Hope kept walking, one step after another, smiling. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
The Highwing screeched; the air trembled as it lifted all six wings high. Air Magika tightened around it, wind coiling its body before breaking outward in a hard shove.
Hope took that same wind and let it feed him—Air Gear embracing him from head to toes.
Behind him, Fin and William stared, disbelief plain. They knew the telltale signs of Air Gear—any member of Viento did—but the smooth way ‘Hector’ bled the Highwing’s gusts into his own said mastery. Only top family prodigies pulled that off at Tier 1.
Was ‘Hector’… an Air Prodigy?
Hope stood calm while the Highwing hammered the air, trying to bully him off his feet. Gusts slammed across the plain. He didn’t flinch. Posture straight, coat lifting loose in the blast, he held the line and watched the bird spend itself.
Seeing he wasn’t easy prey, the Highwing threw its head back and screamed, then swept up on all six wings.
Hope felt no hurry. He watched its climb, counted the beats, then tapped the ground with his toes and rose after it, spear in hand. Air took him neat and quiet. He breathed with it.
The Highwing rolled and came slicing down. Pale hooks flashed; the beak snapped for his face. He slipped a hand’s width and let it miss, the rush peeling cold across his cheek.
Wing-edges scythed next, a crossing pair meant to shear; he let the bend of space curl by his shoulder and dropped through the gap.
Tails whipped. Bone-pale spurs cracked past his ribs, a breath wrong on purpose. He turned a small swirl at his hip and felt one spur skid off the line it wanted. The other kissed his coat and found nothing under it.
“Pick it up, Paly Fangs,” Hope teased, drifting easy.
A flicker crossed the creature’s eyes.
Wind punched again, short and hard. Hope warped sideways and came out clean. Easy.
The bird banked hard. Air beneath him went shallow. He pressed outside the patch and rode the Spacetime lines while the dive fell a shade short.
It hated that.
The Highwing screeched—low and guttural, the sound carrying thin and far—and Hope clicked his tongue at the buzz.
It spiraled up, beating a ladder of gusts. He followed, lazy as a gull, watching.
The outer primaries hissed on the turn. The top right wing lagged a hair. The second tail favored left when it swung to cut. Knives of air flicked from the beak between wingbeats; he set a hush ahead and they arrived late and blunted—more push than bite.
Another stoop. He let it pass; the wake shivered his coat. The beak hooked up, trying to catch him on the rise. He stepped onto a firm stillness for a heartbeat—click at the teeth—and drifted a palm higher. The hook closed on empty air. A feather brushed his knuckles. Tickles.
Below, Fin and William had stopped breathing. The courier stood with his hands on his knees, eyes huge, watching Hope ride gusts as if the air had steps—more play than fight, frightening and beautiful both. He forgot to blink.
The Highwing widened its arc, tested with a tail-feint, then snapped both hooks at his throat, wings folding for that quick second of kill-speed.
Hope rolled a shoulder, felt the field lean like tide, and the hooks cut nothing.
He smiled up at it. “I’m sure a big, scary alpha like you’s got more to give, right?”
The Highwing seemed to catch the gist somehow. The air around it went stale; temperature dipped a hair. It flashed its wings—and Hope felt it: a thin, tight line of Air Magika drawn along one primary like a wire.
The wing snapped forward. And—
A wind blade tore free—clean, flat, fast!
Hope stayed calm. Nerves cold. He flared Spacetime and slipped—space tugged, his body a handspan to the left—and the blade burned past, shaving grit off the plain behind him.
Huh. Localized flow, then release. Not just push—shear. It tuned the edge, packed the air into a laminar sheet, then let it peel. Like his pulses, but in pressure, not phase.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Another draw of Air Magika towards it. The feathers along the same wing flattened. Hiss sharpened. Tell found. Blade loosed.
He didn’t warp this time. He set a tiny eddy off his shoulder; the sheet hit the curl, kinked, and slid by, losing shape a beat later.
Fast and sharp, but too light—no weight behind it. Spacetime’s an easy counter.
Bad matchup, Paly.
The cadence quickened. Both top wings armed—two tight lines—then a crossing release. He felt the charge—the small hush before the snap—and stepped onto a folded space with a Warp he’d kept ready. The ‘X’ of wind bit empty air where he’d been.
The bird pressed—two wings, then the lower pair, then it staggered the timing to catch his exits. Hope rode the bent space under him and counted: one-two-three—tell on three—four—cut. Each time he bled a slip or laid a hush in the Spacetime field so the sheets arrived off course.
Noticing it was not enough, the Highwing upped the game.
Three primaries brightened at once.
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Hope grinned. “There we go.”
The fan came off the wings like a comb of glass. He warped a breath-width and let the outer blade pass. He spun a small twist of air at his hip and the middle sheet kinked and slid wide. Then he popped a handspan higher on a quick lift of wind and let the third skim over his shoulder. His coat fluttered; skin stayed clean.
Up close, he watched the make. The Highwing flexed a fraction at the tip to set thickness; a line brightened along the vane; the air tasted sharp—ozone and cold tin—right before the cut. It bled a little heat to hold the sheet together, then snapped the flow free. Efficient. Fascinating, even.
The Highwing screamed again, angry now. Four wings drew, then they swapped—left-right, right-left—blades coming like drumfire. Hope’s eyes half-lidded. He matched the lean, turned with the tilt, and let each sheet miss by a whisper.
He filed the last bit away: the top-right wing always armed a shade late. That was the hole. He rolled a shoulder, let another blade sigh by, and smiled up at the bird.
“Alright, Paly Fangs,” he said, voice light. “Lesson learned.”
