The world smelled different.
Thunderstorm's eyes fluttered open to the faint light seeping through the broken ceiling of a forgotten ruin. He lay on a cracked marble floor, moss creeping between the fissures, vines snaking their way along the pillars that once held a grand hall. Birds called faintly in the distance, and mist hung low in the air like a ghost unwilling to leave.
For a long moment, he didn't move. His mind was a whirlpool of fragmented memories: the violent pull of the rift, Boboiboy's last words echoing through his core, the sensation of being torn away from everything familiar.
"You all deserve to live," the voice had said.
Live.
Thunderstorm slowly sat up, his crimson and black armor catching the pale light. Sparks danced faintly along his gauntlets before fading away. He pressed his hand to his chest and felt it—Voltra's power, the elemental essence of thunder and storm, still surging within him. It hadn't diminished. If anything, it felt sharper, purer, no longer tangled in the web of six other elements.
But with that clarity came a weight of realization.
This was no longer the shared vessel. This was no longer the carefully maintained balance inside Boboiboy. Here, his power was his alone—unrestrained, vast, and dangerously overwhelming. He clenched his fist. In a fragile world like this, one careless surge could shatter the balance of nature.
He exhaled slowly. Control. That had always been his strength.
In the silence, a sound broke through: the crunch of gravel underfoot. He turned sharply, lightning instinctively flickering across his eyes.
From the mist emerged a figure.
An old man, clad in worn but well-maintained armor, leaned on a sword that had clearly seen decades of battle. His hair was white as snow, his beard neatly kept, and though age had slowed his step, his back remained straight, his eyes alert.
The old man stopped a few paces away, studying Thunderstorm with suspicion and curiosity. "Who goes there?" he asked, voice steady despite the uncertainty in the air. "These ruins are far from any road. What business do you have here, stranger?"
Thunderstorm opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Who was he supposed to say he was? A living elemental force torn from a cosmic hero? A warrior from another world?
Before he could answer, the forest itself seemed to rumble. Low growls echoed from every direction.
The old man's head snapped toward the sound. His face hardened. "Wolves," he muttered. "A whole pack, by the sound of it." He raised his sword and stepped in front of Thunderstorm. "Stay back, stranger. I'll deal with this."
Thunderstorm didn't move.
The growls turned to snarls, and shapes appeared in the mist—dozens of wolves, eyes gleaming, teeth bared. They circled the ruins like shadows.
Thunderstorm lifted his hand slowly, feeling the electric current thrum through his veins.
The old man glanced at him, confused. "Did you not hear me? Step back—"
Thunderstorm didn't answer. His eyes narrowed. With a flash, crimson lightning gathered in his palm, coalescing into a blade. The air cracked with power as the sword of Voltra formed, crimson bolts snaking along its length.
The wolves lunged.
He moved.
The blade sang through the air, each swing sharp, precise, and devastating. Lightning exploded from each strike, scorching the ground, cutting through fur and fang. He danced between them like a storm given human shape—fierce, fast, elegant. No movement wasted, no strike uncontrolled.
Within moments, the ruins were silent again. The wolves lay scattered, defeated, their leader's final snarl fading into the wind.
The old man stared in awe. His grip on his sword loosened. He had fought beasts before. He had seen great knights in their prime. But this… this was something else entirely.
"That swordsmanship," he breathed. "I've never seen its like. Not even among the Royal Knights."
Thunderstorm gave no answer. He simply dismissed the lightning sword with a flash, the crackling energy fading into the air.
The old man studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly, as if understanding that this stranger carried secrets he was not ready to share.
"My name is Sir Edrin," he said finally, sheathing his blade. "Former knight of the royal court of Elerion. And you are…?"
Thunderstorm hesitated. He had no name here. No identity.
Sir Edrin noticed the pause and didn't press. Instead, he gestured toward the horizon. "You have the bearing of a warrior. If you're looking for purpose, the capital of Elerion is a few days' journey east. The Royal Knights hold their examinations there. Men and women of great skill are always welcome."
Thunderstorm said nothing, but his gaze drifted toward the distance. A new life. A path to walk. Boboiboy's last wish echoed again in his mind: Live a life that belongs to you.
That night, they camped near the ruins. Sir Edrin built the fire and spoke of the kingdom—of kings and wars, of monsters and politics, of the Royal Knights who served as both protectors and champions. Thunderstorm listened silently, lost in thought.
