The battlefield was unrecognizable.
The once-green northern plains were now a wasteland of fractured stone and scorched earth. Rivers had boiled into steam, the horizon cracked like shattered glass. Where the Titan's ultimate attack had struck, the land itself had been erased, reduced to a hollow scar that stretched for miles.
And yet—there was one place untouched.
A circle of charred earth where lightning still danced, where thunder still rolled faintly in the silence. At its center, kneeling in the dirt, was Eryndor.
The Storm Within
His body screamed in silence. Every nerve felt aflame, every breath burned, yet his mind was elsewhere.
I stood against it.
The thought replayed, not with pride, but with awe. He had felt the Titan's Cataclysm Surge tear against him—power vast enough to erase nations, to strip the world bare. For a heartbeat, he had seen what annihilation truly was. He had felt himself vanish, soul and storm ready to be consumed.
And yet… his storm had not broken.
It had bent, twisted, surged, but it had held. Like the sky itself refused to yield.
He pressed a palm against the dirt, lightning still threading across his skin. His reflection in the fractured ground startled him—not the boy who had once stumbled into the academy, not even the soldier who had fought on the frontlines, but something else. A vessel that carried more than his own will.
I survived a world-ending attack. But that was just one Titan… how many more wait in the dark?
Around him, the armies rallied. The Crimson Halberdiers surged once more, their spears driving into the cracks Eryndor had opened. The Skyfire Legion channeled streams of fire into the Titan's weakened chest, burning at its fractured core. Above, drakes circled, riders diving with precision, spears striking its joints.
The Hollow Titan staggered, stone sloughing off its body like a crumbling mountain. Its roars grew weaker, slower, until it finally dropped to one knee. The land shook beneath the fall, soldiers crying out in victory as they pressed the final blows.
But Eryndor only watched, chest heaving, eyes distant.
Days later, after the Titan finally fell and its remains cooled into inert stone, a council was called. Not just of generals, but of the Heads of every major military order across the known world.
Banners from east and west, from desert kingdoms to frozen empires, all flew in the ruined plains. The world had seen what happened here. And the world knew this was only the beginning.
The one who spoke first was High Marshal Orren Veyth, head of the World Military Concord. His voice was heavy, carrying the weight of decades of war and the scars of battles none wished to remember.
"You think this was victory?" His voice boomed across the silent camp. "This was only the first stirring. The Hollow Titan is not the greatest of what sleeps beneath our world—it is but one branch of an older, darker race."
The silence grew heavier.
He pointed to the shattered horizon. "That was a continent-level Titan. One of many. The world once called them Cataclysms. They were chained in the First Age, sealed beneath earth and sea. If even one had risen in full strength, the land you know would no longer exist."
A murmur spread across the gathered soldiers and leaders.
Orren continued, his tone grim. "And the Titans are not alone. Beyond them lie the World Beasts—monsters vast enough to swallow oceans, to reshape climates with their very breath. In ancient texts they were called the World Eaters, remnants of the chaos that shaped creation. Some sleep beneath deserts, others within mountain ranges, and one—" his eyes narrowed, "—one stirs beneath the polar ice. If it rises, entire continents may drown."
Myth and Origin:
The lore poured like fire through the campfires that night:
In the First Age, when the gods shaped the continents, fragments of chaos resisted form. They birthed creatures of imbalance—Titans, Beasts, Colossals. Not alive, not dead, but embodiments of ruin. The early empires fought them with magic now lost, sealing them in slumber. Entire civilizations vanished to achieve this. Their ruins, buried beneath oceans and deserts, still bleed fragments of those battles. The Hollow Titan was but a warning. Larger, older things stirred. And the longer wars raged on the surface, the more the seals weakened.
Eryndor listened in silence, his fists tightening. He had seen the Cataclysm Surge. He had felt the end of the world press against his skin. And yet Orren spoke of threats beyond it—things vaster, older, hungrier.
That night, when he slept for the first time in days, the storm within him shifted again. Dreams of endless skies filled his mind—winds that carried mountains, storms that could erase oceans.
When he woke, two new powers had burned themselves into his veins:
Ultimate Abilities Unlocked:
Heaven's Rend – A single strike that calls down a spear of lightning vast enough to split landscapes.
Eternal Tempest – A state where Eryndor becomes the eye of a living storm, his body moving with endless stamina and his strikes empowered by the fury of wind and thunder combined.
Wind Affinity Abilities Unlocked:
Sky Step – Ability to step upon air currents, allowing him to fight and move freely in the skies. Gale Burst – A compression of wind released in violent bursts, capable of flinging enemies or cutting through armor like blades.
The storm had not only endured the Titan's sun—it had remembered it, grown from it, gifted him with new edges.
As dawn broke over the fractured battlefield, Eryndor stood at the edge of the Titan's corpse, watching the horizon. The wind tugged at his torn cloak, sparks faintly dancing across his skin.
He was stronger now. But the words of Orren Veyth echoed like thunder:
This was not the end. It was the beginning.
And somewhere, in the far corners of the world, other monsters—greater than Titans, hungrier than Beasts—were already stirring.
The storm inside him thrummed with restless hunger. And for the first time, Eryndor wondered: When they wake… will even my storm be enough?