Location: The Training Grounds, Perimeter of Kushan Outpost, Narn
Early Morning | Year: 6999 NY
The clearing was barren, endless, and breathless. A frozen canvas untouched by time, where even the wind dared not stay too long. The world had grown quiet here, as though Narn herself was holding her breath.
Snow stretched in every direction like white fire, glittering faintly beneath the gray light of dawn. The sky hung low and heavy, pale as old ash. And there, alone at the center of the expanse, stood two figures—one forged by wind, the other still being carved by its blade.
Kon squared his shoulders, his breath rising in thick clouds, every exhale a silent prayer that he wouldn't falter. His bare feet were buried ankle-deep in snow, yet he stood steady, unmoving. Before him stood Lord Talonir of the Kushan Clan—his new mentor, and possibly his harshest judge.
Talonir did not speak.
He did not need to.
His eyes, cold and brilliant, did all the speaking for him. They watched Kon with unyielding sharpness—not cruelly, but with the kind of impersonal scrutiny that reduced men to patterns, flaws, and variables. He stood tall, arms crossed over his armored chest, his long feathered mantle shifting in the wind like the wings of a great bird. Nothing in him was relaxed. Even his stillness was taut with purpose.
Kon could feel his heart thudding beneath his ribs, not with fear exactly, but with something far heavier. Anticipation, perhaps. Or the awareness of standing at the edge of a line, beyond which the world would never be the same.
'This is where it begins,' he thought, eyes never leaving Talonir's. 'Not with ceremony. Not with fanfare. But with silence, and snow, and a man watching me to see if I am my father's son—or merely a shadow pretending.'
It was strange, how quiet power could be. No roaring crowd. No clash of steel. Just a pair of eyes that weighed him down like mountains.
Kon's fingers twitched once at his sides. Not from cold. From restraint. There was a part of him—a deep, unspoken part—that wanted to speak first, to fill the silence with bravado or explanation. But he remembered Kopa's words: "Talonir respects those who let their actions speak."
So he said nothing.
He just stood, letting the cold cut through him, letting the snow nip at his cheeks. Letting Talonir see whatever he needed to see.
But inside, Kon's thoughts swirled like the wind: memories of his father, questions of worth, and the aching, quiet truth that he had waited his entire life for this moment—and he didn't know if he would survive it.
Talonir's voice broke the stillness once again, cutting through the morning hush like a blade that had no need to be sharpened.
"The strongest path to power lies not in what you think makes you strong, but in mastering the fundamentals."
His tone wasn't raised, yet it carried the gravity of a commandment. It was not merely a lesson—it was a law, carved in the cold, and carried on the wind. Talonir's steps were slow and deliberate as he paced across the snow. His boots made no sound, but each stride seemed to leave an imprint not only on the earth—but on the air itself.
His eyes remained on Kon, unflinching and dissecting.
"Tell me, Kon. What is an Arcem?"
Kon straightened instinctively. His spine stiffened like it did in battle, though no blade was drawn. This—this was the kind of question he had prepared for his whole life. A test of knowledge. Of identity. Something that would prove he belonged here.
"An Arcem," he began, his voice firm, "is a manifestation of a Tracient's soul. It's a reflection of their strength—proof of their power."
He had heard those words since childhood, echoed by teachers, commanders, and even inscribed above the doorways of ancient halls. They were the core of what it meant to be Tracient.
Talonir gave a slow nod.
"That's correct."
But then something changed. A narrowing of the eyes. A stillness, like the calm before a thunderclap.
"But…"
"What if I told you that you don't need an Arcem?"
The wind shifted, as if startled by the statement. Even the snow seemed to hesitate in its fall. Kon blinked. He felt something in his stomach knot up—an instinctual resistance to what he had just heard.
"What?"
His voice cracked slightly from the sheer disbelief.
"But every Narn Lord has an Arcem! All of our enemies have them too! How can you say we don't need one?"
He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but the challenge had slipped through, raw and honest.
To question the value of an Arcem—it felt like questioning the shape of the stars or the rise of the sun. It was blasphemy, even to his unspoken code.
Talonir stopped mid-stride. The quiet grew heavier.
When he turned, his gaze pinned Kon with the same force one might feel standing at the edge of a cliff—where one misstep meant you'd fall forever.
