A weapon is not power. It is a question asked at the edge of death. Only those who listen long enough will hear the right answer.— Qoruul Temple Codex, Third Carving
Seven days had passed since Ryoku bent the knee, and still Qoruul did not sleep. The forge hammers rang longer, deeper. The training grounds were no longer filled with drills, but with the low groans of bruised ribs, torn ligaments, and broken pride. Stormguard veterans stopped correcting forms. They corrected mindset. There was no more time for polish. The wind was changing.
They felt him before they saw him: boots heavy as tombstones, a pelt of snow wolf dragging across the cold stone, and the war-axe on his back swaying like an executioner's pendulum. He didn't walk like a man. He moved like a boulder rolled down from some frostbitten peak in the north. Slow. Inevitable. Destructive.
Bruga, son of Skarn, had arrived.
He came alone, without banner or herald. His breath steamed like a furnace. His chest was bare beneath the open cloak, fur-lined and frayed with battle wear. Old scars crisscrossed his torso: some from blades, others from fangs or fire. His left eye was pale, milky from a wound that hadn't healed right. At his waist hung a hatchet pitted with age and use, and around his neck, a chain of broken sword hilts, each one polished by time, sweat, and death.
At the gate, one young guard stiffened and reached for the horn hanging at his side.
"Don't," said the elder beside him, not looking away from the approaching figure.
"But—"
"That's Bruga. They called him the Axe-King of the Iron Howl. Once put down an entire warband on his own and burned their bones with the breath of his qi. That necklace? Not for show. Each hilt from a man who tried and failed."
The boy swallowed and lowered his hand.
Bruga walked through the gate like it wasn't there, and Qoruul let him pass. A ripple of silence followed in his wake. Traders stopped mid-bargain. A child dropped a clay cup. Monks at the Sky Temple's outer wall paused their chants.
Bruga entered the courtyard without speaking. The temple's stone lions stood watch as always, jaws frozen in snarl. He glanced at them once, then turned to face the training grounds and raised his voice. Low and rough, like a blade dragged across gravel.
"I am Bruga, son of Skarn, last of the Iron Howl. I seek the Gale Lord. If he breathes true to his name, then let him step forward. If I win, I claim his city. If I fall, I will remain."
The courtyard went still. A few students backed away. Some of the Stormguard drew in breath. A small crowd gathered at the archways. No drums. No horn. Just the faint creak of tension crawling up every spine.
Wen Tu leaned against a tree nearby, holding a wrapped yam. He watched the giant for a long moment, then smirked.
"This is going to be fun," he said, pulling a small stool from under his robe as if he'd been waiting for something exactly like this. He sat down, unwrapped the yam, and began chewing. "Don't get many northmen built like siege engines anymore."
From behind the temple arch stepped Altan. He looked like he hadn't heard any of the challenge. Hadn't even known someone was waiting. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. His hands were sticky with sap. The wooden hatchet in his grip still had a sliver of fresh wood on the blade's edge. He had been splitting firewood. He walked slowly toward the center of the yard and stared at Bruga. No bow. No introduction.
Khulan stepped out beside Wen Tu and raised an eyebrow. "Really? You're going to fight that with a branch cutter?"
Altan didn't look away. "You came for war," he said to Bruga, voice level.
Bruga took a step forward. "I came to test the weight of your name."
Altan raised the hatchet. "Then let's begin."
Bruga moved first, and he did not hold back. There was no feint, no dance. His qi surged outward in a furnace blast of Titan Flame, red-hot tendrils lashing across the stone and blackening moss. Snow evaporated from the roof tiles as he brought the axe down in a murder arc that would have bisected a bull.
Altan stepped once.
The hatchet flashed.
A crack, not from wood, but from flesh. Bruga's axe-hand flinched, fingers spasming as the Vein Lock technique shattered his grip from the inside. The weapon slipped. Bruga's footwork adjusted instantly, but too late. Altan was inside the guard already. A short spin. The back of the hatchet smacked the inner knee. Wind Shear Point collapsed. Bruga's leg buckled.
