The wind roared as Julian climbed, its voice shifting between a howl and a scream, carrying with it the icy sting of the upper peaks. His hands gripped the jagged stone, his boots digging into narrow ledges as he ascended higher and higher. The world below had already vanished beneath a sea of mist; only the mountain and the endless sky remained.
Each step felt like a dare against gravity. The higher he went, the thinner the air became, his breath dragging from his lungs in harsh pulls. The cliffs offered no mercy, their slopes so sheer that one slip meant death. Julian steadied himself, calling on his wind-mana to ease his movements. The currents bent to his will, pushing against him like invisible hands, giving his body balance.
But it wasn't the climb that made his chest tighten—it was the silence. Not a bird, not a beast stirred below. Which meant only one thing: all of them were waiting at the top.
Lightning cracked above, briefly illuminating the jagged peak. Julian's eyes narrowed. The Stormspire was not just stone and sky. It was alive.
He reached a flat ledge at last, chest heaving. The wind here was vicious, pulling at his cloak and hair as if trying to hurl him back into the abyss. He stood tall, hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his eyes scanning the cliffs ahead. Then, he felt it—pressure. A shift in the mana around him.
Something was watching.
The first beast appeared like a streak of silver lightning. It leapt from a higher ledge, claws gleaming with wind energy, its eyes glowing faint green. A Wind Fang. Known among hunters as apex predators of the range, they moved faster than sight itself.
Julian reacted instantly, his sword flashing upward. Steel clashed against claw, the impact ringing like thunder. Sparks of mana scattered in the air. The force shoved him back a step, but his stance held firm. The Wind Fang snarled, its body blurring as it circled him with impossible speed.
Julian closed his eyes for a heartbeat. He didn't need sight—he needed the wind.
Mana surged around him, threads of air brushing against his skin. Every disturbance became a signal, every vibration a message. He felt the beast dash to his left. He spun, blade cutting in an arc, meeting the claws mid-swing.
The clash shook the ledge, a storm of wind exploding outward.
Julian's lips curled into a grin. "Faster than the wolf… good. Test me more."
The Wind Fang shrieked and lunged again, this time splitting into afterimages, three mirages striking at once. Julian gritted his teeth. His sword alone wouldn't be enough. He inhaled deeply, letting mana pour into his blade. A swirling gale encased it, forming a razor-thin edge of compressed air.
When the three phantoms struck, Julian didn't hesitate. He cut diagonally through the space where instinct told him the real body was.
The sword whistled. The air screamed. And the beast cried out in pain as the whirlwind slash tore across its flank, sending it tumbling across the stone. Blood splattered the rocks, carried away instantly by the storm winds.
But Julian had no time to celebrate.
The mountain answered.
From the cliffs above, more shapes stirred—two, three, then five Wind Fangs, their howls blending with the storm. Their bodies shimmered with mana, their claws glowing brighter than blades. The Stormspire was awakening, and he had stepped straight into its heart.
Julian tightened his grip. His pulse pounded, but there was no fear in it. Only fire.
The first two descended, claws flashing. Julian pivoted, parrying one and sidestepping the other, the wind carrying him with uncanny precision. His counterstrike caught one across the neck, spraying blood into the air. The other swiped low, nearly severing his leg, but a sudden burst of air from Julian's boots lifted him clear of the strike.
"Too close," he muttered, sweat dripping down his brow.
The beasts didn't give him space. Another lunged, and another followed. Julian found himself surrounded, claws raining from every side, each strike faster than the last. He blocked, deflected, dodged—but his body burned, his arms trembling from the relentless impacts. The thin air made his lungs ache, every breath ragged.
He could not keep this pace. Not forever.
Then the thought struck him: If I can't match their numbers… I'll match the storm itself.
Julian thrust his sword into the ground, closing his eyes. Mana burst from him in all directions, his wind resonating with the howling gales of the mountain. The storm responded. His cloak whipped violently, his hair lifting, as the air bent to his will.
The Wind Fangs lunged together.
Julian's eyes snapped open. "Whirlwind Slash—Awaken!"
He tore his sword free, sweeping it in a wide arc. The storm itself seemed to explode from the blade, a roaring cyclone of compressed wind ripping outward. The ledge shattered beneath the force, and the Wind Fangs were caught in it, their bodies sliced apart as if the mountain itself had turned against them. Blood, fur, and fragments scattered into the abyss.
When the winds calmed, silence followed. The ledge was ruined, cracked and broken, and Julian stood at its center, chest heaving, his sword dripping crimson.
He looked at his hands, trembling—not just from fatigue, but from the raw force he had unleashed. That attack… it had been far stronger than he intended. He felt the toll deep inside, his mana channels aching, strained to their limit.
Power like that came with a cost.
Julian dropped to one knee, gasping, the storm winds swirling gently around him as if whispering approval. He clenched his fist, staring at the corpses scattered across the cliff.
This was only the beginning. If the lower peaks held such danger, then the summit would be hell itself.
But Julian smiled through the blood and exhaustion.
"Good," he whispered to the storm. "Push me harder. Break me if you must. Because I'll climb higher than anyone before."
And with that vow, he rose, sword in hand, and continued his ascent into the storm.