Champion: Before The Wind

Gintan stood alone in the alley, chest heaving, breath sharp and uneven.

His sword hung at his side, edge nicked, hands shaking. Blood dripped from his nose. His ribs screamed with every movement. But his feet stayed planted. He hadn't dropped the blade.

He hadn't run. 

The teens backed off slowly, eyeing him like a feral dog they didn't want to corner.

"Kid's nuts," one muttered, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. Another spat to the side, but none of them stepped forward again.

They left.

Not because he beat them.

Because he wouldn't fall.

Gintan stared at the wall ahead of him, vision unfocused. His mother's voice still echoed in his ears. You'll never be one of them. Every part of him hurt, but that line hit the deepest.

He let out a slow breath.

Then a new voice cut through the dark.

"You fight like pain's the only thing you understand."

Gintan's head snapped up.

A shadow stood at the far end of the alley. Cloaked. Still. Watching.

Broad shoulders, unkempt black hair tied back, a half-mask hiding most of his face.

And on his right arm—a gauntlet of dull, carved stone.

Gintan didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Hades.

He stepped forward slowly, boots crunching gravel.

"I've seen a lot of stupid fights," Hades said. "Yours might top the list."

Gintan didn't move.

The sword in his hand was still raised, though his grip had slipped. His breath came ragged. He was bleeding from somewhere behind his ear. Dirt stuck to the side of his face.

And now he was here.

Hades.

No arena. No crowd. No ceremony.

Just a man in the dark with a stone gauntlet and a voice like carved rock.

"You watched that whole thing?" Gintan asked, trying to sound steady. It came out hoarse.

Hades shrugged. "Watched a lot of things."

"You're just gonna insult me and walk off?"

"I said it was stupid. I didn't say it wasn't honest."

That threw Gintan for a second.

He lowered his sword. Just a little.

Hades stepped closer, slow and measured, cloak shifting slightly with the breeze. The moon caught the edge of his mask and the hint of a burn scar beneath it—barely visible, but there.

"I've seen a lot of fights," Hades said again. "Most people throw hands to look tough. Some do it to hurt someone. But you?"

He looked Gintan up and down.

"You swing like someone looking for something."

Gintan swallowed. "And what did I find?"

"Pain," Hades said. "Which tells me you're not stupid. Just empty."

That stung more than any punch.

"You think I'm empty?" Gintan shot back. "I know why I fight. I know what I want."

"No," Hades replied calmly. "You know what you're angry about. That's not the same."

Gintan's hands curled tighter around the hilt.

"I don't need a lecture."

"Good," Hades said, already turning away. "Because I'm not here to teach."

Gintan stood still.

Hades didn't even glance back as he walked. Just the sound of his boots on stone, slow and steady, until they faded into the dark like he'd never been there at all.

The alley felt colder after that.

Gintan's hand dropped to his side, sword lowering with it.

His chest was still tight, not from the fight—but from the echo of Hades' voice.

"You swing like someone looking for something."

"You're not stupid. Just empty."

He didn't know why those words stuck more than any insult from the teens.

Maybe because Hades hadn't said them to hurt him.

He'd said them like fact.

Like truth.

Gintan stared at the ground for a long time.

Then he wiped the blood from his chin, sheathed the sword, and started walking.

***

The village had quieted by the time he slipped back through its edges. No more dogs barking. No voices from open windows. Just the hush of sleeping homes and the sounds of his own footsteps on dirt. 

He didn't go home right away.

He went to the clearing.

The one with the post.

The one no one else ever came to.

He dropped his bag, pulled the sword free, and took his stance.

It was off. His arm was sore, and he couldn't breathe quite right from the kick earlier. But he didn't care.

He adjusted his feet. Locked his wrists.

And swing.

Again.

And again.

The words repeated in his head with every strike.

You're not stupid. Just empty.

You don't know what strength is.

Gintan didn't flinch away from them.

He fed them into every motion.

He didn't know if Hades would ever come back.

But if he did… he'd see someone different next time.

***

Gintan woke sore.

Not just bruised—bone-deep tired. His ribs flared when he sat up, and his arms felt like they'd been hammered into place overnight. He stared at the ceiling for a while, unmoving.

No voices in the house. Just early light through the window and the sound of birds outside, too soft to interrupt the weight in his chest.

He sat up, winced, and reached for the blade.

Same rhythm. Same clearing.

But not the same boy.

***

The post stood in the center of the training ring like always—weathered and crooked, barely holding upright.

Gintan stood across from it, hands wrapped in cloth. His fingers were already sore from regripping the sword during the night. His swing hadn't improved. His timing hadn't changed.