Before the mountain could recover, Altan brought the hatchet down diagonally. Not to cut, but to break the moment. The blunt curve struck Bruga just behind the temple.
The giant fell.
Wen Tu frowned, mid-chew, clearly disappointed. "Ended too fast."
No one spoke. No one clapped. This was not a duel. It had been a warning.
Bruga woke on a reed mat. The room smelled of dried ginseng and bruised mint. Salve coated his bruises. His axe rested beside him, untouched. The hatchet, that hatchet, leaned against a tea pot.
Altan sat beside him, calm, pouring two cups.
Bruga grimaced as he sat up. "You could've killed me."
"I could have," Altan replied.
Bruga rubbed his skull. "You beat me with something meant for kindling."
"I did," Altan said. "Because you swing like you're trying to erase yourself. That makes your blade loud."
Bruga stared into the cup he hadn't touched. "Then teach me to listen."
Altan nodded once. "Then follow."
They walked beyond the temple grounds to an old cedar post near the northern watch path. No soldiers. No audience. Just a smooth board, and on it, a single matchstick balanced on end.
"You want me to cut that?" Bruga asked, incredulous.
"Not just cut it," Altan said, placing a second stick beside it. "Split it into eight equal pieces. With your axe. No splinters."
Bruga barked a laugh. "You mock me."
Altan didn't answer. He lifted the wooden hatchet and, in eight soft strokes, each without qi, without stance, carved the matchstick into perfect segments. No fragments. No powder.
Bruga stared at it for a long time, then raised his own weapon and brought it down. The matchstick detonated into useless dust.
Later, after his fifth failure, he was sweating through the furs. Splinters clung to his beard like ash. His knuckles were white from holding back his strength.
Later that evening, smoke from the forge clung to the rafters like ghosts too bitter to leave. Bruga stood beneath the watchlight, alone with his axe and a row of shattered matchsticks. His sixth attempt had ended in failure. Again. Wood dust clung to his beard. He spat a curse in the northern tongue, the kind spoken before war or beheading.
Wen Tu wandered past, chewing loudly from a bowl of roasted chestnuts. He stopped just short of the blood-stained training post, leaned lazily on the rail, and crunched another nut like it was someone else's misfortune.
"Let me guess," Wen Tu said, flicking a shell aside. "Your people teach axe combat by chopping trees in half, right?"
Bruga growled without turning. "We chop trees, men, stones, and horses. Never twigs."
"Well, congratulations," Wen Tu said. "You're now trying to cut rice paper with a mountain boulder. Welcome to enlightenment." He smirked, tossing another chestnut into his mouth. "You know, the gallows are hiring. Executioners. All axe work. Might be more your pace."
Bruga didn't laugh. His grip tightened on the haft like it might snap in half.
"Is it too late to break your teeth?"
"Only if you catch me."
Ash drifted from the upper terraces, settling like snow on the old wood and dying leaves. Above, Altan stood at the stone stair, robes tugged by the wind, eyes fixed on the failed cuts. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Another warrior had come to test steel and spirit, and now found himself not in glory, but in slow, humiliating labor. The worst kind of battle. The one no one sang about. Just splinters, frustration, and repetition. The kind that made lesser men quit. Or crack.
Altan had never asked to be called master. He said it once, sharply, that names meant burdens. But Wen Tu never listened. Neither would the next ones. They'd call him that anyway. Because here in this cursed little courtyard, no one else could teach you how to fight the war inside your own hands.
Wen Tu turned as he left, voice trailing behind like a dagger tossed over the shoulder. "Oh, and if you ever manage to cut one clean? Mater sends 'em to the orphanage in the city. Says it teaches balance. So try not to butcher the next shipment, yeah?"
Bruga stared at the matchstick, scowling. He didn't speak. But his next strike came slower. Just barely.
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