First heir to the storm

Noel and Madam Irina moved without hesitation.

Electricity crackled beneath Noel's feet as his body surged forward with unnatural speed. Each step propelled him like a living bolt of lightning, closing the distance between him and the storm's eye in an instant. Meanwhile, Irina moved with eerie precision, her hands weaving unseen threads through the air. The debris caught in the cyclone's wrath—chunks of metal, shattered glass, even the very floor tiles—froze mid-air, held in place by her telekinetic grip. She kept the deadly shrapnel at bay, ensuring Noel had a clear path forward.

But the storm was relentless.

Noel gritted his teeth as the wind roared against him, his muscles straining just to stay upright. He pulled out his lightning katana, its blade humming with raw energy, and slashed forward—only to be blasted back by the sheer force of the gale.

Such power…

This wasn't just an uncontrolled awakening. Troy was on the verge of breaking his own limits—and his body along with it. If he pushed himself any further, he wouldn't survive.

Noel's jaw tightened. There was no time to hesitate.

"Cover me, Madam! Make a pathway to the top!" he shouted over the deafening winds.

Irina didn't waste a second. With a flick of her fingers, the frozen debris shifted, rearranging into a spiraling staircase of solid wreckage. The best way to infiltrate a tornado wasn't through brute force—it was from above.

Noel's body blurred as he dashed up the makeshift path, every step charged with electric speed. The wind clawed at him, trying to rip him away, but he pressed on. At the storm's core, he could finally see it—the ball of compressed energy, the very heart of the maelstrom. And floating dangerously close to it—

Troy.

Blood poured from his nose and mouth, his unconscious body drifting like a ragdoll, completely at the mercy of the chaos.

Noel exhaled sharply. There was only one chance.

Lightning surged through his veins as he leaped into the vortex, katana raised high. In a single blinding strike, he cut through the sphere of energy—splitting the storm apart.

The cyclone shattered.

The air pressure collapsed in on itself, and with a deafening boom, the storm exploded outward, dissipating in an instant.

Silence followed.

As the dust settled, Noel landed on the cracked floor, kneeling beside Troy's limp body. His pulse was weak, his breathing shallow.

But he was alive.

Madam Irina floated down beside them, her crimson eyes scanning Troy's battered form before nodding to Noel. "We got to him just in time."

Noel exhaled, his body finally relaxing. He sheathed his katana, then gently lifted Troy into his arms.

"Barely."

The holographic screen flickered, casting

jagged shadows across the sterile white walls of Bastion's training chamber. Troy sat slumped in his wheelchair, fingers digging into the armrests, eyes locked onto the grainy footage looping in front of him.

Sergei Volkov. The Lightning God.

The man on screen moved like a force of nature—soaring through the battlefield, his white hair crackling with electricity, his hands carving arcs of raw lightning through everything in his path. Buildings crumbled beneath him. Soldiers scattered like dry leaves in a storm.

The footage, degraded by time, couldn't diminish the sheer terror of his power.

Troy exhaled sharply. "How the hell am I supposed to copy that?"

His voice was hoarse, worn from three days of relentless drills. His throat still tasted like copper—a reminder of the blood he'd coughed up after his last blackout.

Director Noel leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his scarred face unreadable. "You're not."

Troy scowled. "Wow. Encouraging."

Noel smirked. "Sergei's aerokinesis was a myth until you pulled that stunt in the training arena. Even Bastion's records called it a 'genetic anomaly.' Turns out, you're the anomaly now, kid."

Troy's grip on the wheelchair tightened. His gaze flickered back to the screen. Sergei was frozen mid-flight, lightning surging through his body, his blue eyes blazing like twin supernovas.

And then there was Troy—pale, ordinary blue eyes staring back at him from the reflection in the glass.

Weak. Human.

Three Days Earlier...

Troy had woken up in Bastion's infirmary, his limbs heavy, his head throbbing. Celia stood over him, crimson eyes narrowed.

"You collapsed."

He blinked up at her, still dazed. "Drama queen. I just… needed a nap."

She threw a tablet at him. Security footage played on the screen.

It showed the training arena—Troy floating midair, unconscious, a hurricane of wind and debris swirling around him. The ball he'd been trying to coat with force hovered at the storm's eye, untouched.

Celia folded her arms. "You're lucky director noel pulled you out. You could've suffocated everyone."

Troy had grinned despite the ache in his ribs. "So… I did fly?"

"You imploded," she corrected. "But yes. For three seconds."

Celia didn't want to disclose all the detail's of the incident, or the severity of it, as she didn't want to sour Troy's mood.

Present

Troy had spent the last three days trying to replicate it. To fly again. This time, while awake.

But no matter how much he focused, how much he strained, it wouldn't happen.

His fingers dug into his temples as he muttered to himself. "This is hopeless. How am I supposed to fly when I can't even walk?"

A knock on the door.

Troy turned just as it slid open—revealing a familiar, peculiar sight.

A man floating inches above the ground, arms crossed, grinning like he'd just stumbled upon a grand joke. His white lab coat drifted around him, as if gravity had simply decided he was an optional participant.

Lux Patel. Bastion's resident mad scientist.

Troy raised an eyebrow. "Human air balloon, haven't seen you in a while."

Lux smirked. "Hello, funny boy. Or should I call you air boy now?"

Then, to Troy's genuine surprise, Lux landed—his feet touching the ground for the first time in… well, ever.

Troy stared. "Wait. You can walk?"

Lux shrugged. "I prefer not to."

Troy sighed. "You're a menace."

"Flattering," Lux said, stepping forward. "But I didn't come here just to bask in your charming presence. I have news. Whether it's good news, though… that's up for debate."

Troy's brow furrowed. "News?"

