The alley quaked with every strike. Sparks leapt across the walls as Eryndor's fists carved arcs of lightning into the air. Kael met him blow for blow, his movements precise, his mask unflinching, his strikes like iron blades.
But even amidst the chaos, the world itself seemed to take notice.
For in this world, when a soul awakens to magic, it is bound by a single element. Fire, water, earth, wind—each affinity births a distinct path of growth, shaping every ability and every future. To hold one affinity was common, to wield it well was rare.
Yet there were exceptions.
Eryndor's awakening was not singular. Lightning, fierce and volatile, surged as his primary essence. But wind, the subtle force of speed and guidance, wove beneath it, supporting and amplifying it. Two elements, one soul.
Such coexistence was not supposed to exist. The elements rejected each other, clashing for dominance, tearing the vessel apart. Only in legends were there whispers of those who bore dual affinities, and fewer still who survived it. For the one who did would not just grow—they would evolve, each ability fusing into something greater.
And in Eryndor's case, lightning and wind were not rivals. They were complements.
Lightning granted raw power, voltage, destructive force. Wind shaped it—guiding, accelerating, turning each strike into precision.
This was why his journey was destined to diverge. This was why his path would one day birth the storm of thirty-two techniques—from the delicate precision of Lightning Thread to the devastating final forms that would scar the continent.
But here and now, he was still unrefined.
Kael struck with a brutal knee, forcing Eryndor to twist. He vanished with Pulse Step, sliding just out of reach, then snapped back in with a crackling Arc Lash, lightning lashing across Kael's chest. The masked fighter staggered a step but didn't fall, his cloak smoldering faintly.
Eryndor's chest heaved, sweat dripping, sparks crawling up his arms. Training with Grandfather was never like this, he thought. His grandfather had drilled him in martial forms—stances, strikes, breathing—but it was practice against rhythm, against memory. This is different. This is alive.
Real combat was a storm of unpredictability, and yet his body—shaped by years of drills and harsh lessons—adapted instinctively. Where the form ended, instinct carried him. Where instinct faltered, lightning filled the gap.
Kael tilted his head, voice even. "You are unpolished. Wild. But your growth… it is unnatural. Every strike refines you."
Eryndor smirked through the blood at the corner of his mouth. "Guess you'll have to keep up, then."
He surged forward again, faster this time, wind sharpening his movement, lightning amplifying each blow. Kael met him head-on, and the alley rang with the clash of storm and steel.
This was not merely a fight. This was the first page of a legend being written—the legend of a boy whose affinities defied the world itself.