Chapter 16: Meet the storm

  Dillion sat quietly on the edge of the preparation bench, strapping his bracer tight with practiced ease. His shield leaned against the wall beside him, freshly polished, and his knife hung snug at his hip. Across from him, May paced.

  “Stop that,” he said without looking.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, then immediately resumed pacing. “You’re about to fight a top-25 player. I’m allowed to be anxious.”

  “I’m not,” Dillion said, flashing a confident grin.

  That got her to stop. “You’re not… anxious?”

  “I’ve trained. I’ve fought through two rounds. I beat Kardon, I even beat Voss I watched Stormblade’s last fight. I know his rhythm.”

  May stared. “Did you just call Jerek Valen by his nickname like you’re equals?”

  Dillion shrugged, cracking his knuckles. “I’m not saying I’ll crush him. But I’ve got a shot.”

  “You have a shield and a water gun, Dillion.”

  “And a plan,” he said.

  The door creaked open.

  Both of them turned. A tall figure entered, lean and composed, his green Soul Gem glowing faintly beneath his cloak. Jerek “Stormblade” Valen.

  “Nice place,” he said, glancing around the prep room. “Figured I’d come meet my opponent.”

  May stepped protectively forward. Dillion stood, trying not to look surprised.

  Valen looked him up and down. “You’ve surprised a lot of people, Rogers. That fight with Kardon — and then Voss? That was impressive.”

  Dillion straightened a little. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Valen gave the faintest smirk. “Confidence. Good. But here’s the thing—”

  He took a slow step forward, voice calm, not threatening — but heavy.

  “Everyone’s confident until they meet the storm.”

  Dillion kept his face neutral, but his fingers twitched near his hip.

  “I don’t say that to scare you,” Valen added, tone softening. “I say it because the way you’ve been moving… thinking... it reminds me of someone I used to be.”

  There was a pause.

  “I don’t take easy fights,” Valen said. “If I win, I want it to mean something. Make sure you show me the best version of yourself.”

  With that, he turned and started to leave — but paused at the door.

  “After this match… if you’re still standing, maybe we talk.”

  Then he disappeared into the hallway, his footsteps as quiet as the breeze.

  Dillion exhaled slowly.

  May raised an eyebrow. “Still think you’ve got a shot?”

  He grabbed his shield. “More than ever.”

  She smirked. “Ego’s getting big.”

  “Hey,” he said, flashing her a grin, “you don’t beat a guy named Stormblade by playing humble.”

  Outside, the Arena bell rang three times — the call to semifinals.

  It was time.

  The hallway to the arena floor stretched before Dillion like a tunnel carved from stone and sound. The muffled roar of the crowd grew louder with each step, every vibration pulsing through the soles of his boots. He adjusted the strap on his shield and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension.

  Behind him, May gave him a quick slap on the back. “Don’t die.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll try.”

  The gate ahead creaked open, and the full noise of the arena hit him like a wave — thousands of players and NPCs packed into the stands, Eden cameras hovering above like insects hungry for footage.

  ?? “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The semifinals are HERE!”

  The clown-masked announcer stood on a floating platform above the center of the arena, spinning slowly as he addressed the roaring crowd. His oversized sleeves fluttered with every gesture.

  ?? “Our FIRST contender is the unexpected underdog who’s been leaving puddles and problems in his wake!”

  ?? “He’s got a SHIELD in one hand, a KNIFE in the other, and a water pistol for a soul — make some noise for the rookie rising through the ranks…”

  ?? “WATER GUUUUUUN DILLION ROGERS!”

  The crowd erupted with mixed reactions — some cheering ironically, others earnestly chanting the now meme-worthy moniker.

  “WATER! GUN! WATER! GUN!”

  Dillion stepped out, trying not to laugh at his own nickname. He raised his hand sheepishly and gave a small wave before gripping the rim of his shield with both hands.

  ?? “And now…” the announcer’s voice deepened theatrically, “his OPPONENT.”

  The platform slowly floated to the other side of the arena, pausing above the opposite gate.

  ?? “Ranked 25th in all of Sora, a master of wind and control, and the only man to win a duel using nothing but a gust and a smile…”

  ?? “Give it up for the storm that never stops — JEREK! STORMBLADE! VALEN!”