Lux's usual grin didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "Your awakening has made waves, boy. Word spreads fast in Esper Town, and the fact that a new recruit pulled off aerokinesis?" He whistled. "A lot of people and organizations are interested in you. And that's not a good thing."

Troy's stomach twisted slightly. "Fantastic. I love being a walking target."

"On the bright side, someone has agreed to train you." Lux leaned in. "And not just anyone—the only person alive who truly understands Sergei's power."

Troy narrowed his eyes. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

Lux's expression turned uncharacteristically serious. "Before you agree, you need to understand—this person is dangerous. Director Noel is meeting with him as we speak. And when you meet him, you absolutely cannot—and I mean cannot—mention the prototype serums or the fact that you aren't a natural-born Esper."

Troy's mouth went dry. "…So he doesn't know?"

"As far as he's concerned, you're a late-blooming Esper that Bastion found by sheer luck." Lux's voice dropped lower. "And we cannot risk him knowing otherwise."

Troy swallowed hard. "Who is it?"

Lux exhaled. Then, with an ominous smirk, he answered—

"Dimitri Volkov. Sergei's first son."

Troy's heart skipped a beat.

"A geokinetic," Lux continued. "The only child Sergei spent time with after the wars. He knew Sergei's powers firsthand. And while he's… peculiar, there's no one more qualified to teach you."

Troy stared at him. "…He'll be here today?"

Lux nodded. "So buckle up, air boy. Your real training starts now."

Dimitri Volkov stepped inside.

Despite being over eighty years old, he looked no older than twenty-five—tall, broad-shouldered, with the sharp features of an actor, white hair like a silver mane, and a well-kept beard that framed his piercing blue eyes. But there was something far more terrifying than his youthful appearance—his presence.

The air grew heavier as he moved.

His boots hit the ground, and the floor trembled beneath him.

His gaze landed on Troy, slumped in his wheelchair, and his expression darkened with pure disgust.

"This boy inherited the storm?" Dimitri's voice rumbled like distant thunder. His cold stare shifted to Noel, burning with barely contained rage. "Tell me, Director Thirst, can this kid even blow an ant away?"

Noel didn't flinch, though a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "He's a late bloomer, Dimitri. His body is weak, but—"

Dimitri didn't wait for an explanation.

With a single stomp, the ground erupted.

Jagged rock shot upward, closing around Troy's legs like a beast's fangs, half-burying him in stone.

Troy's scream tore through the air.

His hands clawed at the ground, muscles burning, nerves screaming, every inch forward a battle against the crushing weight. His body begged him to stop. His instincts screamed surrender.

Noel stepped forward, fists clenched. "Dimitri, that's enough—"

Then he saw Dimitri's eyes.

There was something ancient in them, something uncompromising, something deadly. But—no killing intent.

A test.

Noel hesitated.

Troy's breath came in ragged gasps. Every movement felt like knives slicing through his body. His fingers bled as he dug into the ground, but still—he moved.

Dimitri watched in silence.

When Troy's fingertips finally touched the broken remains of his wheelchair, Dimitri sneered.

Then he stomped again.

The floor cracked. The stone jaws clenched tighter, dragging Troy deeper into his grave.

The earth roared.

Troy slammed back down, his wheelchair crushed to pieces beneath him.

A sickening crack.

Blood splattered across the white floor.

And yet—he still moved.

Dimitri tilted his head, intrigued.

"Stay. Down."

His boot pressed into Troy's chest, crushing the air from his lungs.

Troy snarled, eyes burning with defiance. "What's wrong with you, you senile old bastard?!"

Dimitri chuckled darkly, pressing harder. "So you have a mouth after all. But mouths don't create storms."

Then—

Something snapped inside Troy.

A force—primal, untamed—erupted from within.

His mind blanked.

His body felt weightless.

The storm inside him roared.

A violent gust of wind exploded outward.

The chamber howled.

The air twisted, a hurricane tearing through the reinforced walls.

Dimitri's eyes widened.

The wind hit him like a cannon.

He was sent flying—slamming through the concrete wall.

Debris rained down. The steel beams groaned, barely holding together under the force of the shockwave.

And yet—

Noel stood completely untouched.

Not a single scratch.

"The storm shouldn't harm innocents" he thought of his fathers voice witnessing it.

Dimitri, sprawled in the rubble, saw it. The same spirit. The same unyielding resolve.

Dimitri's gaze snapped to him.

The storm had spared him.

For the first time, Dimitri's grin faded.

He turned back to Troy—now unconscious, lying in a crater of cracked stone and whipping wind, his body still crackling with unseen energy.

A long silence.

Then—Dimitri laughed.

A deep, thunderous laugh, filled with genuine amusement. He wiped the blood from his lips, shaking his head.

"There it is," he whispered. "The storm… untamed and raw."

He dusted off his coat, then stepped forward. With almost casual ease, he scooped Troy up, cradling him in one arm.

Then—

Bright white flames surged from his palm.

His beard and hair, once silver, now burned with holy fire.

Troy, battered and broken, began to heal.

The wounds across his body vanished. The bruises faded. His breathing steadied.

This was Dimitri Volkov, able to wield two powers of control,and one of the rarest powers in the world, pyrokinetic healing, the founder of this power being Dimitri Volkov himself , a legend among espers.

But—

Dimitri's flames dimmed as his gaze settled on Troy's legs.

"I cannot heal these," he muttered, looking at Noel. "These wounds are far too deep." His voice, for the first time, lacked mockery. "But he can get better. He has the storm in him. I will bring it out."

Noel's hands tightened at his sides. "You're taking him?"

Dimitri grinned, sharp teeth flashing.

"You'll see him again in five months."

And with that—he walked away, carrying the storm in his arms.