The ruins of the old Tempestuous borderlands sprawled like fractured bones across the land. There, deep within a crumbling black fortress, Duke Caligo Varn sat hunched on a throne fashioned from discarded blades and broken stone. The hall was dim, lit only by the glow of shadow lanterns flickering like cursed fireflies.
A foot soldier stumbled before him, blood caking his armor, eyes wide with terror. Two more stood behind, grim-faced, silent.
"Well?" Caligo's voice was gravel and venom.
The lead soldier gulped. "We—we encountered a boy, sir. He fought our unit. He—he didn't use a weapon."
Caligo's brow arched.
"He moved fast. Hit hard. But that wasn't all… He—he pointed at my comrade, and a bolt of light—like white fire—struck him down. He called it before it landed. His body sparked. Electricity crawled up his arm when he moved."
Caligo leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing.
Another soldier spoke up. "It wasn't normal magic, sir. I swear it. The bolts came from the air itself. And when he struck, the ground cracked under him."
Silence settled like dust.
Then the Duke laughed—low, disbelieving, mocking. "You're saying… this boy wields lightning?"
The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances.
"Lightning doesn't exist anymore," Caligo snapped. "The Sparkling Kingdom was reduced to cinders six hundred years ago. Every last Lightning Caster was hunted down and buried under their own thunder. It's a myth. A bedtime story told by fools who still worship ashes."
He stepped down from the dais, boots echoing across stone. "And yet…"
He gazed into the distance, past the black columns and rusted iron gates.
"If what you saw is real… then this boy is either a miracle or a lie."
Without warning, a dark spike erupted from beneath one soldier, impaling him through the spine. His scream died before it could reach his throat.
The last soldier flinched, but Caligo waved a lazy hand.
"You'll lead me to him. At once."
The surviving soldier nodded furiously, fleeing to prepare the caravan.
As the Duke turned toward the open gate, a smirk curled his lips.
Lightning… If this is true, I'll carve my name into the sky itself.
---
A few miles from the Duke's fortress, Neil sat cross-legged beneath a jagged outcrop of stone. The wind whispered through the broken land, dry and restless. His blood-red hair, short and slightly spiked, glowed faintly in the amber light. His skin, dark like rich earth, was slick with sweat. Beneath his simple cloak, his lean build—wiry, athletic—shivered with residual energy.
Nearby, Zephyra crouched over a rough map drawn in the dirt. Her brows were furrowed, her finger tracing a winding path.
"We'll have to sneak in through the east wall. There's a gap in the patrols there. The Duke's men are sloppy… most of them are just thugs he pulled from the local gangs. Hardly trained."
Neil barely nodded. He wasn't focused on the map.
His gaze drifted to Zephyra's hands. They trembled slightly as she spoke. She hadn't fought back during the ambush. Not once. She'd frozen, eyes wide, breath panicked. That alone told him enough.
She might be brave, but she wasn't ready for what lay ahead.
"Why's the bow so important to you?" Neil asked, breaking the silence.
Zephyra's lips thinned. "It belonged to my father. It's called Whisperwind. Not just a relic—it's sacred. A family heirloom, passed down for generations in my tribe. It can channel wind so precisely that it could slice an arrow through raindrops. When the Duke's men attacked our village, they took everything—including that bow. It's the last piece of my family I have left."
Neil looked down, silent.
"If you're stronger than your allies, walk alone."
The voice—hazy, ancient—echoed in his mind again. His teacher. A shadow in his memories, cloaked in shifting light. The words had sunk into his bones, etched deeper with each passing year.
He had watched Zephyra freeze in fear while he faced down enforcers alone. She was kind… but unreliable. And this wasn't about trust. This was about risk.
He stood.
"I'll scout ahead," he said. "Get a look at their defenses."
Zephyra looked up. "Wait—we're going together, remember?"
He offered her a tight nod, but didn't speak further.
That night, when the winds were cold and Zephyra finally drifted to sleep, Neil rose silently. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, where his makeshift gear hung loosely, and slipped away under the veil of darkness.
His footsteps didn't make a sound.
His mind was clear.
I'll bring back her bow. But she doesn't need to be there when I do it.
The wind howled above, but Neil walked with calm, every step crackling faintly with restrained power.
---
The wind was bitter in the lawless lands, biting at the cloaks of men who no longer believed in law or order. But Duke Caligo Varn believed in one thing: power.
He watched the world from his throne of cracked iron and jagged stone, far from the capital, surrounded by mongrels he called soldiers. Filthy, untrained, but loyal to a fault. And that was the problem—loyalty alone meant nothing when the pieces on the board were useless.
"I should've been a General," he thought. "Not some exiled warden ruling over carrion."
He remembered the capital—its marble halls and golden gates. Back then, he wore the black-and-silver armor of the Royal Guard. A low rank, yes, but he was within reach of greatness.