  The gate exploded open as a controlled whirlwind surged across the floor, and from its center stepped Valen. Cloak flaring, boots light on the stone, he moved like he was walking on air — perfectly balanced, perfectly calm.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The crowd roared with respect.

  Valen didn’t raise his hands. He simply looked at Dillion across the arena and gave him a small nod.

  Dillion exhaled slowly. This wasn’t Kardon. This wasn’t Voss.

  This was the real test.

  ?? “Contenders ready?” the announcer called.

  Dillion tightened the straps on his bracer.

  Valen planted his feet, wind already gathering around him.

  ?? “BEGIN!”

  The moment the bell rang, Dillion moved.

  He burst forward, shield raised, knife low and ready. His confidence surged, boosted by the roaring crowd, by his last two victories, by the way May had looked at him that morning — like he actually belonged here.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, Valen,” Dillion muttered, lunging in.

  But the second he closed the gap, the air changed.

  A sharp crack rang out as a sudden gust slammed into Dillion’s chest, knocking him back a full step before he could even lift his arm. Valen hadn’t moved from his starting position. Wind spiraled around him like a protective shell — effortless, invisible, untouchable.

  Dillion gritted his teeth and pivoted to the side. Fine. He’d seen this kind of thing before. Voss had controlled the field too — and he’d still lost.

  He flicked his fingers forward.

  Pew. Pew.

  Two high-pressure water bullets soared through the air — one aimed at Valen’s shoulder, the other at his knee.

  Both curved off-course before impact, caught in a shifting breeze that bent them like paper.

  Dillion’s heart skipped.

  Still, he pressed on, dropping Fog in a cloud around Valen’s space and darting into it.

  He crouched low, shield raised, ready to ambush — but something slammed into his back, lifting him into the air and hurling him straight out of the mist.

  He hit the arena floor hard, sliding to a stop with a grimace.

  May flinched in the stands.

  “C’mon, Dillion…” she whispered.

  Back in the ring, Dillion climbed to his feet. He was breathing heavier now. His confidence had started to splinter.

  Valen finally stepped forward, calm and collected. The wind parted gently with every movement he made.

  “You’ve got power,” Valen called across the field, voice steady. “But power without precision is just noise.”

  Dillion didn’t answer.

  He rushed in again — this time feinting left, rolling right, activating Swift Boots to close the distance and strike.

  But as he neared, Valen’s hand extended — and the air screamed.

  A long, whistling sound like a blade being drawn from a sheath echoed across the arena.

  From his palm, a blade of pure wind snapped into being — green and shimmering, the edges so sharp the pressure alone split the stones beneath their feet.

  Stormblade.

  Dillion barely had time to react.

  The wind struck his shield — not with brute force, but with surgical precision. The impact slid across his guard, disarming him, twisting him midair. A follow-up blast sent him tumbling across the arena like a ragdoll caught in a gale.

  When he came to a stop, he was coughing.

  Glowing cracks spread across his armor — faint blue lines marking where the wind had broken through. He looked down, realizing how close he was to being out of this.

  His Soul Gem hovered faintly over his shoulder, flickering.

  Valen walked toward him — slowly, respectfully.

  “I saw what you did to Voss,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “Smart play. But I’m not Voss.”

  Dillion tried to rise — only for Valen to raise Stormblade one last time.

  A sharp gust cut through the field — not painful, but final.

  Dillion’s body dematerialized instantly, light overtaking his frame. His Soul Gem fell to the floor with a soft pulse before it was drawn toward the victory gate.

  The crowd let out a mix of awe and sympathy.

  ?? “AND THE WINNER — MOVING ON TO THE FINAL MATCH…”

  ?? “STORMBLADE — JEREK VALEN!”

  Valen turned to the crowd, but didn’t raise his arms.

  Instead, he looked toward the spot where Dillion had vanished — and nodded once.

  A sign of respect.

  May on the other hand, She had already started sprinting to Outpost to logout.

  The light around Dillion flickered—then fractured—and just like that, he was no longer in Sora.

  He gasped as the pod opened with a soft hiss. Cool air met his face as reality washed over him. The dull hum of servers, the faint beeping of diagnostics, the quiet buzz of a vending machine somewhere nearby. He was back.

