The rain came without warning.
Dark clouds rolled across the valley, and thunder cracked through the hills. Most villagers rushed indoors, pulling laundry and tools out of the storm. But Arsus stood alone behind the hut, soaked to the bone, unmoving.
He raised his hands, palms open to the sky.
Cold rain struck his skin, each drop sharp as a blade. His eyes stayed closed, his breathing slow and steady.
He could feel it. The faint hum beneath the storm. The rhythm of mana flowing through the world. It brushed against him like the memory of an old song.
He whispered, "The flow hasn't changed."
In his time as the Sword Saint, Arsus had learned the essence of aura—the life energy born from will and spirit. It wasn't given by gods or born from birthright. It was forged through purpose.
But this body was still too weak to contain it.
He had spent weeks rebuilding strength, shaping muscle, aligning breath with thought. Now came the second step—awakening his aura.
He dropped to his knees, pressed his hands to the muddy ground, and closed his eyes. His heartbeat slowed until it matched the steady patter of rain.
Inside, he reached for the flicker he'd felt before.
A faint warmth pulsed in his chest, like an ember struggling to stay lit.
"Show yourself," he whispered.
The ember flickered once, twice, then burst for a brief second—sending a ripple of blue light across his skin. The rain froze in midair for an instant, droplets suspended like glass.
Then pain hit. His chest seized. His limbs shook violently.
He collapsed forward, coughing blood into the mud.
The aura vanished.
He gasped, clutching his chest. "Still too fragile."
But he was smiling. Because even failure was proof he was getting closer.
The next morning, he began again.
Each dawn, he stood at the hilltop and trained. Slow movements at first, focusing on control. Then faster, mixing martial forms with aura meditation.
He visualized every breath as a blade cutting through weakness. Every heartbeat as a drumbeat of war.
Days turned into weeks. His stamina grew. The aura flickered longer each time.
One night, Mira found him sitting by the stream, his hand glowing faintly blue beneath the water.
"Lio?" she whispered. "What are you doing?"
He looked up, surprised. "Ah… nothing."
She frowned. "Your hand—it's glowing."
He smiled faintly. "A trick of the water."
She didn't believe him, but said nothing more.
When she left, he stared at his reflection. The glow was weak, but steady. The water around his hand rippled as if drawn to him.
"Aura shaping," he murmured. "Still possible."
He clenched his fist and released it, watching the energy scatter like dust in the air.
In his past life, he had commanded entire storms of aura—slicing mountains, stopping armies. Now, even maintaining a small glow made his heart race.
But this was enough.
He had learned patience through failure, and humility through weakness.
By the fourth week, he could summon aura without collapsing. Thin wisps of blue flame surrounded his arms as he practiced with the wooden staff. Each swing carried faint echoes of his former strength.
The villagers began to notice the change. Some whispered that the "weak boy" was touched by spirits. Others thought he had gone mad, training alone in the rain.
Arsus ignored them.
At sunset, he trained by the cliffs overlooking the valley. The horizon burned orange and red as wind howled around him. He stood firm, aura humming faintly beneath his skin.
He raised his staff. "Sword Form One."
His movements cut through air with precision. Each strike left a shimmering trace of energy. The wind responded to him, bending slightly with every swing.
He shifted to Form Two. The world slowed. His steps grew lighter, faster, more fluid. The old rhythm returned, the same pattern he had once taught kings and generals.
Form Three. Power surged. The ground cracked beneath his feet as he released a pulse of aura that scattered leaves into the air.
When it ended, he stood motionless, panting.
His heart pounded, but he didn't collapse.
For the first time in decades—across two lives—he felt alive again.
"Still rough," he said quietly. "But I'm back."
He looked at his reflection in a puddle nearby. The boy's face stared back, eyes glowing faintly silver.
"You'll grow into this strength," he whispered. "And when you do, the world will remember the name Arsus once more."
That night, when Mira saw him asleep by the fire, she brushed his hair aside. His expression was peaceful, not the worn look of a sickly child.
She smiled faintly. "You're changing, Lio. I don't know how, but I'm proud of you."
Outside, the wind howled softly through the hills, carrying a faint shimmer of blue light across the valley.
The aura of a forgotten hero had awakened once more.