Dawn on Mount Aeryon was always treacherous. The first rays looked peaceful, bathing the cliffs in gold, but the breeze that blew was so dense with Astral in its purest state that every breath felt like a weight pressing deeper into the lungs.
Asori opened his eyes with difficulty. He had barely slept; the night before had been spent fighting Megalos blindfolded, guided only by the voice of the wind. Every muscle burned, and still, his master showed no mercy.
Eryndor waited, seated on a rock, face as impassive as ever. His white hair moved as if it too belonged to the currents.
—Stand —he ordered, without even glancing at him—. Today you will not learn to endure. Today you will learn to strike.
Asori staggered to his feet, clothes damp with dried sweat.
—Strike? —he rasped.
Eryndor drew from his robe the parchment he had given Asori before leaving the castle—yellowed, marked by time. The material looked so fragile Asori feared he might tear it just by touching it.
—This is the legacy of the Bearers of the Wind. Techniques passed down through generations, from when Astral was as common as air itself.
The boy received it reverently. Strange symbols covered the parchment, but when his fingers brushed them, the Astral within him vibrated as if it recognized him.
—What does it say? —he asked, fascinated.
Eryndor leaned closer, eyes fixed on the runes.
—Here are inscribed the names of the techniques that shaped our lineage. Some were lost in past wars, others forbidden for the price they demand. But two… two of them will be yours, and you will learn to wield them.
Asori swallowed hard.
—Which ones?
Eryndor raised two fingers.
—The first: Delta Burst. A rupture technique. It lets you open the floodgates of your Astral for one full minute. You'll push your body to its absolute limit, burning through every drop inside you. Your reflexes, your strength, your speed will reach their peak. But your endurance will collapse. If you don't end the fight within that time, you'll fall.
Asori stiffened. Just hearing it made him imagine the pressure tearing through his body.
—So… it's all or nothing?
—Exactly. —Eryndor's smile held no warmth, only edge—. The true worth of a bearer isn't how long he can endure… but how much he dares to risk when the moment demands it.
The boy nodded seriously.
—And the second?
Eryndor lifted his hand. Slowly, the air spun above his palm. First a swirl, then a compact sphere, vibrant, condensing not just wind but a bluish glow of Astral.
With a smooth motion, he released it at a boulder.
The impact was brutal: the stone cracked from its center, the blast echoing across the clearing.
—This —said the sage— will be your emblem. A technique of concentrated Astral and Air, released as one. I call it… Aetherion.
The name rang in Asori's ears, heavy with myth, as if destined for him.
—Aetherion…? —he repeated, shivers racing down his arms.
—It isn't a strike. It is the wind and your Astral fused into a single instant. If you master it, your hand will not be a fist: it will be a compressed tempest, able to break anything before you.
Asori looked at his own palm, imagining the power he might one day hold there.
Suddenly, Eryndor snapped his fingers and two black sleeves appeared before him. They were thick, rigid, as if woven from solidified air.
—What are these? —Asori asked, fumbling with them.
—Weights. —Eryndor crossed his arms—. These sleeves are linked to your Astral. The stronger you become, the heavier they will grow. They'll even rest your muscles as you sleep. That way you'll never forget: strength always demands a price.
Asori slipped them on—and nearly collapsed to his knees.
—They're as heavy as boulders! The harder I push, the heavier they get!
—Perfect. —The sage's approval was clear—. You'll train with them from now on.
Asori faced a boulder. He lifted his hand, trying to imitate his master's gesture. The air stirred, but chaotically, scattering as if unwilling to obey.
—Come on… —he muttered, teeth clenched. The vortex collapsed in his palm and exploded, hurling him backward.
—Argh! —Pain lanced through his arm.
Eryndor didn't move from his rock.
—You're trying to dominate the wind. Mistake. It cannot be dominated. It can only be guided.
Asori drew a deep breath, shut his eyes, and remembered what he'd learned: silence the noise, listen to the air.
This time he didn't force it. He simply let the Astral flow into his palm. The air responded, shaping itself into a small, stable vortex.
With a roar, he loosed the attack at the rock.
The impact rang sharp. When the dust cleared, the stone bore thin cracks—but still stood.
Asori fell to his knees, gasping, arms trembling under the weight of the sleeves.
—Not enough! —he growled.
Eryndor descended from his perch and looked him in the eye.
—You didn't need to break it. You only needed to harm it without destroying yourself. And you did.
The boy looked up, sweaty, but with a tired smile.
—So… it's possible. I can do it.
—It's more than possible. —Eryndor set a hand on his shoulder—. That was your first Aetherion.
As they rested, the sage spoke in solemn tones.
—Do you know why this technique matters so much, Asori?
The youth shook his head.
—Because since the first bearers, the wind has been a symbol of freedom… and of responsibility. Aetherion is not a weapon of destruction. It is a reminder: even the gentlest breeze, when compressed and driven to its limit, can rend mountains. The wind exists to give life—but also to sweep away what must not remain. You will decide how to use it when you face an opponent. In your hands will lie the choice: to take a life, or to protect one.
Asori listened in silence, fists tight, the echo of the words searing into his heart.
By day's end, after a grueling regimen weighted by the sleeves, Asori lay sprawled on the ground—hands raw, sleeves dragging heavy at his arms. His breath came ragged, but his eyes still burned with resolve.
Back at the castle, Blair gazed out the window, feeling through the Sweet Kiss every vibration of his training—every ache, every small triumph.
She whispered to the wind:
—Hold on, Asori… don't bear that weight alone.
Back on the mountain, Asori clenched his teeth, raised his bloodied hand, and whispered:
—Soon… I'll be stronger. Lira… Blair, I promise you both—I'll grow stronger.
The wind howled, as if answering.