Chapter 7: The Chains That Bind

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The training yard echoed with the dull rhythm of wooden swords clashing.

Arthur's body moved with robotic precision, his footwork measured, his strikes sharp. But his eyes—empty.

A hollow vessel, functioning without purpose.

Leonhard, the Sword Saint, parried each blow effortlessly, frowning at the lifeless movements.

"You've got form, boy," he said, stepping aside. "But you fight like you're not here."

Arthur simply reset his stance and attacked again, silent as ever.

Theresia leaned against the stone pillar nearby, watching with quiet frustration. She had spent months training with Arthur, hoping to hear something—anything—from him.

Leonhard suddenly disarmed him with a flick of his wrist. The wooden sword clattered to the dirt.

"That's enough," Leonhard said firmly. "This isn't fighting. This is sleepwalking."

Arthur stood motionless, staring at the fallen weapon.

Leonhard sighed, walking over and resting a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You've trained with Theresia. You've fought beside her. She's family now. You should start seeing her as your sister."

Arthur's chest seized.

His breathing became erratic.

...Sister...

The word clawed at something buried—something long forgotten.

His legs gave out beneath him.

"Arthur!" Theresia called, but he didn't hear her. The world tilted. His body fell.

Leonhard caught him before he hit the ground. "Arthur! Stay with me!"

But Arthur was no longer there.

---

Arthur stood before a vast sky filled with floating islands, their surfaces battered by raging tempests.

The chains connecting them groaned under strain, stretching over an abyss with no visible end.

He was alone.

His previous trials flickered like distant memories. He had mastered fire through unrelenting rage. He had calmed water by surrendering his aggression.

But the wind was different.

"The wind carries both the seed of life and the seed of ruin."

"See them both, or see nothing at all."

The trial's voice faded, leaving Arthur to face the storm.

The first island was deceptively calm. A soft breeze tickled his face. The chain bridge ahead seemed stable, the path straightforward.

Arthur stepped onto the chain without hesitation.

The moment his foot touched the link, a violent gale slammed into him. He lost his balance instantly, his body nearly flung into the abyss.

His heart hammered in his chest as he scrambled back to the starting platform, panting.

His flame ignited around him instinctively.

But the wind howled louder, snuffing out his fire like a dying candle.

Fire won't save me here.

The wind beasts descended—monstrous forms born from the storm itself. They clawed at him, slashing his flesh with blades of air.

Arthur swung wildly, his flame flaring briefly before being extinguished again.

Why won't it work?!

The beasts struck him, sending him crashing to the ground.

I have to fight harder… I have to burn through this!

Arthur forced himself up and charged forward, attempting to set the chain ablaze—to carve his path through brute strength.

The wind devoured his flames.

The beasts slammed him aside once more, tearing into him mercilessly.

---

Arthur tried again.

And again.

And again.

Each attempt ended the same way—his fire extinguished, his body flung back.

The trial wasn't just punishing him—it was teaching him.

But Arthur couldn't hear the lesson yet. He was too consumed by the urge to conquer.

Hours passed.

Days blurred together.

Exhaustion gnawed at him. His muscles burned. His flame sputtered, barely responding to his will.

Why… can't I force my way through?

The trial whispered its truth, patient and cruel.

"The wind does not yield to rage."

"The wind does not bend to force."

Arthur collapsed on the edge of the island, his breathing shallow, his vision spinning.

He stared at the chains, at the storms, at the phantom beasts still waiting.

If I can't burn it… if I can't overpower it… then… what's left?

He closed his eyes and listened.

The howling gales had rhythm.

The beasts' movements had patterns.

The wind wasn't his enemy—it simply existed. It moved, it danced, it roared.

Perhaps… I shouldn't fight the storm… I should move with it.

Arthur rose, this time slower, his grip loosening on his own aggression.

The next time the beasts lunged, he didn't try to overpower them. He sidestepped, letting the wind's force carry him into fluid motion. His sword struck—not against—but alongside the storm's current.

His movements grew lighter, faster.

His flame no longer fought the wind—it weaved within it.

He crossed the first chain.

---

The second island was deathly silent.

No wind. No beasts.

Only a clear sky and a perfect chain bridge ahead.

But Arthur had learned.

He moved cautiously, testing the air.

Invisible blades of wind struck him suddenly—razor-sharp gusts hidden in the silence.

Arthur ducked, rolled, and used the chain's links as cover.

"The wind hides its teeth in silence."

Every quiet step was a trap.

Every still breeze, a potential blade.

He moved carefully, attuning his senses to the faint shifts in air pressure.

When the hidden winds lashed out, he bent with them, sidestepping their bite.

The silence had been more dangerous than the storm.

---

The third island appeared serene—a golden sky, soft winds, and a single, familiar figure waiting among wildflowers.

His sister.

Her laugh drifted to him, sweet and clear.

"Arthur, come home."

His heart seized.

His feet moved before he could think.

"Brother, we're waiting for you."

Tears welled in his eyes.

It felt so real.

His breathing stuttered.

But the wind shifted ever so slightly behind the illusion—the same unnatural rhythm he'd felt before.

Arthur's hands trembled on his blade.

This isn't real…

"Not everything that feels right is real."

His blade wavered. His body screamed to believe—to fall into the comfort of the lie.

With a final cry, Arthur cleaved through the image.

The illusion shattered into ribbons of wind, dissolving into nothing.

The storm screamed in frustration, but Arthur stood firm.

I can't go back. I can only move forward.

---

In the present, Arthur's collapsed body lay motionless in the dirt.

Leonhard hovered over him, Theresia kneeling at his side, panic flashing in her eyes.

"What's happening to him? Why won't he move?" she whispered.

Leonhard frowned, brushing Arthur's damp hair from his face.

He's fighting a battle none of us can see.

Arthur's chest rose and fell steadily, but his mind was still trapped within the lingering winds of the past.

The trial was not yet over.

The final island still awaited him.