A stillness crept across the courtyard as Wen Tu halted mid-thought. His gaze shifted toward the far end of the training yard, past the frost-worn sparring posts where breath once rose like steam from stone.
"…Who's that?"
The others turned.
There, standing atop a gnarled tree stump worn smooth by years of strikes, was a figure none of them recognized. The man stood tall, motionless against the wind, the lean silhouette of a hunter carved in dusk. Dark iron skin shimmered faintly beneath weathered black leather, stitched in unfamiliar patterns. His silver hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, and the blank whiteness of his eyes—like fogged glass—betrayed nothing. A double-curved scimitar hung at one hip, and a longbow with dark-fletched arrows was slung across his back.
Before him, planted upright in a weathered post, was a single matchstick.
The courtyard watched in silence as the stranger exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something deep within the earth. The air changed. A hush fell. Shadows pooled underfoot.
Then his aura rose—dark, coiling low and silent like mist curling through trees. It did not blaze. It whispered. The frost beneath his boots darkened.
In one blur of movement, he struck.
Seven slivers of the matchstick dropped like feathers. The cut was clean, precise—too fast to follow. The wind did not move. His footing did not shift. He only stared at his blade, adjusted the angle of his wrist, and contemplated the flaw—silent, intent, as if studying the reason the eighth sliver did not fall.
Bruga stepped forward, axe already humming against his back. His voice rumbled. "Who are you? How did you enter the Gale Citadel?"
The elf didn't speak. His hand hovered again over the invisible line of the cut, refining a form only he understood. His silver eyes glanced once at Bruga, impassive.
High above, the Stormguards shifted. Shields lifted. Spears angled.
Bruga's eyes narrowed. "Speak, or I'll let the axe do the asking."
He lunged.
The twin-headed axe roared downward, enough force to cleave a man and the stone beneath him. The stranger flowed sideways, scimitar drawn in a single breath—shorter than a long sword, but curved for speed and precision—catching the blow without clash, only redirection.
Bruga pressed harder. Strikes came fast, wide, brutal. The courtyard rang with thunder as steel met steel.
The elf moved like water.
No counter. No aggression. Only perfect defense—each angle turned, each edge caught. He danced within the storm without letting it touch him.
"He's not even attacking…" Ryoku muttered, jaw tight.
Then Ryoku dashed in, his hooked blade slicing through the air. "Bruga can't handle him alone!"
Together, the two stormed the stranger. As they closed in, the elf reached for his second scimitar, unsheathing it in a single backward sweep. Now dual-wielding both sabers—each shorter than a longsword but razor-fast—he shifted his stance. Bruga's heavy strikes met steel in twin arcs, while Ryoku's agile sweeps were answered with mirrored precision. Their coordination was flawless—until it wasn't. Every opening vanished. Every angle turned to mist. The stranger's blade moved like breath over stone—never resisting, only flowing.
Wen Tu raised a hand. "I'll stabilize."
Qi bloomed from his palm, weaving between the attackers in calculated bursts—softening Bruga's brute swings, anchoring Ryoku's footing. Wind bent around them in loops, catching missed timing, reinforcing every forward press.
Still, the stranger held.
Kael saw an opening—narrow, precise, the kind only he would notice. He inhaled once. Then he vanished.
One blink—and he was behind the elf, blade descending in silence.
The strike was perfect. Invisible.
But the stranger was already there.
Sparks lit the air. The parry came from behind the shoulder, spun off balance—but still he did not fall.
And then, a single voice cracked across the courtyard like a blade through ice.
"Stop."
Everything halted.
Altan stood at the edge of the courtyard, robe drawn in the breeze, arms folded. His gaze alone froze motion. His presence filled the silence.
He walked forward slowly. The frost broke under each step. "Your name."
The stranger turned fully and bowed once.
"Nyzekh."
Even the wind dared not speak.
Altan's voice carried the weight of command. "Where did you come from?"
Nyzekh met his gaze. "The Badlands. I passed through the basalt canyons north of the Khazarii Steppe."
His voice was calm. "There, hidden beneath the dusk, I came across a trader's camp. Rough men with sand-scoured faces. They circled their fires like wolves. Shared tea. And stories."
He stepped down from the stump. "They spoke of you. Of a man who broke empires. Who cast down the Zhong. Who refused a crown after freeing the League of Free Cities. They said you returned to the steppe and gathered the 13 clans. Built a city in the sky—Tenger Ul. But your home remained here, where you train those who will inherit the storm."
"Tenger Ul," Wen Tu whispered, nodding slowly. "The city for the clans. But the Citadel... the Citadel is where the storm begins."
Nyzekh nodded. "They spoke of that place like it was a myth carved from wind."
Kael frowned. "So you came to find him?"
"I came to understand him."
He looked to Altan again. "I approached the citadel gates. But the Stormguard would never have allowed me to pass. So I descended instead—below the Chasm's edge, where the old roots of the mountain twist like broken ribs."
Bruga grunted. "There's a maze down there. Etched by Altan himself—runes, spirit-bound glyphs, breath-carved wards. It's not just stone. It listens. It learns. It was built to protect the Chasm and the Citadel from what once tried to rise out of the dark."
"I know. It almost kept me. The walls whispered. My steps felt guided—wrong, then right. But I endured. I found a path. The lower entrance had no guards. The old wards flickered like dying breath. I walked upward."
"And listened," Wen Tu said.
"Yes," Nyzekh replied. "I heard your words. Of Eightfold. Of the Thousand Path. I had never heard the wind spoken of with such weight."
Altan studied him. "Your form has no root. You trained yourself. No teacher guided your hand?"
"I left my kin long ago. From the forest-clan of Aelvhar, deep in the ruins of the southern woods. All I carried were the skills of the hunt."
"I watched humans from the ridgelines. Watched how they trained. How they moved with sword and shield. I learned by imitation. By wounds. By repetition. No master. Only survival."
"…Self-forged," Kael muttered.
Altan stepped closer and nodded once. "Cut again. Eight slivers."
Nyzekh returned to the post. Another matchstick. Another breath.
One.
Two.
Then—shff.
Eight perfect slivers fanned across the stump like fallen petals.
Even Bruga said nothing.
Then Nyzekh turned his gaze toward the sealed iron door. "May I enter the Chamber?"
Snow-like silence fell.
Altan looked to his disciples, then back to the stranger.
"Come. All of you."
The Stormguard guardians moved aside. The iron door's runes glowed softly—as if waking.
"Even him?" Kael asked.
Altan nodded. "Especially him."
He faced them all.
"Walk the path together. Fold by fold. Let the wind judge what words cannot."
Then louder:
"Come, all of you."
The runes pulsed once—like a breath long held—and the iron groaned open. And the door began to open.
As the group moved toward the chamber, their footsteps soft over the frost-hardened stone, Bruga leaned slightly toward Nyzekh. His voice was low, barely audible over the hush of wind.
"Can you help me cut some of the matchsticks?" he muttered. "I'm behind quota. They're sending the next batch to the orphanages."
Nyzekh didn't smile, but his eyes shifted—just slightly—and nodded once.