As the fire crackled and stars stretched endlessly above, memories of the old world surged like distant thunder. He remembered battles fought side by side with the others. He remembered Boboiboy—the unified being—standing against cosmic horrors. He remembered the final moment when everything fractured.
In that quiet, he made a choice.
If he was to live a new life, he needed a new name. A name that was his, not a fragment of someone else's story.
He whispered it to the stars. "Ragnar."
The name felt heavy, but right.
The next morning, as he prepared to leave, Sir Edrin handed him a sealed letter. "This is my recommendation. Present it to the Royal Knights. It will grant you entry into the examination."
Thunderstorm—no, Ragnar—accepted it with a nod.
"And your name?" Sir Edrin asked.
"Ragnar," he replied simply.
Sir Edrin watched as Ragnar disappeared down the road, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. He didn't know why, but he sensed that this young man would become the center of great events.
The journey to Elerion was long and dangerous. Ragnar traveled through forests, hills, and old roads where bandits prowled. He fought often—not because he sought battle, but because trouble found him. Bandit camps fell swiftly to his blade. Beast nests that terrorized travelers were struck down with thunder and steel. He sold the loot and hunted for food, learning quickly the rhythm of survival in this world.
But not every fight went easily.
One afternoon, as he crossed a stretch of mountain road, shadows fell over him. He looked up to see four wyverns circling, their screeches piercing the sky. He leapt aside as one dove, claws raking the earth where he'd stood moments earlier.
Ground combat was his domain, but these beasts stayed airborne, raining death from above. He struck back with lightning, but they were fast, agile. Their combined assault pushed him toward the cliffside, wings beating like thunder.
Then, a crimson bolt shot from the ridge, striking one wyvern square in the chest. It screamed and spiraled away.
Ragnar turned. A girl stood on a boulder, red lightning crackling around her hands. She was young, perhaps a few years younger than him, with fiery eyes and hair that caught the sunlight like flame.
She launched herself into the fray, crimson lightning propelling her like a comet. The wyverns turned their fury toward her, but she moved like a storm, striking with sharp precision. Together, they fought—a duet of thunder and lightning.
When the last wyvern fell smoking to the ground, they stood catching their breath.
She grinned at him. "You're not bad with a sword."
"You're not bad with lightning," he replied evenly.
She tilted her head. "Name's Lyra. I'm headed to the capital for the magic examinations. And you?"
"Ragnar," he answered. "Royal Knights."
Her eyes lit up. "Same destination, then. Want to travel together?"
He hesitated. There was something about her—the crimson lightning she wielded, the way it felt almost… familiar. He couldn't place it, but it stirred something deep inside.
"Yes," he said at last.
They traveled together for several days, sharing battles, campfires, and stories. She was sharp-tongued but good-hearted, and though he spoke little, she didn't seem to mind.
When they reached Elerion, the capital spread out before them in all its glory: towering walls, spires reaching for the sky, streets alive with markets and people.
At the city gates, they parted ways.
"I'll see you around, Ragnar," Lyra said with a smirk.
He nodded. "Good luck, Lyra."
They walked toward their separate destinies—she to the Magic Tower, he to the Royal Knights Headquarters.
The letter from Sir Edrin opened doors quickly. The recruiters eyed him with curiosity as they read the old knight's recommendation. Soon he found himself in the selection hall, surrounded by warriors of all kinds—aspiring knights, mercenaries, nobles, commoners—all hungry for glory.
When his turn came, Ragnar stepped into the arena with quiet confidence. His movements were fast, fierce, and elegant. Sword strokes like lightning, footwork like wind.
Watching from a balcony was Sir Lancelot, the knight commander himself. His keen eyes followed Ragnar's every motion.
"Interesting," Lancelot murmured.
As Ragnar finished his test, the commander descended, armored in gleaming silver.
"You," Lancelot said, pointing his sword at Ragnar. "Fight me."
The crowd gasped.
"If you can withstand my attacks for ten minutes," Lancelot continued, "I will appoint you as a knight on the spot."
Ragnar met his gaze steadily.
"I accept."
The arena erupted in murmurs.
Lancelot raised his blade. Ragnar summoned the crimson lightning sword. The air between them crackled with tension.
And then the clash began.