The wind shifted.
High atop the cliffs that overlooked the battered coastal town, Leanardo froze. The breeze that brushed his coat was warm, but something within it bit like frost. It wasn't the salt or the storm clouds rolling overhead—it was rage. Pure, primal fury. A kind of wrath that tore at the fabric of the world, wild and wordless.
His amber eyes narrowed. He had felt many emotions echo across distances in his long years—but this? This was different. This wasn't just anger. It was grief, pain, and something darker that boiled beneath the surface.
He vanished in a blink.
---
When Leanardo arrived, the scene was a haze of blood and broken stone. Bodies lay strewn across the marketplace—some groaning, others eerily still. Guards, a few cloaked men who smelled of deceit and shadow. None of them were dead, not quite, but they'd remember this day in bruises and nightmares.
And there in the center, Kael stood.
Breathing hard. Shoulders heaving. Hands slick with crimson.
His eyes were wild—unfocused. Lost in something deeper than thought. His fists clenched and unclenched like they weren't his own. He took a step forward toward one of the guards struggling to crawl away, but then another figure appeared, interposing calmly between them.
Leanardo.
Clad in a long white mantle that fluttered even when the air stilled, his presence alone made the chaos pause.
Kael stopped, teeth clenched. His knuckles popped. "Move."
"I can't do that," Leanardo replied gently. "You've done enough."
"They deserved it."
"Perhaps. But the path you walk now will only bury you."
Kael's response was a roar.
He lunged. No weapons. Just fury and fists.
Leanardo's stance shifted, one foot behind the other, hands loose by his side. The air around him shimmered, barely perceptible.
Kael's punch was a blur—fast, raw, thunderous. Leanardo caught it with his palm. The impact cracked the cobblestones beneath them.
Eyes narrowing, Leanardo whispered, "I call the Bane of the Storm God."
And the world answered.
Lightning sparked down his arms. A pulse of wind circled him, crackling, alive. His sword, which had been sheathed, shimmered into his grip—not drawn, merely held.
Kael's eyes widened, but the rage refused to loosen its grip.
He spun, throwing an elbow at Leanardo's temple, followed by a low sweeping kick. Leanardo stepped back, avoiding the blows with surgical grace. He didn't strike. Not yet.
"Why are you holding back?" Kael barked, throwing a flurry of punches.
"Because you're not fighting me. You're fighting yourself."
Kael's snarl was answer enough. He came again—this time more erratic, like a beast whose pain had stolen thought. Each strike carried more weight, more desperation. But even fury has rhythm. And Leanardo read it all.
With a small sigh, he spoke again.
"I call the Bane of Wisdom and War."
The change was immediate.
His eyes glowed faintly gold. Symbols—ancient, looping runes—flashed in and out of view around him. His movements became impossibly precise. He no longer avoided attacks—he anticipated them. Dodging blows a full second before they came, countering only to redirect Kael's strength into the ground.
Kael grunted, trying to strike again, but Leanardo parried with a motion that looked almost lazy, yet sent the younger man spinning.
"This isn't you, Kael," he said, voice calm, almost sorrowful. "This is something else."
Kael didn't answer with words. He pounced again.
This time, Leanardo struck.
Not to kill. Not even to wound. But to end it.
He stepped into Kael's guard and pressed two fingers into a pressure point at his side. Kael staggered. A sweeping kick followed—low and controlled. Then an open palm into the center of Kael's chest, where lightning arced and the storm god's bane surged.
Kael crashed into a wall with a grunt but rose again.
He kept coming.
Bruised. Bloody. Bones aching. But relentless.
Leanardo's brows furrowed. For all the elegance in his movements, for all the strategy in his blessing—Kael was matching him through sheer, unbridled will.
He began to wonder.
Who was this boy?
The power radiating from him wasn't just rage. It wasn't even human. Not entirely. His blows weren't learned—they were remembered. Like something older whispered through his fists. Like something was waking.
He's not normal, Leanardo thought, deflecting another punch that nearly took his head off. He's something more. Something hidden.
The air cracked as Leanardo swept his sword out in a full arc—not to cut, but to call lightning. A bolt descended from the storm above, striking the blade and channeling straight into the earth. The shockwave staggered Kael.
A second, smaller rune appeared before Leanardo's eye—like a glowing thought.
"Forgive me," he muttered, and struck with the flat of the blade.
It hit Kael squarely across the chest.
A blinding light.
Then silence.
Kael crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Breathing, but still.
Leanardo exhaled and knelt beside him, placing two fingers to the boy's neck. The pulse was strong, but the storm inside him had not fully passed.
As the wind settled, Leanardo glanced skyward.
"Who are you really, Kael?" he murmured. "And what sleeps within you?"
He looked down again, a flicker of awe in his expression.
"Because for a moment, you looked like something… ancient."
And then the chapter closed, the storm passing over a town that would never forget the day two forces met—and only one remained standing.