"The Ancient King said you once wielded the Ash of War: Storm Stomp. Then let us begin with the Storm Stomp." Edgar stepped forward, and a sudden gale swirled around him, whistling in the air.
"The technique of the storm is not as complex as it might seem," he explained. "First, you must draw forth your sorcery. Second, you must command the birth of the storm itself."
Lucian listened intently. Battle was a matter of life and death—there was no room for negligence.
"If you can channel your magic [FP] outward—no matter the strength—you have already learned the Ash of War. The true measure lies in how well you can control the storm's form. That alone determines how much power you can summon with the same amount of magic."
"With the Ancient King's guidance, storm control should be far easier for you than for most."
Edgar's demonstration this time carried little force—deliberately so. Unlike a Tarnished, he could not sit at a Site of Grace and restore his magic at will. He had to replenish it the hard way, over time.
Thus, his plan was simple: teach the technique for a while, move on to combat fundamentals while his magic recovered, and then resume the Ash of War training—cycling between the two.
"How to draw out your magic is your most pressing task right now," Edgar said gravely. "The Ancient King can command your magic directly and conjure a storm himself… but that will not teach you the Ash of War.
"Because of your differences in kind, the Ancient King has actually been letting your magic dissipate into the air—then he shapes it into a storm himself. Even without the weapon that once bore the ash, you've performed the technique enough times to recall that moment of release. Try it again."
Lucian recalled the sensation of the Storm Stomp. He gathered magic to his foot and stamped forward—only to stir a passing breeze.
He frowned. Without the Ash of War itself, the release was far harder than he expected.
An Ash of War was like a pre-written spell formula; pour in magic, and it would execute perfectly every time. Now, he had to run the "program" himself, and the smallest error led to failure.
Still, he had magic to spare—two Cerulean Flasks hung at his side, and a Site of Grace stood nearby. He would practice relentlessly.
Again and again and again. When his magic ran dry, he drank from the flask. When the flask was empty, he sat at the Grace.
In repetition, Lucian gradually mastered the Storm Stomp completely. Yet he did not stop. With each cast, he felt there was room for improvement.
After all, the Storm Stomp was but a lingering remnant of some long-gone warrior—still far from the essence of a true storm.
He could not quite name the feeling, but even when following the Ash of War's form, he sensed the potential to go beyond it.
Following that intuition, he invoked the Storm Stomp once more. His magic flowed smoother this time, the blockages gone, the waste in unnecessary places cut away.
The storm howled around him. Grass was torn from the land, then shredded in the air.
He savored the sensation; less magic spent, faster release, sharper control. A few more tries, and he had fixed the pattern in his mind.
Now, Lucian's mastery of the Storm Stomp surpassed even that of the warrior who had left the Ash behind. He was well pleased.
Edgar, however, was stunned. It was no wonder the Ancient King had taken notice—Lucian's talent was extraordinary. Even a Tarnished with limitless practice through Grace would struggle to match such progress in just an hour or two.
And because Lucian had glimpsed a true storm before, his understanding far outstripped Edgar's—his gales blew stronger even with equal magic.
A quiet sorrow welled in Edgar. He had been born in an age where the storm had already withered, and he had never seen its true majesty. He now understood why his father would lament so often during training. The genuine storm had long faded with their homeland.
Ancient King… do you believe he could bring it back? If it is him, perhaps he truly can.
When Lucian had finished the Storm Stomp, Edgar moved on to the next lesson.
"Now we train your footwork. In battle, your steps are vital…"
…"Try summoning the storm around your body without stomping."
…"Now, channel your magic into your weapon. Treat it as an extension of yourself, let the storm coil along its edge."
…
By day's end, the lessons had been relentless. Edgar demonstrated each step a few times, then silently observed, correcting only when necessary.
With the Grace's aid, Lucian trained without pause, mastering most of the drills quickly. Only the more complex techniques remained impractical for real combat—lightning-laced cyclone strikes were still a distant dream.
Still, he was content. In a single day, his progress had been vast. There would be time enough to master the rest—time enough before his journey to Stormveil.
Night fell, and the Erdtree's glow dimmed. Lucian and Edgar returned to Castle Morne. The courtyard had been cleared, and save for the lingering stench of blood, no sign of the massacre remained.
They shared a modest meal—simple bread and vegetable soup, but the first proper food Lucian had eaten in some time.
The castle's stores were low. The misbegotten had wasted much, and until supply wagons arrived, Edgar could offer little more. Even the meal had been cooked not by a chef, but by a resident with passable skill.
After parting with Edgar, Lucian retired to his chamber. He lay in bed, but did not sleep—reaching out instead to the Ancient King.
Stormhawk King… why did you choose me?
Long silence. Just as he thought there would be no reply, the voice stirred in his mind.
You remind me.
Lucian frowned. "Remind you? Of what?"
Of someone. My comrade, long ago. Were it not so, you would never have been able to approach my ashes.
Though dead, the Ancient King still commanded the storm. Within the tempest that wreathed the Chapel of Anticipation, barring Lucian's approach would have been effortless.
"Then… do you wish for me to avenge you?"
The king was silent for a long while. At last, he sighed.
There is nothing to avenge. We were the defeated—like the wind, we should simply fade away. I chose you for no grand purpose. I simply… wished to.