Unleashing The Storm

The early light of Ardenwave filtered through the cracked shutters, bathing the wooden room in a soft gold haze. Inside, the air was thick with quiet heat and the scent of ocean salt carried by the breeze.

Rikuya was at the center of it all—shirtless, sweat trailing in clean lines down his chest, arms tense as he held his entire body upright, balanced on a single finger. His other arm hung loosely behind his back, his face stoic, eyes closed in focus. The way his muscles flexed and rippled with every breath gave the illusion of a statue come to life—carved not from marble, but from raw discipline and sheer will.

His back was a map of power—shoulders wide and defined, every muscle group visible beneath the sheen of sweat. His abs, tight and symmetrical, caught the sunlight just right, making every ridge and line stand out like they were sculpted. A faint scar trailed over his ribs—an old story left untold.

The door creaked open.

Lena stepped in first, carrying a tray. Myra peeked from behind her shoulder.

"Rikuya—" Lena began, but the words died in her throat.

They both froze.

Their eyes locked onto the scene before them: Rikuya's body suspended in a flawless vertical position, glistening in the morning light like a forged weapon. Every inch of him radiated raw, quiet power.

Lena's cheeks flushed deep red, her breath caught. "O-oh…"

Myra covered her mouth, her face nearly as pink as her hair tie. "He's… is that even humanly possible…?"

Neither of them could look away.

His chest rose and fell, each exhale slow and controlled. The cut of his obliques sloped down into his waistline, where his sweatpants hung dangerously low, showing just enough to make both girls' knees wobble.

"W-we should go," Myra whispered, grabbing Lena's wrist. "Before we melt."

Lena nodded stiffly, but her eyes lingered just a second longer—lips parted slightly, heart racing—before she let Myra drag her back into the hallway, tray untouched.

Behind the closed door, Rikuya opened one eye slowly, one brow lifting in quiet amusement. Still balanced, still sweating—but now with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Just another morning.

After his intense morning workout, Rikuya dried himself off with a rough linen towel, the fabric dragging over his still-warm skin. He pulled on a fresh shirt—one that clung tightly to his form, especially across the chest and shoulders—and made his way downstairs.

The scent of fried eggs and seaweed broth filled the inn's cozy kitchen space, drifting from the hearth where breakfast had been laid out.

He sat at the table, hair still damp, and began to eat in silence. The two girls peeked over now and then, their faces still a bit pink, but they said nothing—just served him with a mix of politeness and lingering awe.

As he finished his last bite, the door creaked near the entrance. Solamar, already dressed in his dusty travel cloak and wide-brimmed hat, was slipping his satchel over one shoulder.

Rikuya stood and approached. "Heading somewhere?"

Solamar turned with a calm smile. "Ah, Rikuya. Just out to pick up supplies—fruit, dried meat, maybe a little fresh fish if we're lucky. Stocking up for lunch and the road ahead."

"We can come too," Lena offered, stepping forward.

"Yeah," Myra added, "We know the best vendors! And Rikuya still hasn't seen the harbor stalls."

Solamar chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Well, if you insist, young ladies. But you'll have to keep up—I bargain with the speed of a seagull stealing bread."

Rikuya raised an eyebrow. "I'm not carrying everything."

Solamar tapped his staff to the floor. "Didn't expect you to, son. But I won't say no to some extra muscle in case the cabbage lady tries to short me again."

That made Lena giggle, and even Rikuya allowed a short breath of amusement.

He nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

The morning sun was waiting just beyond the inn's door—golden, warm, and full of Ardenwave's salt-scented promise.

The streets of Ardenwave were alive under the mid-morning sun. Cobblestone paths glistened faintly with dew, and the air carried a fresh mix of brine and baked bread. Colorful cloth awnings stretched above tightly packed market stalls, each one shouting with life—fruits in wooden baskets, fish still flapping in buckets, and woven rugs flung over crates like tapestries of the street.

Solamar walked ahead with a comfortable gait, leaning on his staff, eyes scanning for deals like a hawk.

Rikuya kept a slow pace behind him, his sharp gaze casually sweeping the crowd. Beside him, Lena and Myra practically bounced as they pointed out stalls and teased each other.

"That one over there has the best melon cakes!" Lena said, grabbing Rikuya's wrist and pulling him toward a squat vendor with flour on his chin.

"They're too sweet," Myra wrinkled her nose. "I like the seaweed crisps near the pier!"

"You like everything, Myra," Lena laughed.

Rikuya took a sample when the vendor offered one—a small bite-sized cake with a sticky honey glaze. He chewed slowly, nodded. "Sweet… but balanced. Not bad."

Lena grinned triumphantly. "See? Told you."

They weaved between stalls, stopping for smoked mackerel, dried berries, and a cloth-wrapped wheel of sharp goat cheese. Every time the old woman behind a booth tried to haggle with Solamar, he leaned in and matched her volume with exaggerated drama.

"I remember when this fish was half the price and twice the size!" he declared, lifting a small snapper like it was a gold bar.

"Then go fish it yourself, old man!" the vendor barked back, but with a toothy grin.

The girls giggled. Rikuya even allowed a short smile to slip as he helped Solamar fill the small handcart they'd brought with them.

They passed a flower stand where Myra slowed down, running a finger along the petals of a blue wildrose.

"I used to pick these near the hill back home," she said softly.

Lena nudged her. "Let's buy one for the inn."

Solamar handed over a coin without a word, letting the girls pick a small bouquet.

Rikuya looked down at the delicate bloom. "You sure that'll survive around pirates and stew?"

"It'll brighten the room," Lena said with a defiant smile. "Beauty's always worth the trouble."

