began to fade.

Prowl didn't look away.

When the light faded, the room became empty. Not just quiet. Empty.

What Prowl didn't know.

Yoketron had a daughter.

You.

He never spoke of you openly. Not because he didn't love her. But because he understood that knowing about you would make you a target.

You grew up in the shadow of the monastery. Trained not as a soldier. But as an heir to philosophy.

Your appearance resembled Yoketron's:

The same shape of the faceplates. The same graceful yet sturdy armor. The same calm, focused optics.

But your armor was lighter. Darker in hue. With elements of ancient monastic design: engravings, patterns, symbols of balance.

You weren't a student in the true sense. You were a legacy.

After his death, you donned his armor. Not as a mask. But as a vow.

You took on his blades. You took on his style. You took his path.

Not for revenge. But for preservation.

Several megacycles later. Earth.

Prowl was already serving on Optimus's team. He'd been through dozens of battles. Through loss. Through duty.

And now—another mission.

City. Night. Shadows between buildings.

The Decepticon is defeated. The team regroups.

And then...

In the reflection of a glass facade. In movement between alleys.

Prowl sees armor.

Ancient lines. Monastery patterns. The shape of shoulders. Silhouette.

Yoketron.

His optics widen sharply.

For a nanoclick, Prowl loses control of his breathing. He takes a step forward.

"Master?"

But the figure doesn't respond. It moves differently. Faster. Younger.

Prowl freezes.

Too similar. Too familiar.

He didn't know Yoketron had a child. It's impossible for him. It's illogical.