It took Arkiz eight full days to complete the thousand laps around the Ryla training field. Eight. Not consecutive, thank the stars, or his soul would've left his body and filed a complaint.
By the end of day four, he was running like a half-melted jellyfish. By day six, he had accepted that death by jogging was a real and noble end. On the eighth day, when he finally finished the last lap, he collapsed face-first on the grass, gasping like a fish tossed onto a desert.
Vaeril, naturally, had not clapped. Or smiled. Or said anything encouraging.
"You didn't die. Barely. Progress."
Which, in Vaeril-speak, was practically a standing ovation.
______
The next day, Arkiz stood once more on the wide grassy field. His body was still sore, and his soul had filed for early retirement, but today… today was different.
Today, Vaeril stood before him and said the words Arkiz had been waiting for:
"Come at me."
Arkiz narrowed his eyes. He'd read enough novels to know what not to do in this scenario. Running straight at a battle-hardened instructor was how you became a cautionary tale.
So, instead of charging like a deranged squirrel, Arkiz circled slowly, crouched low like he was planning something clever. He picked up a handful of dirt and pretended to fumble, then suddenly threw it at Vaeril's eyes.
It was a great plan—if Vaeril had been blind, asleep, and also deeply confused.
Before the dust even left Arkiz's hand, Vaeril had already moved. A blur of motion, a flick to the forehead, and Arkiz found himself sitting on the ground, blinking up at the sky.
"Creative," Vaeril said dryly. "Dumb, but creative."
"Ow," Arkiz muttered. "That flick had spiritual damage."
Vaeril didn't laugh. He never did. But his expression softened by half a molecule.
"Get up. You're not here to win. You're here to learn. First, we fix your stance."
______
What followed was an hour of fundamentals:
Feet shoulder-width apart.
Knees slightly bent.
Weight on the balls of the feet.
Arms relaxed but ready.
Eyes forward, not on the ground, and definitely not on Vaeril's terrifying aura.
He had to hold the position while Vaeril walked around him, adjusting his feet, tapping his shoulder blades, pushing him off-balance when he leaned too much.
"Your foundation is your body. Before you learn to strike, you learn to stand."
By the end of the hour, Arkiz was trembling, sweating, and wondering why standing still was somehow more painful than running.
________
During a short break, Arkiz flopped beneath the shade of a tall silverwood tree, its pale-blue leaves rustling softly in the breeze. He wiped sweat from his brow and chugged half his water flask in one go, then let out a satisfied groan as he leaned back against the bark.
"Uncle Vaeril," he asked between gulps, still catching his breath, "what element did you awaken?"
Across the field, Vaeril was crouched beside a weapons rack, sharpening a dull-edged training blade with slow, precise strokes. At the question, he paused. His gaze lifted to the trees overhead, as if considering whether to answer.
Then, with a faint twitch of his finger, the wind shifted.
The scattered leaves on the ground stirred. A low breeze whispered through the clearing, gathering the dry foliage into the air. One by one, they lifted—spinning gently in place before forming a lazy orbit around the two of them.
"Wind," he said simply, voice as steady as the gust now circling them.
Arkiz sat forward, eyes wide. The leaves twisted in elegant loops, slow and deliberate, like dancers in an invisible waltz.
"Whoa," he breathed."Can you, like… slice people with wind? Or vanish into air like a ninja?"
Vaeril raised an eyebrow. "I can cut. I can disappear. But not like a ninja. That's not how the element works."
Arkiz tilted his head. "Then how does it work?"
Vaeril sheathed the practice blade and walked over, sitting beside him in the grass with a tired sigh.
"Wind isn't just about speed or cutting. It's about Control, Precision and Flow. You don't beat people with brute force—you unbalance them. You strip away their footing. You guide the battlefield, not dominate it."
Arkiz blinked. "So it's like… fighting with finesse?"
"Exactly. Wind doesn't win with strength. It wins with timing."
Arkiz let that sink in, humming thoughtfully as he leaned back against the tree.
A few moments of quiet passed, filled only by the whisper of leaves and distant rush of the waterfall.
Then a memory stirred.
He thought back to Stormbound. That lightning-wielding pirate captain. For a book about someone with such a flashy element, there had been surprisingly little flash. Most of the story focused on skills — techniques, optimization, tactical thinking. Not much about his crew, barely any slice-of-life moments. Even his relationship with that sky-dancer girl had been brushed over like a footnote.
It had always bugged Arkiz a little.
"Why make the story so clinical?" he wondered. "So focused?"
And more importantly, why that story?
If someone really wanted to help him, why not use a book about this world — Vireya?
No answers came. Just questions with long shadows.
"Eh… no use thinking about it," he muttered under his breath.
After a pause.
"…Do you think I'll get lightning?" he asked aloud, eyes drifting toward the clouds above.
Vaeril glanced at him. "Maybe."
"Would that be good?"
"Lightning is rare," Vaeril said, stretching his arms. "Volatile. Fast. Hard to master… but devastating when used by someone who understands timing."
Arkiz grinned. "Sounds fun."
Vaeril gave him a flat look. "It's a headache."
Arkiz laughed, but a fire sparked quietly in his chest. His fingers twitched against the flask. He didn't care if it was lightning or water or wind—he just wanted to feel that moment. That rush. That connection.
One day.
One day soon.
________
Weeks passed.
Endless repetitions of balance, dodging drills, footwork patterns. Arkiz got kicked, tripped, flipped, and occasionally praised.
Then came the day Vaeril gestured to the weapons rack.
"Pick a sword."
Arkiz blinked. "Wait, aren't we gonna spar so you can see what I'm good at?"
Vaeril stared at him flatly. "What is there to see?"
"To watch you flail like a dog with a cramp? Or maybe a frog doing interpretive dance?"
Arkiz shut up.
Silently, obediently, he walked over and picked a wooden practice sword. Vaeril gave a satisfied nod.
"Good. Now we begin again. With stances."
_______
The basics of sword stance weren't flashy:
Dominant foot back.
Non-dominant foot angled forward.
Elbows slightly bent.
Blade pointed diagonally forward, not up like some heroic statue.
"You don't hold a sword like it's a stick of glory," Vaeril said. "It's a tool. Practical. Sharp. Controlled."
They went through guard transitions — high, middle, and low. Step-in attacks, retreat footwork, pivot shifts. Arkiz's hands blistered. His shoulders burned. His thighs were screaming.
Still, he endured.
And just when he thought they'd start sparring — finally —
Vaeril pointed toward the edge of the field.
"You're running ten laps. Then flexibility drills."
Arkiz groaned. "I just ran yesterday—"
"You'll run every day," Vaeril said, like stating the laws of gravity. "You're not touching a real sword until you have the stamina of a sea wyvern."
He paused, glanced at Arkiz's current state, and added:
"Right now, a stiff breeze from the Vaelmir coast could blow you off the island."
Arkiz muttered under his breath as he jogged away, something about unfair child labor.