The morning air was sharp, scented with rain and the faint metallic tang of training weapons. Ashura stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, purple lightning flickering along his veins as he watched the first wave of recruits gather.
The recruits — children, teenagers, and a few older adventurers — shifted nervously. None of them had met Ashura before, but word of the boy with blank stats and a small but terrifying guild had reached them. The stories of lightning strikes, black flames, and the unkillable storm wraiths were enough to make most hearts falter.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. The first five handled them.
Darian approached the first group, voice sharp and unwavering. "Your first test is simple: endure. If you can't survive our drills, you cannot survive my storms."
The berserker girl laughed, a low, primal sound, and lunged at the recruits in controlled fury. Each strike tested not just their reflexes, but their capacity to endure pain, focus, and decision-making under pressure. Few moved well enough; most stumbled and fell.
The black-flame wielder hovered behind, guiding their movements. His fire didn't scorch them, but arcs of black flame danced inches from their limbs, a reminder that misstep could mean dismemberment. Precision, he taught silently, was more lethal than raw strength.
Selvara moved among the recruits, her notebook clutched tightly. Every motion was logged, every hesitation noted. Occasionally, she would pause and release a faint pulse of her hidden divinity, subtle enough not to overwhelm, but enough to test the edge of each recruit's abilities. A few staggered instinctively at the pulse; a few grinned.
Kaelen darted between them like a spark, correcting stances, demonstrating strikes, and sometimes simply observing. The boy's energy was contagious — reckless but brilliant. Those who watched him couldn't ignore the speed and instinct honed in every movement.
Ashura remained at the periphery, letting the first five run the drills. His eyes flicked to the shadows where Vyre and Eldrin patrolled, evolving quietly with each pulse of energy. Vyre's slender form struck like lightning when a recruit faltered, invisible until after the strike. Eldrin loomed like a mountain, absorbing and redirecting potential attacks.
The wraiths don't just fight, Ashura thought. They enforce, they teach, and they push them toward survival without a word from me.
Hours passed. Sweat, blood, and frustration painted the courtyard. Most recruits were exhausted, some defeated outright. A few began to stand, adjusting stances, correcting mistakes. By the end, the survivors had learned three things:
The guild was unforgiving. Their growth depended on effort, not guidance alone. The storm would always be there — watching, testing, correcting.
Ashura finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. "This is only the beginning. You will train. You will endure. And eventually, you will fight alongside those who have already been tempered."
The recruits' eyes flicked to the first five — Darian, the berserker, the black-flame wielder, Selvara, and Kaelen. They weren't just teachers. They were warnings. They were living proof of what could happen if one trained, survived, and endured under Ashura's storm.
As the new recruits left the courtyard, some pale, some limping, all with new respect in their eyes, Ashura allowed the lightning along his veins to pulse brighter for a moment.
The guild had grown, but not in numbers. It had grown in structure, discipline, and reach. Each recruit added to the storm's potential, guided by the first five, molded by a one-man army that no one could truly challenge.
And in the shadows, Vyre and Eldrin glimmered faintly, evolving further, learning from the interactions, preparing for the day they might need to fight alongside Ashura himself.
This is how it begins, Ashura thought. Not with armies, but with sparks. And sparks can ignite storms.