I take a deep breath, then exhale. My eyes snap open.

I explode forward with a lunge, blade hissing ahead and piercing through the air. My left foot shifts to catch up with the right as I whip the blade to my side, carving a wide arc to my right. My right foot mirrors the swing, pivoting so that I face backwards. And then I leap off the ground, tumbling through the air with my blade extended, landing first with one foot, and then the other.

With a shout, my blade slashes and hacks through the air, a barrage that should be unrelenting as the rain itself. But my muscles grow weary and my swings slow, until I come to a stop.

It is a disgrace.

No light radiates from my blade. No light emanates from my skin.

Without Aura, my blade is too slow and my body too weak.

I am little better than a child playing with a toy sword.

I throw the blade away, letting it scratch and chip as it tumbles along the sand until it hits a wall. Even then, the blade can still be sharpened. Unlike its master, it can be honed with a new edge, a new lease on life.

Even in its most basic form, the Tempest Blade Style was never designed for those like me. To practice it further would be an insult to its founder.

A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Master Wilbor, it’s time!”

“Bern. I’ll be there. Just give me a moment.”

He hesitates, then speaks up. “I’ve watched you grow up from the beginning, Master Wilbor. I’ve always known how much potential you had. But you’re still young—there are other paths in life.”

“You think so as well, don’t you?” I accuse. “That I’ve no hope. That ever since the incident, I’ve become useless. A cripple.”

And then my gaze rests on his shoulder and a lump forms in my throat.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Bern.”

He smiles, as infuriatingly patient and understanding as always.

“I’ll be out in a moment. You go ahead first.”

The old man gives a bow and walks out.

I take a deep breath, then exhale. It’s time to say goodbye to the man who raised me.