"Yes, it's true that we all possess Arcems," he said, his tone tightening like a bowstring,
"and yes, they're powerful. But the truth is…"
"An Arcem in itself is worthless without Mana."
Worthless.
The word struck Kon squarely in the chest. As if Talonir had just taken everything he knew and swept it off the table in one motion. He stood still, a flurry of disbelief kicking up in his mind.
"Mana?"
He repeated the word without thinking, like a boy echoing a riddle he didn't yet understand.
Talonir nodded, slowly, with the gravity of someone who had watched men die for misunderstanding this truth.
"Mana is the fundamental force. It is the very essence of the universe—the invisible current that flows through every living and non-living thing."
His voice did not tremble. It carried the cadence of revelation.
"It is the true source of power, beyond any Arcem or ability. Without the ability to control and manipulate Mana, your Arcem is just a hollow shell. A weapon with no fuel. A sword without a hand to swing it. You are powerless."
The words hung in the air, and this time Kon said nothing.
He didn't know how to respond—because part of him already knew it was true.
Somewhere, in the quiet cracks of his experience—fighting alone, barely surviving, unable to understand how his power sputtered while others roared—this truth had been waiting. Unspoken. Unacknowledged.
He had thought that his Arcem, Interuim, was what made him worthy. That the double blades of Yıkım—Destruction itself—meant he had earned his place. But there were moments he remembered—frustrating, hollow moments—when the Arcem had felt distant. Sluggish. As if something deeper wasn't flowing.
'Was that it?'
'Was it Mana? Had I been blind to the real current all along?'
His breath came slower now, the cold creeping not into his bones, but into his convictions. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was clarity. The kind that felt like standing in a storm with no shelter.
And yet, somewhere inside him, a different sensation stirred—not despair, but a strange kind of relief.
Because now, finally, someone was showing him the road beneath the illusion.
'If this is the foundation,' Kon thought, 'then it's time I learn to build from the ground up.'
Talonir's voice rang out again, cool and immovable as the high cliffs of Narn.
"Every Narn Lord," he said, eyes glinting with an inner fire, "has reached a level of mastery over Mana that goes far beyond the need for an Arcem. That is how we have achieved the power we possess. Without that mastery, we would be nothing more than children wielding oversized weapons."
The statement struck Kon like a blade drawn in silence. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. He stood there in the snow, his own thoughts like echoes in a stone hall—loud, uncertain, spiraling.
He had always believed the Grand Kaplan form—his great transformation—was a summit of sorts. The twin blades, the surge of power, the primal fury channeled into elegant destruction. That was his strength, wasn't it? That was what he had earned through pain, endurance, and fire.
But now...
"Nothing more than a crutch?" he thought. "Then what have I been leaning on all this time?"
Talonir's words moved through him like wind pushing back a veil. And behind it, truth stood quietly, unyielding.
"I've only ever reached for strength through transformation... but not once have I considered what lies beneath it."
Kon's voice was quiet when he next spoke, though something inside it had sharpened. "What exactly do you mean by controlling Mana?" he asked. "How am I supposed to do that?"
Talonir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked a slow arc around Kon, as though measuring the question itself.
When he finally stopped, he did not face him directly but stared out across the white expanse. "For your training," he said, voice leveled with precision, "we are going to strip everything down to the basics. No forms. No transformations. No shields to hide behind."
He turned, locking eyes with Kon. "Your task is simple in theory—impossibly difficult in practice: You are to manifest the twin swords of your Grand Kaplan form... without becoming the Grand Kaplan."
Kon's eyes widened. He almost spoke, then hesitated, then tried again. "Without transforming? But—Talonir—I've only ever summoned them in that form. That's where they come from."
Talonir raised a single feathered brow, unimpressed. "Is it?" he asked coolly. "Or is that simply where you've been allowed to touch them so far?"
Kon blinked, taken aback by the sheer finality of the challenge. It was as if Talonir were pointing at a door he hadn't even known was there—let alone had the key to.
"You think the Grand Kaplan form is your strength?" Talonir continued, voice steady. "It's not. It's a consequence. A byproduct. A projection of what you might be. But you cling to it like a badge of honor. Until you learn to pull your blades from the Mana within you—freely, at will, without the illusion of transformation—you will remain shackled to your potential, not liberated by it."
The words didn't feel cruel.
They felt honest.