Then came the theft.
An artifact went missing under his watch—an enchanted ring, nothing grand, but still valuable. He swore it wasn't him. No one cared. The accusation stuck, the sentence came swift: exile to the lawless edge of the Tempestuous border.
Everyone assumed he'd die.
Instead, he thrived.
He made allies of monsters. He turned gangs into soldiers. He declared himself Duke, and no one dared argue. And yet… all these years later, he still felt caged.
The only true warrior in a den of beasts.
Now, this talk of lightning… If it was real—if a boy had truly used that lost element—it would change everything. Lightning was extinct. Impossible. The Sparkling Kingdom had burned with its last Casters centuries ago.
And yet the soldier said: "He moved like thunder. Struck like the storm."
Caligo smirked as he rode out with his small force.
"A lie or a miracle... Either way, I'll claim it."
---
Neil scaled the ridge at the rear of the fortress, his crimson hair damp with sweat, his dark skin glinting faintly with the glow of moonlight and static. He crouched, eyes flicking across the crumbled walls and loose patrols.
Everything was sloppier than he expected.
He slipped past the outer defenses without drawing a blade. Each step was silent. Calculated. When two guards turned their backs near the eastern tower, he struck—a flash of movement, a soft crackle, and both dropped without a sound.
The third barely had time to shout. A short-range arc wrapped around his throat, dropped him twitching.
Neil advanced, darting through the half-burnt hallways, boots brushing ash and dust. It wasn't until he reached the inner chamber, where the Duke's quarters were sealed behind a warped iron door, that he finally slowed.
This was it.
He raised a fist of gathering lightning, ready to breach the door, confront the Duke, and—end him.
But the room was empty.
Neil blinked. No… he's not here?
He stood still for a moment, confused.
Then came the sound—a weak grunt, not far behind.
He turned sharply and found one of the earlier guards still alive, crawling along the edge of the hall, blood smeared down his armor.
Neil grabbed him, slammed him against the wall.
"Where's the Duke?" he demanded.
The man coughed, shaking. "He—left. Not long ago."
"Where?"
"Riders saw a campfire to the north. Said it might've been Wind Tribe. The Duke… took the rest of us and went after it."
Neil's breath hitched.
Zephyra.
Without another word, he dropped the man and turned to the armory.
There, laid out on a pedestal, was the bow—curved and elegant, etched with the mark of the wind.
Whisperwind.
Next to it lay charms, carvings, a small book wrapped in barkskin—Wind Tribe heirlooms.
Neil took them all, slinging the bow across his back.
He ran out, sparks flying beneath his feet.
He closed his eyes, placed a hand to the ground, and reached.
Trace the current. Lightning leaves memory. So do shadows.
Thin streaks of electric aura still lingered—trails scattered across the wind like whispers. His fingers twitched, and the current drew itself like a wire through space.
He ran. Lightning gathering beneath him until he became the bolt—riding the static trail toward the one he left behind.
---
In the glade, Zephyra was bleeding.
She had fought like never before—pure desperation, fueled by instinct. She had taken down five men with gusts and steel. But the rest surrounded her now, and above them all stood the Duke.
Caligo stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, like a teacher at a lesson.
"You can barely stand," he said, voice smooth. "And yet, you persist. Admirable. Stupid, but admirable."
Zephyra raised a weak shield of wind.
He clapped his hands.
Spikes of darkness burst from beneath her. She leapt, barely dodging, only to be struck from behind by another.
He circled her slowly.
"Let me educate you. Aura is not emotion. It is classification. Hierarchy. Order."
She gasped for air.
"There are seven standard ranks. Most people never move past the first three."
He lifted a finger.
"Base Class—untrained, instinctive. Good for scaring bandits."
He jabbed her side with a spike. She staggered.
"Soldier Class—slightly refined. That's you. Just enough aura to cast wind. Just enough heart to die slow."
Another strike. Her shoulder cracked against a rock.
"Elite Class—like me. Our aura obeys without question. We don't react. We command."
Zephyra coughed blood, eyes narrowing.
"Then come the Masters, who wield techniques powerful enough to bend armies. High Masters, who can fight entire platoons solo. Grandmasters, who can level cities."
He bent over her now, dark energy wreathing his fingers.
"Great Grandmasters? You'll never meet one. Not in this life."
He tilted her face up.
"Now… where is the boy who claims he uses lightning?"
Zephyra stared at him. Her lips trembled.
"I… don't know," she said, weak but defiant.
Caligo stared at her for a moment.
"You're lying."
He raised a spike for the killing blow—
Then stopped.
The air cracked.
A shimmer—then a roar.
Lightning split the sky, and a figure landed between them like a comet.
Neil.
His body sparked with wrath, eyes glowing white, the bow strapped to his back, fists clenched tight.
The Duke straightened, surprised. "Ah…"
"So the myth walks."