The rains had not touched the highlands of Dros in over a month, yet the clouds above churned like a beast stirring in its sleep. Beneath them, the peaks stood jagged and still—great blades of stone veined with the remnants of ancient mana, their roots embedded in both earth and history.
And across those peaks, lightning began to gather.
Not white.
Not gold.
But black—as if the sky itself had grown hollow.
David moved swiftly, cloak trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. The red sands of the Ember Trail still clung to his boots, but his eyes were already fixed forward.
Toward the mountains.
Toward the next lesson.
And toward the Stormbrand Clans.
It was dusk when he reached the village of Jallin—a small outpost clinging to the cliffside like a stubborn weed. Its buildings were made of ironwood and stone, with roof tiles carved from slate, each etched with old warding runes. The people here were quiet and watchful, their eyes trained by decades of surviving in the shadow of warlords.
He entered the tavern, where silence fell the moment he stepped in.
A woman behind the counter narrowed her gaze.
"You're not from here."
David nodded. "I'm looking for the trail to Aregor's Spine."
A low grunt echoed from the back corner. An old man, his arms scarred with lightning burns, leaned forward from his stool.
"You're a fool if you think the Spine's still a trail. It's a hunting ground now."
David met his gaze calmly. "Then I'll meet the hunter."
The man laughed once. "You're not the first to try."
David turned to leave, but the barkeep called out.
"If you're going to die," she said, tossing him a flask, "at least die with warm blood."
He caught it. Nodded once.
And walked back into the storm.
The path to Aregor's Spine was broken.
Not by time—but by battle.
Charred trees. Split stone. Craters where lightning had kissed the earth with hatred. And among it all, scorch marks unlike any other—burns that sizzled even in the rain. The mana here didn't hum like elsewhere.
It hissed.
David stopped by the shattered remains of a shrine. At its base was a symbol: a circle, split by a jagged line.
The mark of the Stormbrand.
And beside it, a warning etched into the stone.
"He walks with lightning, but speaks in thunder. Run."
David touched the sigil with two fingers. The Well within him stirred—not with fear.
With anticipation.
By nightfall, the sky had grown pitch-black. But the rain turned silver—glowing with mana. Stormfall. A rare phenomenon. And only one thing caused it:
A duel.
He reached the plateau just as the first bolt struck.
A young warrior—no older than twenty—flew back across the field, crashing into a boulder and leaving behind a smoldering trail.
Standing over him was a man with wild white hair, cloaked in tattered robes threaded with copper. Lightning danced along his skin like chains eager to be unleashed.
He didn't smile.
He just watched his opponent cough blood and slump unconscious.
David stepped forward.
The man turned.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then he spoke, voice rough as cracked stone.
"You're not from Dros."
David's answer was calm. "Neither are you."
The man's brow twitched. "And yet here I stand. They call me Korran."
David nodded. "I've heard of you. They say your lightning devours mana."
Korran's eyes sparked. "And they say you're the boy with the bottomless Well."
David drew his iron blade.
"They're right."
The wind died.
The storm hushed.
And the duel began.
Korran struck first — not with speed, but with presence. The moment he moved, the air snapped. A bolt of black lightning tore through the space David had just vacated.
David countered with Flashfire — not striking, but appearing at Korran's flank. His palm burned white with condensed heat, aimed for the ribs.
Korran twisted — unnaturally, like a shadow given weight — and grabbed David's arm mid-motion.
David didn't resist.
He redirected.
Twisting his wrist, he let the momentum carry him up and over, flipping behind Korran and driving a Kindle Palm into his back.
The explosion rocked the plateau.
But Korran laughed.
"Good," he said, smoke rising from his cloak. "Let's burn."
The fight lit up the night.
Each clash echoed with meaning — fire against lightning, discipline against rage, precision against raw hunger. Korran's black lightning clawed at David's mana, seeking to disrupt, unravel, consume.
But David's Well converted it.
Turned pain into fuel. Turned threat into flow.
Every strike David received, he learned from. Every flicker of Korran's technique, he internalized.
And soon, he began to see the flaws.
Korran's power was immense, but it burned too fast. Each bolt sapped more than it gave. His mana was wild, not infinite.
David's… was eternal.
They clashed one final time, standing at the eye of the storm, lightning crashing around them in a dome of fury.
Korran breathed heavily now.
David stood still, glowing softly with internal fire.
"You're holding back," Korran growled.
"I'm mastering."
The words hit like a truth Korran had never dared face.
He screamed, unleashing his final technique — the Stormgrasp, a net of black lightning that warped reality itself, fracturing mana into shards of impossible force.
David walked through it.
The Well churned, absorbing each strand, converting every chaotic surge into clarity. As the last bolt touched his skin, it fizzled harmlessly.
David stood before Korran.
Placed a hand on his chest.
And whispered:
"You could've built something with your power. Instead, you devoured yourself."
Then he let the heat rise.
Living Torch — not to burn, but to cleanse.
The lightning was gone.
Only Korran remained — unconscious, breathing, free.
David stood alone on the plateau.
The rain had stopped.
The sky was clear.
And for the first time in weeks…
He felt peace.
He carried Korran back to Jallin. The villagers watched in silence as David laid the warlord gently on a healer's bed.
"Is he dead?" someone asked.
David shook his head.
"No. He's learning."
Later that night, the barkeep poured him a drink.
"You didn't kill him."
"I didn't need to."
"Why not?"
David looked to the stars.
"Because power without understanding is a storm that burns itself out."
And as he rested, the Eye of Accord glowed faintly.
A new path had appeared.
North. Into the Vale of Echoes.
Where a forgotten voice was calling to him.