And for Kon, honesty—especially about power—cut deeper than any insult.
He glanced down at his hands, curling his fingers into fists. Could he really do it? Pull something from inside himself without becoming something else? Summon a weapon—not by screaming into fury, but by feeling the flow of life itself?
'This is Mana,' he thought. 'Not power I conquer. But power I command. Not borrowed from the Arcem—but drawn from within.'
The idea was terrifying. Not because he doubted the concept. But because, for the first time in his life, Kon wasn't sure he could do it.
And that frightened him more than any enemy he had ever faced.
He looked up, the wind brushing snow across his shoulders like a cold reminder.
"I'll try," he said at last, voice low but firm.
Talonir nodded once. "Good. You'll do more than try, Kon. You'll fail. Over and over. Until the failure becomes silence. And in that silence, you will hear the first whisper of the truth."
And with that, he stepped back, drawing a faint line in the snow between them—the beginning of Kon's real training.
Kon's surprise twisted into a self-assured smirk. The cold no longer bit at his fingers, not because the chill had lessened—but because confidence had begun to insulate him.
"Alright then," he said, cracking his knuckles with a casual snap. "This should be easy enough. Once I get the hang of it, I'll probably be an Özel in no time. And then, I'll rise to Hazël before you know it."
His tone was cocky, playful even—but behind it was the unspoken ache of wanting to matter. To rise. To mean something.
But the air changed.
Talonir's gaze narrowed so sharply it seemed to carve into the very snow. Whatever wind still blew in Frostwind Hollow came to a halt—as if nature itself refused to interrupt what came next.
"You fool," Talonir snapped.
The words struck like lightning against still air—cold, exact, and merciless.
"Do you even understand the kind of power you're talking about?"
The weight behind his voice stunned Kon more than the words. There was no metaphor here. No parable. Just raw disappointment—and something almost like sorrow, buried deep beneath Talonir's storm-gray eyes.
"What do you mean?" Kon asked, his smirk gone, confusion rising.
Talonir stepped forward.
Not rushed, not aggressive—but like an avalanche gaining speed: calm, controlled, and utterly inescapable.
"You think becoming an Özel is easy?" he said, his tone biting with restrained fury.
"Let me put this into perspective for you."
He stopped an arm's length away, voice lowering like a final warning.
"An Özel can vaporize a mountain with a single blast of Mana."
The words hit harder than any strike Kon had taken in battle. He blinked. The mental image was too vast—too unreal. A mountain… gone? Just from one?
Talonir wasn't done.
"Their power is beyond anything you can currently comprehend. And a Hazël?"
His eyes sharpened with almost cruel brilliance.
"A Hazël's power is Mana raised to the tenth power of an Özel. The destruction they could unleash… is unimaginable."
Mana to the tenth power…?
The numbers alone defied logic. Not ten times stronger. Not even a hundred. This wasn't a ladder—it was a void. A chasm that swallowed his ambitions whole.
Kon's smirk collapsed into disbelief. His thoughts stammered.
He had spoken so confidently—arrogantly—thinking he was already near the top of the mountain. But now he realized: he hadn't even left the valley. He wasn't climbing; he'd been circling the base in circles of self-assurance.
"I…" he began, but no words followed.
Talonir's voice softened, just slightly—like a blade drawn back, but still poised.
"Forget about being an Özel or Hazël for now."
"Your only concern should be surviving today's training."
He let the words settle in like frost spreading on glass.
"If you can't control your Mana, your quest will end before it even begins."
The echo of his sentence lingered.
There was no cruelty in it—only truth.
The journey ahead of Kon wasn't just about power. It was about shedding illusions. Humbling the soul. Learning to hold fire in bare hands without being consumed.
He lowered his gaze—not in shame, but in realization.
The climb had only just begun.
Kon's eyes narrowed, sharp with resolve, and his breath left his chest in a steady plume of steam. His muscles tightened beneath his coat of fur as his fists clenched with intent.
"I'll survive," he whispered to himself through grit teeth. "Whatever this is... I'll survive it."
Talonir did not nod. He gave no signal, no warning, no indulgent smile of reassurance. He merely acted.
With a swift, elegant motion, the Air Lord unsheathed his blade. Its polished edge caught the morning light, flashing like a shard of sky itself. And then—
He was upon him.
