A gust swept across the canyon.
Caldras, the Tribute Collector, stood in the center of the stone plaza, long coat fluttering like torn banners, his five black orbs circling lazily around him—each humming with malevolent intent.
He had executed three villagers days earlier. Not for defiance, but for silence.
And now, the wind returned with vengeance.
A pulse. Then a roar.
Neil appeared—not walking, but descending on a current of divine force, eyes glowing silver, aura laced with power ancient and commanding.
But this wasn't Neil.
It was the Divine Master of Wind.
His voice was calm and clear. "Three lives were taken here. This is not justice. This is correction."
The first strike lashed out with a gust so sharp it cleaved a wind-chime in two—and sent the first orb hurtling back into its master's chest.
The second came low, sweeping Caldras' legs with a spiral gale that smashed him into the ground, face-first.
The third rose from beneath, a vertical spear of condensed cyclone that launched him skyward before slamming him down in a storm-crater at the heart of the plaza.
The air fell still.
The Divine Master stepped from Neil's form, shape unraveling into a young man in windwoven robes. His voice barely stirred the dust. "This is not my battle."
He turned to Zephyra, eyes unreadable. "Let him win his spurs."
The Tribute Collector stood tall and lean, draped in dark garments that fluttered gently in the breeze stirred by Neil's faint aura. His six black spheres hovered in an elegant formation around him, each one pulsing faintly like tiny, malicious hearts. His voice was composed but edged with disdain.
"I am Caldras. Once destined for greatness, now reduced to collecting petty debts. But today... I seize lightning itself."
Neil didn't respond right away. He had taken a stance—one foot forward, knees slightly bent, arms raised, open palms. Not because he had practiced it, but because it felt right. The Divine Master's presence still echoed faintly in his limbs, a lingering charge left behind like static in a storm's wake.
Zephyra watched tensely from behind, her bow gripped tightly. She whispered, "Come on, boy…"
Caldras extended one hand, and the spheres moved. Two darted forward—one high, one low. Neil side-stepped, narrowly avoiding both, but a third came from behind. It grazed his shoulder and sent a jolt of cold pain down his arm.
The spheres were fast, coordinated.
Like fingers. No… like nerves, Neil realized. He sees through them. Feels through them.
He took a deep breath and remembered what his master had said:
"When your opponent sees more than you do, close their eyes. When their reach is greater, strike from inside the reach."
Neil dug his heel into the ground and sprinted forward.
Caldras smirked. "Reckless."
Two spheres intercepted. One struck Neil in the chest, the other tried to tangle his feet. But Neil twisted mid-air, using the momentum to roll across the ground and launch himself into a low sweep. His lightning sparked, wild and flickering from his fingertips.
One sphere cracked—its obsidian sheen disrupted by raw electricity.
Caldras flinched. "So it's true. You are lightning reborn."
Neil didn't hear. His focus narrowed. The battle wasn't just about strength. It was about disrupting the connection—those spheres were Caldras' advantage. Without them, the man was nothing.
With each dodge and counterstrike, Neil began to map their rhythm.
Two guarded his flanks. One trailed behind. One moved in a circular orbit. Two were attackers. He had only seconds between their rotations.
Suddenly, Neil dove straight into the center of the formation. The spheres panicked, colliding with each other as he pulsed a bright charge outward. His hand struck Caldras' chest, delivering a shock that forced the man back.
But Caldras wasn't finished.
He stumbled, blood trickling from his lip, then snarled and summoned all six spheres inward.
They collapsed into a single massive orb.
"Then die with your spark," Caldras hissed. "Abyssal Core!"
The orb condensed—its pull distorting the wind. Zephyra took a step forward, but the Divine Master held out a hand.
"No. Watch."
Neil didn't run.
He stepped forward.
Lightning flickered around him, climbing up his arms, dancing along his spine. His aura shimmered blue-white.
This is my power. Not a remnant. Not a gift. Mine.
Neil drew back his hand, the wind now swirling from beneath his feet.
And then—he struck.
"Lightning Fang!"
The lightning erupted—not just in a straight line but in a branching spiral that tore through the orb, shattering it into crackling fragments. The core imploded, and Caldras was launched backward into a jagged rock, collapsing with a cry.
Silence.
Then dust.
Then breath.
Neil stood, panting, electricity still twitching at his fingertips. The Divine Master approached, nodding with a quiet smile.
"You faced the darkness—and answered with your own thunder."
Zephyra ran to Neil's side. "You did it. You crazy… stormborn idiot."
Neil grinned through the pain. "I think I just… won my spurs."
---
The battlefield lay still.
Neil sat in the dirt, his legs numb and sparks fading from his hands. Caldras lay unconscious nearby, his six spheres reduced to inert, crumbling fragments. Zephyra knelt beside Neil, gently inspecting the bruise on his shoulder. "You took a direct hit from one of those spheres. You're lucky it didn't paralyze you."
Neil gave a crooked smile. "Guess I got lucky."
Before she could reply, the Divine Master of Wind—still in his youthful, wandering form—stepped forward. His presence carried the breeze with him, grass and dust parting softly as he walked.
"You've done well," he said, eyes resting on Neil. "The storm inside you is awakening."
Neil tried to stand. "I don't understand. Why me?"
The Divine Master looked to the sky for a moment, as if listening to something distant. "Because you were chosen long before you were born."
He turned to Zephyra, then back to Neil. "This realm is shifting. The divine threads are fraying. What was once truth is becoming memory—and memory… is being rewritten."
Neil furrowed his brow. "What does that mean?"
The Divine Master extended a hand toward Neil's chest. A soft pulse of wind flared out, and in that moment, Neil felt it—deep within him—a mark, faint but pulsing: the Divine Brand.
"You carry a seal etched in divine energy. A fragment of power meant only for those who must one day stand between this world and its end."
Zephyra's eyes widened. "He… really is marked by the gods."
"No," the Divine Master said gently. "By something older."
He paused.
Then: "There is someone you must find. She is trapped in chains not of metal, but of deceit and legacy. You will know her when her fire flickers with doubt."
Neil blinked. "You mean… the Princess of the Burning Kingdom?"
The Divine Master smiled faintly. "Indeed. She is at the center of a great fire—one that may either consume the realm or light the way forward."
He turned and began to walk away, vanishing slowly into a rising whirlwind.
Before fading, his voice echoed:
"You have passed your first trial, Neil of the forgotten Sparkling Kingdom. But the eye of the tempest is yet to come."
---
Deep in the heart of the Burning Kingdom, Princess Kaelira stirred in a cell carved from volcanic stone. Her wrists were bound with enchanted chains that pulsed faintly with ember-red sigils—meant to suppress flame, not extinguish it.
She remembered the ambush.
Her brother's rehearsed concern.
Wolfkhan's jagged smile.
"You're far too valuable to kill. I have plans, little flame."
Kaelira clenched her fists. The magic in the chains hissed in protest, glowing hotter for a moment. Her eyes shimmered—not with divinity, but with lineage.
She was heir to the Pure Flame.
The last of the sacred fireblood.
Chosen not by gods—but by the Flame itself.
She closed her eyes, and somewhere within, the old warmth stirred. It had spoken to her once.
It would speak again.