  Dillion slowly sat up in his standard-issue Eden portal pod, rubbing his temples. The room around him was large and sterile, lined with at least a dozen other pods stacked in neat rows like coffins for the curious. Public access pods. The kind anyone could rent. No frills. No privacy.

  Across the room, another pod hissed open, and a groggy teenager climbed out, yawning. A janitor passed by, whistling.

  This wasn’t like the sleek, private rooms the top-ranked players had, nor the Guild-owned wings where elite squads logged in and out together. Dillion wasn’t there yet.

  But he was close.

  He got dressed quickly, as he raises his hand to summon his Soul Gem but nothing happened

  "Dillion Giggled a bit"

  and making his way out of the portal room. His legs felt like lead — the kind of fatigue that came after intense fights and far too much adrenaline. And yet… there was something in his chest now. A quiet confidence.

  The elevator hummed softly as it lowered him to the main floor of the Eden Center. Sleek glass walls. White tile. A neon welcome sign that somehow still flickered despite Eden’s bottomless budget.

  At the receptionist desk, a young woman in a green Eden uniform spotted him as he approached.

  “Dillion Rogers?” she asked, scanning a monitor.

  He blinked. “Yeah?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Congratulations on making it to the Sora Invitational Semifinals. That’s no small feat — especially for a Blue Mark.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks. Still processing it.”

  She tapped her screen. “You’ve been awarded 5,000 credits for your placement so far. Would you like it transferred to your Eden account?”

  Dillion nearly choked. “Five… thousand?”

  “That’s right,” she smiled. “If you continue on to the Finals, it’ll increase significantly. Win the whole thing, and you’ll be talking sponsorship deals, private pods, maybe even guild contracts.”

  Dillion nodded, dazed. “Yeah… sure. Transfer it.”

  She pressed a button, and a soft chime rang from his Eden wristband. Balance updated.

  Dillion stared at the numbers on the screen. That was five times what he made in a month at the bookstore. All for making it this far.

  For surviving.

  He took a deep breath and turned to leave. But even as his feet moved toward the exit, his thoughts were still trapped somewhere else…

  Not on the money.

  Not even on the match.

  But on that name, he’d seen last, before receiving his first Death

  Valen.

  As the glass doors of the Eden Center slid open with a hiss, Dillion stepped outside into the sunlight.

  The real sunlight.

  Warm. Sharp. Too real after so long in the stylized skies of Sora.

  He squinted, blinking hard as his vision adjusted — and then his legs buckled.

  The weight hit him all at once. The fatigue he’d buried during the tournament. The soreness left over from Valen’s storm blade. The sharp ache in his shoulders from weeks of grinding, blocking, pushing.

  More than a month in Sora — real combat, real fear, real pain — all compressed into just two Earth days.

  He staggered forward, the world spinning just slightly—

  “Dillion!”

  A familiar voice, urgent.

  Moments later, arms wrapped around him just before he collapsed.

  May.

  Breathless, red in the face, her Eden band still blinking from an incomplete shutdown process. She must’ve sprinted all the way from her own pod.

  “I—huff—I told you—huff—to wait up,” she wheezed.

  Dillion leaned on her, surprised by how solid she felt despite her size. “You logged out just to find me?”

  “Of course I did, dummy.” She adjusted his arm around her shoulder. “You didn’t think I was going to let you stumble face-first into traffic after what you’ve been through, did you?”

  “I didn’t even know I was stumbling…” he mumbled, still dazed.

  She glanced at him, her expression softening. “It’s been over a month for you in there, Dillion. You don’t just walk that off. Especially not after the fight with Valen.”

  “Two days here,” he muttered. “Feels… wrong.”

  May steadied him. “It’s Sora. Nothing about it is normal. But hey — you made it. You’re alive. You’re—wait.” She stopped, staring at his wristband as it blinked with a new balance.

  “Are those… credits?”

  “Yeah,” Dillion said weakly. “Five thousand of them.”

  May’s mouth dropped open. “You made more in two days than you did in the last three months combined.”

  Dillion blinked. “That’s… true.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, then helped guide him down the steps. “Come on. I’m taking you to get food. Real food. You’ve earned it, ‘Water Gun.’”

  He groaned. “Don’t start calling me that…”

  “No promises.”