Whispers of the Rising Wind

Opening Poem: "Of Grit and Gale"

 He wasn't born in storm or flame,

No whispered fate, no gilded name.

But in the yard where echoes fell,

He learned to rise, to fail, to swell.

Where sweat replaced a noble's crown,

And pain became his thorn-wrought gown.

Each breath a war, each step a test,

He carved the gale into his chest.

Not for glory. Not for fame.

But to prove that wind can carry flame.

Dance of Wood and Wind

26th Chronos 1531 P.A.

On the sparring platform that marked the heart of the Denver Training Yard, the final clash of the morning bloomed with intensity. Lamile and William stood poised in their closing session. The wooden blades had become extensions of will and breath, honed over two years of diligence.

Lamile struck first—a "Stone Break" powered by the agile footwork of "Breeze Step." William countered with "Wind Guard," anchoring his weight into the earth, then lifted his body into a fluid "Sky Rend" parry.

But Lamile was not a novice—her form twisted mid-movement, the slash redirected, and a sudden "Horizon Cut" swept toward William.

He stepped into the air.

A side-flip, precise and artful, lifted him just over the sweeping blade. His hair grazed by its force, he rotated in a calculated maneuver, switching the wooden sword to his right hand. Mid-air, another Breeze Step twisted through his core—and then he struck.

"Stone Break!"

The blade landed gently on Lamile's exposed shoulder. A perfect counter. The impact forced her to her knees, eyes wide, disbelieving.

"A seven-year-old... A double Breeze Step? In mid-air? Using rotational force from a dodge to guide a strike?"

Her mind raced.

"He used the momentary freedom from gravity in his flip to shift his weight again. I couldn't defend. The Horizon Cut's weakness... it was too broad. He read it... and punished me."

She fell into "Steel Veil" stance, still guarding, but stunned.

William's Thoughts:

"YES!! Finally! My body moves how I want it to!"

He beamed inwardly.

"Take that, you ogre of a woman. All those bruises, all that pain... now you taste the fruit of your own training."

Still, as Lamile held her guard, he sighed.

"Even injured, I can't find a decisive opening. I still lack so much experience."

Lamile, rising with grit, looked at him with proud disbelief.

"How did you do it, little lord? That mid-air double Breeze Step?"

William smirked.

"Just felt like it."

Lamile's eye twitched.

As he walked off, he giggled at a memory from earth—a UFC fighter using a missed tornado kick to pivot into a perfect roundhouse. That improvisation... it sparked something deep in him.

Steam of Triumph

The water greeted him like a long-lost ally. Muscles soaked, bruises whispered into the heat, and the steam carried his fatigue away.

William leaned back.

"So this is what victory tastes like... even if it's just a slice."

He scrubbed his arms.

"Ogre Lamile… won't be so smug tomorrow."

He chuckled, bubbles floating lazily.

"But damn... I need to learn how to strike clean openings like she does... or I'll keep chasing shadows."

He dipped under the surface briefly, breath held like a diver entering a realm of stillness.

When he resurfaced, he stared at the ceiling.

"I'm closer now. But not there yet."

Mother's Delight

Under the redwood lattice of the pavilion, Emil sipped tea, eyes glinting as William recounted the spar.

"She didn't see it coming, Mother! Mid-air! I flipped right over her attack and BAM! Stone Break right on her shoulder!"

Emil raised a brow. "And did you check if she was hurt?"

William blinked. "Uh... I mean, she's tough."

Emil laughed, warm and pleased.

"You've grown strong, William. But remember, true strength isn't in surprising your teacher... it's in mastering your mind even when it overflows with triumph."

He puffed up.

"But I was sooo cool, Mother. Like a real warrior."

"Like a reckless fledgling trying his first glide. But perhaps, a graceful one," she teased, brushing his hair.

"Does this mean I get two sweets tonight?"

She pinched his cheek. "You get one for the flip. And you lose one for the boast."

He laughed, then hugged her side. Her warmth felt stronger than any victory.

The Silver Fork Lesson

Elira, ever composed, watched as William struggled to differentiate soup spoon from dessert spoon.

"Again, young lord. Which is which?"

William groaned. "Why do forks have ranks? Are they knights?"

"They serve, don't they?" she quipped dryly.

He chuckled.

"You joke like Mother."

"She taught me well. Now, sit up straight—no warrior bows to his meal."

They continued through posture drills, conversational poise, and formal address. William rolled his eyes but complied, every bit the noble-in-training.

At one point, Elira paused.

"You're improving. Less barbaric than last month."

"That's your version of a compliment, huh?"

"Indeed."

Storm Beneath the Calm

Lamile stood at Robert's study door.

"May I come in, my lord?"

Robert looked up. "Judging by your face, there's a war to report. Speak."

"He did it today... a double mid-air Breeze Step."

Robert blinked. "He's not even eight until tomorrow."

"I know. That's what scares me."

He closed the book slowly.

"Mid-air weight shifting like that... no normal body could handle it without tearing something. Has he awakened his Genesis Nexus?"

"It appears so. I felt no aura, but the move... it's only possible with awakened channels."

Robert exhaled with pride.

"Then a monster is truly born in Denvers. And I wonder... what will he ask of me tomorrow for his birthday?"

Lamile hesitated. "Permission to keep training him... harsher."

Robert nodded. "Break him where he bends. Harden him where he cracks."

She saluted. "He won't be a noble's son by title only."

Song of the Silent Reformer

By the candlelit bed, Emil sat beside her child, fingers running through his soft hair.

"Sleep now, my gale-hearted boy..."

Her lullaby began:

The world once split by blood and class,

With greed entrenched, no dream could pass.

But Nirvana walked with open hand,

And sowed her hope across the land.

She fought not kings, but minds grown blind,

And freed the worth in humankind.

When nobles bent their pride at last,

A dream began to root and last.

But joy was brief; she saw the truth,

That deeper wounds still choked the youth.

So facing storms the world disguised,

She rose again with tearless eyes.

This lullaby is not to praise,

But guide your steps through harsher days.

William stirred. "She... she kept fighting, even after peace?"

Emil smiled. "Yes. Because peace isn't a destination. It's a bridge to walk across storms you don't yet see."

He hugged her.

"Then I'll walk it, Mother. Even if the wind howls."

She kissed his forehead.

"Good. For the world needs not just warriors... but storm-walkers."

Closing Poem: "Discipline: The Sword Without a Sheath"

No crown was earned with silver tongue,

Nor steel with ease in silence hung.

The storm he seeks is not to wield,

But feel it break, then choose to yield.

A child he was when blades first rang,

Now calloused hands and will both sang.

Not loud with boast nor flush with pride,

But steady steps where doubts still hide.

To carve a path that few will tread,

With storm behind, and light ahead.

Not born for war—but if it calls,

He'll walk the wind through fire and walls.