He looked away, but something in the corner of his mouth twitched.

By the time they circled back toward the inn, arms full of food and flowers, the mood was light and the sky above a perfect pale blue.

Solamar sighed contentedly. "Now that's how you feed the body and the spirit."

As they neared the turn that led back to the inn, Solamar suddenly paused, patting his satchel with a puzzled look.

"Ah—forgot the white ginger root," he muttered, shaking his head. "My old brain, I tell you. Rikuya, would you mind picking it up? The herb vendor by the red lantern stand should have it."

Rikuya gave a small nod. "Got it."

"We'll head back and start prepping lunch," Lena offered brightly. "Don't take too long!"

"Try not to get lost," Myra teased with a grin.

Solamar waved them off. "Don't let the girls burn the pot, eh?"

With a nod, Rikuya turned on his heel and began walking back through the busy market, weaving through townsfolk and merchants hawking their wares. The scent of spice and dried citrus lingered in the air, and gulls wheeled above, their cries sharp and high.

The vendor Solamar had mentioned stood beneath a fluttering red lantern, a hunched man surrounded by woven baskets of herbs and roots. Rikuya approached, his presence quiet but commanding.

"White ginger root," he said simply.

The vendor looked up, squinting through thick lenses. "Sharp eye you've got. Fresh batch just came in this morning." He handed over a firm, knotted root with a clean, spicy scent.

Rikuya passed him a few coins, nodded once, and tucked the root into a cloth pouch. As he turned to head back toward the inn, the breeze picked up—carrying with it the warm voices of townspeople, the clink of bells from nearby stalls, and the distant sound of the sea lapping at the docks.

There was a rare stillness in him. Not peace exactly, but… something like it.

And with the errand done, he made his way back toward the place that—just maybe—felt a little like home.

As Rikuya rounded the final corner, the air changed.

He stopped mid-step.

The cart was gone.

The inn, once warm and alive, now stood eerily silent—its door half-open, swaying with the breeze. The shutters hung loose, and the scent of smoke and splintered wood clung to the wind like a warning.

His heart didn't race—it went cold.

Rikuya's eyes narrowed. His hand slowly rose, brushing Tsuki on his head. The little dog's fur bristled as he let out a low growl, confirming what Rikuya already felt deep in his gut:

Something was wrong.

He broke into a sprint.

Boots slammed against the dirt, kicking up dust behind him as he dashed forward. The world blurred around him, but the broken doorway locked into view—like a target.

He burst through the door—

Wreckage.

Tables overturned. Broken plates scattered across the floor. Blood—dry streaks of it—marked the edge of the counter. One of the chairs was still rocking, as if the violence had only just passed. The warmth from earlier had been ripped away, replaced with the stench of chaos.

Rikuya walked slowly now.

Every step deliberate.

He scanned the room like a predator. No bodies. No voices. Just a torn room and a chilling quiet.

Then his gaze fell to the center of the room.

A note, pinned to the floor with a knife.

He knelt, ripping it free.

The handwriting was rough, jagged.

> "We have your little inn family.

Come find us. Ardenwave's shadows are waiting."

He didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Then—his hands began to shake.

His lip twitched. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. A vein popped along the side of his neck, pulsing wildly. His eyes widened—not in fear—but in a terrible, boiling silence.

A trickle of blood slid down from the corner of his lip—he'd bitten too hard, tasting the iron, but didn't care.

Rage. Pure, suffocating rage.

He stood slowly.

The air seemed to bend around him—heavy, electric. His muscles tensed beneath his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and arms. His breathing was slow, controlled—but each breath came with an edge, like a blade being drawn.

"They touched them…"

His voice came like gravel grinding beneath steel.

Then—

CRASH.

He turned and slammed his fist into the nearest beam—splintering it in half. Wood exploded, cracks racing up the wall like lightning.

The sound echoed through the empty inn like a war drum.

Tsuki didn't move—just braced on Rikuya's shoulder, ears flat, eyes focused.

Rikuya's eyes—still locked on the wreckage—burned like coals.

"I'll find you."

"And I'll break every shadow you're hiding behind."

He dropped the note and stepped forward.

A storm of vengeance with nowhere to go—yet.

But it would.

It would soon.

Rikuya's movements were methodical as he wrapped the strips of white cloth around his bloodied arm, the fabric pressing against the torn skin with a stinging burn. His face was hard, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed like it could crack under the pressure. His body was still trembling, not from fear, but from an anger that seethed beneath the surface like molten lava ready to explode.

He finished bandaging his arm and forearm, then cracked his neck, the sound echoing like the breaking of bones. His shoulders rolled, flexing the tight muscles, each movement a preparation for what was to come. He needed no sword. No weapon but his fists and the rage that twisted inside him.

His blood was still hot, dripping from his lip, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. His gaze, cold and unforgiving, scanned the wreckage of the inn again.

---

"They think this will scare me. They think this will break me."

---

Rikuya's fists tightened, the knuckles popping, veins bulging along his forearms. His eyes narrowed, pupils wide with pure, unfiltered fury. He could feel the heat rising from the pit of his stomach, burning through every nerve, igniting his very soul.

---

"They're wrong." His voice was low, a growl that seemed to vibrate through the air. "I'm not the one who's broken."

---

With a final, controlled breath, Rikuya cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and final. His body was ready. Every inch of him was filled with a cold, calculated wrath that was only waiting for the moment to be unleashed.

---

"I'm coming for them. And they won't be able to run. Not this time."

---

Each step toward the door was heavy, full of intent. He was done with words. Done with games. Now, it was time to make them pay for everything they had taken.