The forest rested under the hush of late evening.
Moonlight filtered weakly through the tall canopy, its golden hue deepening into shades of amber and violet. Shadows stretched long across the mossy ground where a young boy sat cross-legged, still as rooted stone. His eyes were closed, each breath slow and steady, in perfect rhythm with the whispering wind threading through the branches. In his black-toned clothes, he seemed a part of the forest floor—calm, grounded, almost another shadow pooling between the trees. in the dimming light.
Silence swallowed the woods. Even the birds had gone silent, their songs replaced by the soft rustle of leaves.
Then, the stillness cracked. The forest air thickened with an invisible weight. The forest was no longer breathing with him.
A distant rumble trembled through the earth. Flocks of birds burst upward in a frenzy, their dark silhouettes scattering across the evening sky. The boy's eyes snapped open, sharp and focused. His skin prickled; every hair on his arms rose in warning. Somewhere deep in his chest, his heartbeat kicked harder, matching the invisible weight pressing down from all sides.
A sharp whistle cut through the silence. Something was coming.
His right hand moved—to empty space. The air around his palm shimmered, tiny molecules of air spiraling into existence like flecks of light drawn to him. They spun faster, into a blade's ghostly outline—its edges hazy, its form unstable. For a moment, the sword blade flickered, fraying at the edges, its glow stuttering like a dying star fighting to ignite.
"Not now….Focus!"
His pulse jumped. His breath deepened. His focus narrowed to a single point.
The golden haze condensed, edges snapping into clarity until a luminous yellow blade rested solidly in his grasp. Its surface was etched with faint runes, glowing as if molten light flowed through them. The sword thrummed with quiet energy, each pulse in perfect sync with his heartbeat.
Then the treetops erupted. A blazing fireball tore through the canopy, trailing smoke and embers, hurtling straight toward him.
In one smooth motion, he rose, the sword's glow sharpening—brighter, denser, solidifying with every step of his focus.
He dropped down low, exhaled.
"Gale Spiral!"
The swing unleashed a vortex of pressurized wind wrapped in golden light.
The slash met the fireball head-on, splitting it in a perfect arc.
The halves roared past on either side, exploding into showers of flame that clawed at the surrounding trees.
The runes flared like a sun breaking the horizon.
Smoke billowed around him.
He didn't blink.
He twisted his wrist, flicking the blade in a fluid arc.
The golden Prāṇa (Praana) surged outward, scattering the smoke in spirals and weaving a cooling wind that snuffed out embers before they touched the ground.
Through the curling haze, a silhouette emerged—lean, agile, muscles tensed.. The figure lunged forward—too fast to track—a scarf streamed behind, flaring like a comet's tail. In a single bound, it leapt forward, landing on the forest floor crushing the leaves. Their presence radiated intensity, the kind that came not just from strength, but purpose. The stranger's eyes locked with his, both of them stood in the clearing.
A single heartbeat passed. The forest convulsed—branches whipped, leaves tore free, and the earth shuddered under the clash of their presence.