The world returned in fragments of light.
At first, Eryndor couldn't tell if he was still dreaming — the silence around him was too perfect, too still. But then came the sound of breathing — his own — rough and uneven. His eyelids trembled, and when they finally opened, the glow of the morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Vaelith estate's guest chamber.
The air was heavy.
Every breath he drew felt like inhaling lightning.
His body ached — not the kind of ache from battle wounds, but from something far deeper. It was as though every vein, every nerve, every strand of muscle had been rewoven.
A faint pulse of energy hummed beneath his skin. Alive… but not the same.
He sat up slowly, the sheets sliding off his chest. A soft blue mist coiled from his body — faint arcs of wind and static weaving together like twin threads.
And then — the moment his feet touched the ground — the entire room stirred. The air pressure dipped, the lamps flickered, and a gentle rumble rolled across the floorboards.
"He's awake…"
Lyanna's voice broke the silence. She was seated by his bedside, her long silver hair unbound, her eyes wide with disbelief and relief all at once.
Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around him, trembling. "You've been asleep for two days… I thought—"
Eryndor smiled faintly, placing a hand on her back. His voice came out lower, steadier — with a depth it didn't have before.
"I met him," he whispered.
"The Founder… Arvane Nasarik."
Lyanna froze. Her head lifted slightly, eyes reflecting the blue glow still radiating from his skin. "The Founder…? Then that means—"
He nodded slowly. "He left me something. The Bloodline Awakening."
As he said the words, a pulse rippled through the room again. The air twisted with faint azure lightning — strands of light and storm dancing along his arms like living veins of energy.
Aldric Vaelith entered then, still in his military coat, his expression torn between awe and wariness. "So it's true… the estate's barrier flared when you woke. The entire manor felt your surge."
His gaze hardened slightly. "Tell me, Eryndor. What… did you awaken?"
Eryndor's eyes glowed faintly, a soft wind brushing against his hair. "Not just the Nasarik bloodline… something beyond it."
The room went quiet.
He stood slowly, the light spilling from his body dimming to a steady aura — calm, but immeasurably vast. "The Nasarik bloodline is storm and void. It carries the soul of creation and destruction — the balance between divine and mortal essence. But mine…"
He clenched his fist, and a halo of storm energy flared around his arm. "Mine fused with something else. The Astral Sky."
Aldric frowned. "The Astral Sky? You mean that realm you trained in—"
"It's more than a realm," Eryndor said. "It's alive. When I trained there, I didn't just learn martial arts. The Eightfold Flow — my grandfather's discipline — merged with my affinities. Wind and lightning… they responded to my intent. To my soul."
He raised his palm. Between his fingers, two lights formed — a streak of crackling lightning, pure white-blue, and a swirling current of wind like transparent flame. When they touched, they didn't clash. They harmonized — bending into a single, flowing sigil that rotated in midair.
"The bloodline evolved," Eryndor continued, his tone calm but resonant. "I don't just command the storm. I am the storm — the pulse between wind and lightning, thought and movement. Arvane called it the Stormblood Ascendant."
Lyanna's eyes widened. "Stormblood…?"
"It's the next stage of the Nasarik lineage," Aldric murmured, eyes narrowed in fascination. "But that shouldn't be possible. Bloodline evolution requires divine catalysts… or death."
Eryndor looked down at his hand — the glow fading — and for a moment, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Then maybe dying in battle a dozen times finally paid off."
Lyanna laughed softly through the tension, her voice trembling with relief. But behind her eyes, he could see it — awe, curiosity… and a hint of worry.
Aldric folded his arms, pacing slowly as if reciting something half-remembered from an ancient scripture.
"The Nasarik bloodline was one of the Twelve Founding Lineages," he began. "Each branch stemmed from a fusion of human and divine essence. The main branch — your ancestor Arvane's — embodied the Storm of Creation. It granted unparalleled control over mana and matter through storm affinity — the balance of wind and lightning."
He glanced at Eryndor. "Your grandfather and father inherited diluted versions of that. Enough to wield immense strength, but not enough to transcend mortal limits."
Lyanna tilted her head. "And Eryndor's version is… different?"
"Completely," Aldric said, eyes sharp. "Because of his dual affinities. The Nasariks traditionally inherited lightning — manifestation and force. Wind was a supporting element, a means of movement and control. But Eryndor's body treats them as equals."
Eryndor listened quietly, his gaze distant.
"That's why," he murmured, "the Eightfold Flow felt incomplete before. The technique was never meant to be used by someone with just one core element. It was built to unify multiple forces."
Eightfold Flow Reforged
He walked toward the balcony, feeling the cool air rush against his skin. Closing his eyes, he extended his hand outward — and the world responded.
The wind coiled into his palm, dancing like silk. Lightning crawled across his arm, merging seamlessly with the air. His stance shifted, light and fluid — the rhythm of martial art meeting the natural world.
In an instant, his movements blurred — every strike, every step tracing the path of wind, the flash of thunder, the serenity of balance.
"First Flow — Gale Step," he whispered, vanishing into a shimmer of air before reappearing meters ahead.
"Second Flow — Surge Palm." The blast of air and lightning burst outward, carving a small crater into the training field below.
"Third Flow — Tempest Coil." Twin spirals of storm energy wrapped around his arms, forming blades of raw pressure.
"Fourth Flow — Astral Guard." A transparent sphere of wind and electric charge surrounded him like living armor.
"Fifth Flow — Raijin Strike." The air cracked; a beam of condensed lightning erupted skyward.
"Sixth Flow — Eye of Calm." His breathing steadied, and all energy around him froze — not a leaf stirred.
"Seventh Flow — Skyveil Mirage." His body shimmered, splitting into ethereal afterimages that flickered with static.
"Eighth Flow…" He smiled faintly, his eyes glowing with silver light. "…Heaven's Silence."
The air imploded — completely soundless. The aura vanished, leaving only the faint hum of residual power.
Aldric exhaled slowly, clapping once in disbelief. "You've refined a martial art meant for gods into something that bends reality itself."
Eryndor turned, the faintest smirk on his lips. "I had a good teacher."
Lyanna stood near the doorway, her hands resting over her stomach — her expression soft, but proud. "And yet," she said, "you still don't know how to rest."
He walked to her, his steps quiet, and gently placed his hand over hers. The warmth between them softened the storm still flickering beneath his skin.
"I'll rest," he murmured, "after I've made this world safe for you… for him."
Lyanna smiled — the kind that said she believed him, even if she wished he didn't have to carry so much.
Later that night, when the sky had dimmed and the estate had quieted, Eryndor sat alone beneath the stars. The wind shifted softly around him, responding to his heartbeat.
His thoughts wandered back to the astral realm — to the Founder's final words.
He looked at his hands, lightning faintly pulsing beneath the surface, and whispered to the empty sky:
"The gift is the Bloodline Awakening…"
A small smile touched his lips.
"…and I'll make sure it wasn't wasted."
The clouds above trembled, a streak of lightning dancing quietly across the night horizon — as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the heir of the storm.