Talonir surged forward with blinding speed, his form so precise it seemed he left no footprints in the snow. The air hissed in his wake, and before Kon could even process the movement, the gleam of Talonir's sword was at his chest.
Instinct screamed louder than thought.
Kon dove sideways, the blade grazing the air where his heart had just been. He hit the snow hard, but he rolled with the momentum, sweeping his leg outward in a wide arc. A counterstrike—an attempt to fell the legend.
But Talonir did not fall.
With a motion so fluid it defied physics, the Air Lord twisted mid-air—no stumble, no hesitation—and flipped effortlessly over Kon's leg. His cape of feathers flared behind him like a burst of stormwind, catching the updraft as if the wind itself had bent to serve him.
'He's flew through that counter?', Kon thought in stunned awe.
Talonir landed with barely a sound, and without missing a beat, he reached out. His fingers locked onto Kon's shoulder with vice-like strength.
There was no time to react.
With a single motion—one effortless, humiliating flick—Talonir flung Kon like a rag doll across the clearing.
Kon felt the wind blast against his back as his body spiraled through the air. Snow exploded beneath him when he hit the ground, tumbling, sliding, clawing for stability. His hands dug into the ice, and finally—his heels planted, his breath heaving—he slid to a stop, chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.
The wind howled across the open plain. All around him, the cold crept in again.
But it wasn't the chill that unsettled him.
It was Talonir.
'That speed,' Kon thought, wiping a smear of snow from his mouth. 'That control... It's not just strength. Every motion is precise. Measured. No waste. No show. Just perfect execution.'
Talonir hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't mocked him. There had been no theatrics.
And yet, Kon felt more humbled than he had in any fight before.
Still kneeling in the snow, he planted one fist against the earth and slowly stood.
'I can't beat him like this. Not with muscle. Not with instinct. This isn't a brawl. It's a language—and I don't even know the alphabet yet.'
He raised his head, his breath thick in the cold air.
"But I'm not leaving this field broken," he told himself. "Not today."
Talonir watched him with an unyielding gaze. The wind tugged at his feathered cloak, but the man himself did not move.
"You're taking this too lightly," he said flatly, the edges of his voice sharp as the ice beneath their feet. "If you think this is a game, you're mistaken."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Kon stood, his stance low, his fists curling and uncurling with nervous tension. He wanted to respond with bravado—with a grin, maybe a cocky remark—but his instincts held him back. Talonir wasn't bluffing. This was not a test of will. This was a reckoning.
Before Kon could speak, before he could even blink—
Talonir vanished.
A sudden crack split the air like thunder. A blinding flash lit up the snow behind him, and before Kon could twist around, pain—a hot, searing line—slashed across his cheek.
He stumbled backward with a grunt, hand flying to his face. His fingers came away red. Bright blood against white snow.
The air was thick with dust and mana residue. The wind screamed briefly before dying into silence. When it cleared, Talonir stood where the explosion had struck, sword now lowered at his side. His figure was untouched. Untouched, unshaken, utterly in control.
He said only one thing:
"I never miss a target, Kon."
His voice was calm. Calm, but cold enough to burn.
Kon's knees threatened to buckle. He stared at the man before him—not as a mentor, not even as a warrior—but as something else entirely. A force. A storm with eyes.
"He could've taken my head just now," Kon realized. "He chose not to."
His heart pounded wildly, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The pain on his face was real—but worse was the understanding that came with it.
Talonir was not here to train him.
He was here to break him.
To kill the Kon who thought strength was something given by forms or flashy power surges.
To kill the child who thought courage alone could win wars.
Talonir took a step forward, snow crunching softly beneath his boot, though the sound felt deafening in the silence that followed.
His gaze locked onto Kon's, colder than the snow and heavier than the sky. "If you don't take this seriously," he said, his voice low, slow, final, "you will die here today. Your quest will end before it ever truly begins."
There was no flare of dramatic magic. No flash of blade. No grand lecture.
Just truth.
Kon stood trembling—not from fear, but from realization.
This is the line. This is the place where boys stop pretending to be heroes. Where you either become what your father was… or you vanish, forgotten beneath the frost.
And somewhere, beneath the weight of those words… Kon's fire stirred.
He clenched his fists, blood dripping from the cut on his cheek. His breath came slow. Measured. He did not smile. He did not reply.
But in his eyes, something changed.
He understood now.