Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The air left Nero’s lungs. He skidded sideways, boots digging trenches in the dirt, his lightning sputtering. He hadn’t even seen the swing, only felt the result—the wind wasn’t just around Balrog’s blade; it was the blade, extending its reach and power.

”Too linear!” Balrog’s voice came from everywhere at once, carried by the wind.

”Lightning seeks the fastest path. A master chooses the path!”

Nero gritted his teeth, shaking off the numbness. He focused, not on Balrog’s body, but on the flow of the air, the pressure changes. He saw it—a distortion streaking to his right. He didn’t dodge. He planted his feet and thrust his free hand forward, unleashing a wild, branching fork of lightning into the empty space.

CRACK-BOOM!

The lightning met not Balrog, but a solidified wall of whirling wind that shattered the bolt into harmless sparks. From behind the dissipating energy, Balrog emerged, his sword dancing. He wasn’t performing grand slashes; he was making small, precise cuts—flicking his wrist. Each flick launched a crescent of vacuum-sharp wind, invisible until they tore the ground apart in lines toward Nero.

Nero became moved at an extreme speed like a blur of desperate motion. He weaved, jumped, and rolled, the wind blades slicing the air where he’d just been. One grazed his arm, parting his uniform and drawing a thin line of red. The sting focused him. He couldn’t match Balrog’s control. He had to use Lightning’s chaos.

He stopped retreating. He gathered the crackling energy around him, not in a shield, but in a snarling, living corona. He roared and charged again, not with a single strike, but becoming a storm of a hundred stabbing motions, each one leaving an after-image of light. The Tempest Thrust Style.

For the first time, Balrog moved defensively. His sword became a whirlwind of parries, each clash a spectacular collision of elements: a shriek of wind against a crackle of thunder, showers of sparks battling gusts. Nero pushed forward, his muscles screaming, his law burning through his energy reserves. He saw an opening—Balrog’s parry was a fraction slow against a particularly wild branch of lightning. He committed everything into a final, point-blank lunge.

It was exactly what Balrog wanted.

As Nero committed, Balrog didn’t block. He exhaled. A micro-cyclone, no larger than a fist, burst from his lips and hit Nero’s sword tip with pinpoint accuracy. It didn’t stop the thrust; it deflected it, just an inch. Nero’s lethal strike hissed past Balrog’s ear.

And Balrog’s free left hand, fingers coiled like a claw, was already placed gently against Nero’s chest.

”Gale Pulse,” Balrog murmured.

The force that hit Nero wasn’t a punch. It was a contained explosion of atmospheric pressure. There was no sound, just a sudden, profound compression of his entire being, followed by an expansion.

Nero was launched backwards. He didn’t tumble; he flew in a straight, helpless line, crashing through a training dummy and slamming into the reinforced stone wall of the arena. The impact cratered the stone. He slumped to the ground, his sword clattering from his numb fingers, his entire body one massive bruise, the taste of copper thick in his mouth.

Nero groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms. His lightning was gone, dissipated. The world swam. Across the field, Balrog stood calmly, the winds around him settling into a gentle, evening breeze. He hadn’t broken a sweat.

”You lost,” Balrog stated, walking over. His boots crunched on the scorched, torn earth. ”But you lasted longer than most Purples would have against that.”

Nero spat dust, managing to sit up. His chest ached where the Gale Pulse had hit. It wasn’t broken, but it felt… realigned. ”Your control… it’s not about power. It’s about placement. You were always three moves ahead, using my own speed against me.”

Balrog stopped before him, a hint of approval in his fierce eyes. He offered a hand. Nero took it, hauled to his feet. ”Exactly. Your Lightning is fierce. Untamed. Like a summer storm. It reacts. My Wind… it plans. It flows around. It waits. You charged into the gale, and the gale redirected you into a wall.” He picked up Nero’s sword, handing it to him hilt-first. ”You fought my strength. Don’t. Fight my law. To beat the Wind, you must be the still point it cannot move, or the lightning that splits it apart before it can gather. Not another wind trying to blow harder.”

The lesson sank in, deeper than any bruise. Nero looked at his sword, then at the devastation their mock battle had wrought on the training ground. He had been outclassed not in power, but in understanding. Balrog had painted a masterpiece of combat while Nero had been splashing angry colors on a canvas.

”Thank you, teacher,” Nero said, the words heartfelt.

Balrog clapped him on his good shoulder, making him wince. ”Good. Now you’re warmed up. And humbled. The best state to meet the headmaster.” He turned, leading the way off the field. ”Come. Your real test is about to begin. And it won’t be fought with swords.”

Limping slightly, but with his mind sharper and clearer than it had been in days, Nero followed his teacher out of the arena, leaving the scars of their battle.The fight was over. He had lost. And he had never learned more from a victory.

Meanwhile, Khione reached her room, discarding her clothes she decided to take a long and refreshing bath to recuperate before calling her father to have a chat with. Now that they’re back at the academy, the next step would be taking on outside missions, the real challenge would begin now.

The nude Ice Queen walked into the bathroom. The bathroom was a place of washing, of nurturing our sanity with the sensation of warm water and aromatic soaps. For the body must feel loved and cared for, for then it feeds back these messages to the brain and begins to set up a positive cycle of wellness.

Time to enjoy a long good bath, taking her time.