The Gale Expanse did not roar.
It whispered.
That was what made it dangerous.
Morning light spread thinly across the plains, revealing long streaks of disturbed grass where wind currents had carved invisible paths during the night. Eryndor stood atop a low rock formation, cloak fluttering violently behind him, eyes narrowed against the cutting gusts.
He had survived his first day.
That meant nothing.
Survival once did not mean survival twice.
He slid down from the rock and began walking deeper into the Expanse.
The further he moved from the outer ridges, the less predictable the wind became. Cross-currents twisted suddenly. Pressure dropped without warning. Small stones occasionally lifted from the ground only to scatter seconds later.
This was not random.
It was layered.
Wind within wind.
He slowed his breathing and reached inward.
His core responded immediately — a steady pulse beneath his sternum. He let a thin veil of compressed air form around his body, not as a shield, but as a stabilizer.
It held.
For now.
A faint rustling sound came from the grass to his right.
Not wind.
Movement against wind.
He stopped.
The grass parted.
Three shapes emerged — lean, low to the ground, their bodies formed from partially condensed air and faintly visible currents. Their outlines flickered like mirages.
Wind Strays.
Minor beasts.
Individually weak.
In groups, problematic.
They circled without sound.
Eryndor exhaled slowly.
He did not know techniques.
He had no refined form.
Only control.
The first Stray lunged.
He reacted instinctively, compressing air in front of his forearm. The creature collided with the pressure and veered sideways, reforming instantly.
The second attacked from behind.
He pivoted and released a short burst outward — raw, forceful.
The blast dispersed it temporarily.
His chest tightened.
Too much output.
He could feel it already.
The third Stray didn't rush.
It waited.
Observing.
The first reformed.
This time they came together.
He stepped back and expanded his output in a rough spherical push, forcing wind outward in all directions.
The grass flattened.
Dust exploded upward.
The Strays scattered — but only for a moment.
His breathing grew heavier.
This was the problem.
Raw power worked.
But it consumed too much.
He adjusted his stance.
Instead of pushing outward—
He lowered his center of gravity and let the natural cross-current flow between him and the beasts.
When the first Stray lunged again, he did not repel it directly.
He tilted the airflow beneath it.
The beast's own momentum carried it off balance, crashing into the ground before reforming slower this time.
Less output.
Better result.
The second leapt.
He redirected downward pressure above it.
Its form destabilized mid-air and collapsed.
The third hesitated.
He felt it.
The wind around it was slightly different — tighter.
Denser.
The Stray burst forward with sudden speed.
He misjudged.
The impact hit his shoulder, tearing through his cloak and sending him sliding across gravel.
Pain flared.
The compressed air around him shattered.
He rolled and forced himself upright, teeth clenched.
Too slow.
He had tried to conserve energy.
He had underestimated speed.
The Stray rushed again.
This time, he didn't try to stop it.
He stepped into its path.
At the last possible second, he twisted his torso and redirected the airflow across its flank instead of against its front.
The beast's structure destabilized violently.
It dispersed fully.
The remaining two reformed weakly — thinner now.
He did not give them time.
Instead of large bursts, he created narrow disruptions, striking at their structural points — small intersections of pressure that held their bodies together.
One collapsed.
Then the other.
Silence returned.
The wind continued as if nothing had happened.
Eryndor stood still for several seconds.
Then his knees buckled.
He caught himself against a rock, breathing hard.
His core pulsed erratically — not empty, but strained.
That had been three minor beasts.
And he felt like he had fought ten.
He lowered himself to the ground, back against stone, staring at the sky.
"So that's the difference…"
Techniques were not about strength.
They were about efficiency.
Structured movement.
Refined output.
He had none of that.
Everything he did was improvised.
Crude.
Costly.
He glanced at the tear in his cloak and the faint blood seeping from his shoulder.
If the Stray had aimed higher—
He exhaled slowly.
No panic.
Just reality.
This was not the village.
There was no one to step in.
No elder watching closely.
No friend at his side.
If he miscalculated again, he would not get a second attempt.
The wind shifted gently across the plains.
He closed his eyes and let it brush over him.
Instead of forcing activation, he allowed the core to settle.
The pulse slowed.
Stabilized.
Not stronger.
Just steadier.
He stayed there for nearly an hour before standing again.
The pain in his shoulder remained.
Good.
It would remind him.
From that moment on, he stopped using wide bursts of output.
Every movement had to matter.
Every adjustment had to be deliberate.
Raw power was easy.
Refinement was survival.
He picked up his pack.
And walked deeper into the Gale Expanse.
The wind did not greet him warmly.
It did not reject him either.
It simply continued.
And this time—
He listened more carefully.