Four more blades screamed his way. Hope stepped—space tugged—and he was a pace forward, inside their cross.
He lifted his free hand and stole the wind in front of him. Fingers apart, he drew it flat, palm to palm, like stretching wet cloth. Air Magika slicked into a ribbon. He packed it tighter with a slow breath, smoothing the ripples until it went laminar and hard. The edge sang thin.
Then he pinched the world around it.
Spacetime tightened, just a hand’s width, the sides pressed in so the ribbon thinned and sharpened. The taste of ozone hit his teeth. And—
He let it go.
The sheet leapt off his hand with a sound like silk torn fast.
It crossed the gap in a blink and struck the Highwing square in the breast, a handspan off the keel. Feathers sheared. Skin opened. A clean red line wrote itself across purple mantle; the next wingbeat threw a fan of blood that misted and fell.
The bird jolted. All six wings flared wrong for a beat, climb stalling. It screamed—not the proud call this time, but a raw, ripped sound—and kicked air at him in a ragged burst.
Below, Fin went white, the oath dying in his throat. William’s jaw just dropped. The courier flinched, eyes blown wide, staring like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Hope watched the bleeding beast. Something like sympathy tugged. Why? Getting soft now—at creatures, too? Because it had taught him a skill? Because Veleth had shifted how he weighed lives—human, not human—into the same scale? Because it reminded him of the large bird in his vision?
He sighed, almost chuckling to himself. The kill might net him a level or two, yet…
He held the bird’s gaze a moment longer, then dropped to the ground.
Above, the wounded Highwing hovered, confused, blood pattering the dust. It read him, or thought it did, and turned away—six wings working unevenly—until the purple mantle dwindled into the pale air.
Hope focused on the prompt from the System.
Active Skill Unlocked:
- Wind Blade
??Wind Blade (G) - [Discovered]
Edge finds shape. The sky learns to cut.
Discovered State – Passive Effects:
? 50% reduction in the mental strain caused by this skill.
? +500 Physis permanently.
? +100 Magia permanently.
Useful skill. A long-range option for his kit. Though he wondered why it was still “Discovered” and not “Learned.” He knew there was a threshold before the System made that distinction, with a gap for minor inspiration. Was that it? Whatever. Better for him.
Behind him, someone flinched. He turned and met Fin’s eyes. The kid looked sickly pale. He swallowed, then edged a step forward.
“Ehm… He—Hector, that was an excellent display,” he managed, half stuttering. “And… you let the Highwing live, that was…”
“I troubled it enough,” Hope said, easy. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Yes… Hector.”
Minutes passed as they marched. The giant planet faded from the sky as they pushed toward the far face of the moon. The way the others watched him had changed—something tight at the edges, a small shiver in their faces. He cared little for that, but they needed another rest. Was he going too fast? He wasn’t going even at half his usual pace.
“Let’s catch a break,” he said.
Behind him, the courier-kid looked ok. Hope had been easing the pull on him and feeding him wind where he could, but the boy still needed rest.
Hope set the large pack down and sat on a low rock.
Seconds passed before Fin found his voice. “Si—Hector, can we use the backpack?”
Huh?
He had to bite back a laugh. “What d’you mean? It’s yours. Do whatever you want.”
Fin nodded, stepped over, and pulled out a few containers and potions. Hope skimmed them with a glance and noted they were E-grade. Made sense. On an E-grade world, beasts, herbs, and ore usually run from one grade lower up to the local grade.
Fin and William drank a tonic, then water.
After a quick nod between them, Fin stepped forward. “Hector, anything you want? We’ve got potions, food, water.”
Hope looked up and thought a moment. “Nah, I’m fine, lad. Maybe later, if the ol’ man takes his time picking me up, I’ll trouble you.”
Fin nodded and sat to eat.
Hope noticed the slave got nothing. He sat apart, eyes on the ground, doing his best not to move or make a sound.
Seconds ticked by before Fin spoke again, a little steadier now. Maybe the food helped his confidence.
“Hector, sir, I did not know you were so practiced with Air Magika,” he said.
Hope worked to keep his eyebrows down. Bootlicking now? “I’m decent where I’m from, lad. Not my strength, to be honest.”
Fin’s eyes widened. He picked his next words like they might bite. “So… your strength is…?”
“Enough about me,” Hope said, leaning back. “Tell me about this place. And for the void’s sake, give that courier something to eat. Not in the mood to haul him when he drops.”
Fin hesitated. William shot him a look. The kind that says rations are counted by the mouthful.
“Feed him,” Hope said, voice flat.
Fin flinched, then nodded. He dug out flatbread and a strip of jerky and passed them to the boy with the water skin. The kid stared like it might be a trick, then ate in small, careful bites.
Fin eased back down. “So… this world, well, there are several ruling families, one of them is—”
The kid went on about Swevion’s politics. Four ruling houses, one of them Viento, each holding one to three moons. He poked at it a bit and noted their average strength and means, and that Tier 2 tamed beasts handled travel between the moons and the planet.
“You get many outsiders here?” Hope cut in after his interest faded.
“That… not many. I’ve never seen one before you,” Fin said, voice shaking a little. “But I’ve heard stories.”
“Not good ones, I suppose,” Hope said, calm.
Fin looked at him and a cold shiver ran his spine.
“We move in thirty minutes. Make it count.” Hope checked his pocket watch, then stood and walked a short arc away.
He faced the vast void. Breathed once. His fingers flickered with Magika. Air drew thin between his hands, then tightened, then eased, as he practiced the new trick he had just pulled.
If the others knew he’d learned it mid-fight, they might have just fainted on the spot.
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