First Blood

Chase awoke to the sound of Zephyr snoring with his face half-buried in his pillow and one leg dangling off the bed like a ragged banner. Milo sat at the foot of Chase's bed, eyes glowing faintly in the early dawn light seeping through the round window.

"Morning already?" Chase muttered.

Milo flicked his tail once. A jolt of static energy pulsed through the air, and Zephyr jolted upright like someone had poured ice water down his back.

"By the ancestors' soggy underpants—what was that?!" Zephyr wheezed, grabbing his chest.

Chase tossed his robe over one shoulder. "Milo's way of saying good morning."

"I want a refund on this room."

"You didn't pay for it."

"Exactly. I want a refund in emotional damage compensation."

They dressed in silence—well, Chase dressed in silence. Zephyr narrated his own process like he was the host of a failing stage play.

"Ah yes, the sacred sect robe: crisp, clean, vaguely itchy. Designed to make you look like a sage while sweating like a pig."

Chase tied his waist sash and headed for the door. Zephyr followed, still fiddling with the strap across his chest. "So what's the game plan, roomie? Show off your lightning, maybe shock a few peacocks? Or go full darkness demon and haunt someone into retirement?"

"Neither," Chase said. "I'm just here to train."

"That's the spirit! Underwhelm them with humility before blowing a crater in the arena."

The Celestial Forge Sect was already alive. Disciples streamed across stone paths, some chatting excitedly, others meditating while floating midair. Chase's team—Group Four—was to assemble at the East Arena, according to the scroll. It was one of the seven training fields nestled into the mountain's many terraces.

The East Arena looked like a crater hollowed out of the stone. Rings of flattened earth surrounded a central dueling platform. A waterfall cascaded nearby, filling the air with mist that shimmered in the morning sun.

A short, broad man with a bald head and a sharp bark of a voice stood at the edge. "All new disciples of Group Four, line up!"

Chase fell in beside Zephyr. A few others shuffled in. A lean girl with a scar over one eye and a sword nearly as long as her body. That was Talya. The other, a quiet boy with silver hair and gloves that hummed with energy, had to be Ryn.

The instructor scanned them like a wolf deciding which sheep to bite first.

"I am Instructor Wen. I don't care about your backgrounds, your talents, or your tragic backstories. You are not here to be special. You are here to survive. Fail, and you'll be sent back down that mountain faster than you came up. Understand?"

"Yes, Instructor!" they chorused.

"Today, we spar. No killing. But if you can't handle blood, bruises, or broken ribs, leave now and save me the trouble."

Nobody moved.

"Good. Team Four, your matches are posted on the board. You have ten minutes to stretch or cry. Your choice."

Zephyr leaned over to Chase. "I choose inner weeping."

Chase checked the board. First match: Chase Cloud vs. Talya of Stonewick. He didn't recognize the place, but judging by her stance and the large sword resting against her shoulder, she wasn't a joke.

He stepped into the ring. Talya followed, eyes narrow and unreadable.

"Begin!" Instructor Wen barked.

Talya charged instantly, no hesitation. Her sword carved through the air with a whistle. Chase sidestepped the first strike, but the force of the swing left a shockwave in its wake. Dust flew.

He dropped low, sweeping her legs with the staff end of his weapon, but she flipped mid-fall and brought her sword down toward his skull.

Chase's instincts screamed. He poured lightning into his legs and vanished in a blur, reappearing ten feet behind her, sparks licking at his arms.

She grunted. "Fast."

He didn't respond. She lunged again, this time slamming the ground with her blade, sending up shards of rock like shrapnel. One grazed Chase's cheek.

"Fine," he muttered, twirling his spear into a reverse grip. "You want blood?"

He dashed forward and struck with precision. Not brute force, but with arcs of calculated strikes. Electricity crackled along his weapon, and when it connected with her shoulder, she staggered, her muscles momentarily paralyzed.

She countered with a roar, managing to catch the staff and fling him sideways. Chase rolled, popped up to his feet, and raised a hand.

Darkness unfurled behind him. Shadows spiraled into the shape of a spear tip, humming with a cold, unnatural pressure.

A few disciples gasped. Even Talya hesitated.

Before Chase could launch the strike, Instructor Wen raised a hand.

"Enough!"

The shadows dissolved. Chase exhaled and dropped to one knee.

Talya rubbed her arm, grimacing. "You held back?"

"A little," Chase said.

"Next time, don't."

The next matches blurred by. Zephyr fought a bulky wind user and somehow won by tripping the guy into his own gust of air. Ryn showcased precise strikes powered by thunderclap gauntlets, dispatching his opponent without even blinking.

By the time the morning duels ended, Chase was bruised, bloodied, and already earning stares. Not just from his match—but from the aura of his powers. Darkness, especially, left an impression.

Later that afternoon, Chase wandered to one of the spiritual pools—a calm basin carved into the mountain's edge. He sat at the rim, dipping his legs into the cold water. The steam carried medicinal qi, healing his minor cuts and easing the ache in his bones.

Milo lay nearby, swatting at a dragonfly with one paw. Zephyr plopped down beside Chase with a wince.

"Can't feel my spine," he muttered. "Pretty sure someone punched me into last week."

"You won."

"Not the point. Victory isn't worth this much bruised ego. Or tailbone."

Chase didn't respond immediately. He watched the water ripple gently. "Instructor Wen said we're not special."

Zephyr snorted. "Yeah. He says that, but he was staring at your lightning like it owed him money."

"Still… I didn't win clean. If I hadn't used lightning, I would've lost."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. You've got gifts, man. Use them. Otherwise, what's the point of all this?"

A bird cried overhead, circling the peaks.

Chase leaned back, letting the mist rise over him. "I just don't want to rely on my powers to cover up my flaws."

"You're not hiding flaws. You're fighting with everything you've got."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Zephyr added, "Also, don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of terrifying when you fight. And I mean that as a compliment. Mostly."

Chase chuckled.

The sun dipped lower, bathing the peaks in molten gold. In the distance, bells chimed softly, calling disciples to evening meditation.

"I'm skipping that," Zephyr said flatly.

"You're going to get kicked out."

"Then I'll haunt this mountain and throw rocks at people trying to meditate."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Tomorrow's going to be worse, isn't it?" Zephyr asked.

Chase nodded. "Probably."

"Good. I brought extra bandages."

Chase didn't say it, but as he gazed out across the valleys, he felt something stir inside him. Not dread. Not fear.

Anticipation.

Tomorrow, he'd bleed again.

And he'd make sure everyone watching knew:

He wasn't here to play nice.

He was here to rise.