But his head was quieter.

He squared up.

Struck.

Again.

Struck again.

Not faster. Not harder.

More deliberate.

He replayed the words over and over between swings, like they were part of his form.

Looking for something.

Just empty.

The wind blew through the trees above. Leaves whispered. His sword cut air and grit in uneven arcs.

But he didn't stop.

Because Hades wasn't wrong.

And Gintan had no intention of staying empty.

***

He didn't go to school that day.

Or the next.

By the third morning, he didn't even bother sneaking past the main road anymore. Just waited for the bell to ring, watched the other kids disappear into the stone building down the hill, then turned back toward the trees.

No one asked where he'd been.

Not his classmates. Not the teacher. Not even his parents—not yet.

He wasn't sure if that made it easier or worse.

***

Training changed.

He still swung the sword—every morning, every evening—but now it was part of something larger.

He built balance drills using fallen branches and loose stones, trying to move without shifting weight too hard on either side. He ran footpaths until his calves locked up. He shadow-fought with an invisible opponent between trees, forcing himself to switch angles, test pacing, adjust grip.

He learned how to breathe properly again. Not just fight-to-scream—but to breathe-to-endure.

When his arms gave out, he trained footwork.

When his legs failed, he studied movement patterns. Watched birds land. Watched squirrels evade predators. Tried to understand instinct.

When his thoughts spiraled, he meditated. Not like they taught at school. Just sat still, back against the post, and listened. 

It didn't make him stronger.

Not yet.

But it made him sharper.

Cleaner.

More aware of how slow progress really was.

***

On the fourth day, he caught something.

A rustle.

A movement past the tree line.

He didn't turn to look.

Didn't call out.

He just smirked quietly to himself, then raised the sword again.

And started over.

***

The house was quiet when he came home.

Evening light filtered through the kitchen window, casting long orange lines across the floor. The scent of cooked vegetables lingered, faint and cold now. Plates had been cleared, but someone had left out a bowl of stew on the table—covered, like they hadn't known when he'd return.

He'd stood in the doorway for a moment.

Then stepped in and shut the door behind him.

His father looked up from the couch. His mother stepped in from the back room with a folded towel in her hands. Both of them froze when they saw him.

Gintan didn't speak.

He set his sword down gently against the wall. Took off his jacket and hung it over the chair like nothing was wrong.

His mother moved first.

"What happened to your face?"

He hesitated. "Got hit."

"By who?"

"Does it matter?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You've been disappearing for a week. You haven't been to school. You come home with bruises and burns—of course it matters."

His father stood now, slower, more tired. "Gintan, talk to us. Please."

He looked at both of them. Something in his posture had changed. Less confrontational. Less cornered.

More clear.

"I'm not going back to school," he said. "It's a waste of time."

His mother's voice cracked. "You think training alone in the woods is better than learning to survive in the real world?"

"I think I've already spent too long pretending I could fit into something built for someone else."

Silence.

Then:

"Is this about the Trials?" his father asked.

Gintan shook his head. "It's bigger than that."

"You still want to be a Champion," his mother said. Not a question.

He met her eyes. "Yeah. I do."

She looked away, jaw tight.

"I used to think I had to prove something to you," Gintan continued. "Like if I trained hard enough, you'd finally believe in me."

He took a breath.

"But I don't need that anymore. I'm not chasing this for you. Or even for them."

He placed his hand flat on the table.

"I want this. And I'm going to earn it. No shortcuts. No one carrying me."

His father looked at him long and hard.

Then, finally, said:

"Someone's helping you."

Gintan paused.

"...Not yet."

They both blinked.

"I asked him. He said no."

That hung in the room like a second silence.

"And you still kept training?" his mother asked, voice softer now.

He nodded. "What else was I supposed to do? Give up?"

That made her look down.

His father stepped forward. "We're scared because we know what happens to people who want it badly. The ones with gifts—they get broken. You don't even have that."

"I know."

"You could die, Gin."

"I know that too."

He looked at both of them again. There was no fire in his voice this time. No defiance.

 Just steel.

"I don't want you to be proud of me," he said. "I just want you to understand why I'm doing this."

His mother sat down, slowly.

For the first time, she didn't argue.

***

The next morning came cold and gray.

Gintan rose with the first light. His legs ached, and his palms were raw even through the cloth wraps, but he moved like someone who no longer questioned why.

He didn't sneak out of the house this time.

He walked straight through the front door, sword strapped to his back.

No one stopped him.

***

The clearing looked the same.

The post still leaned slightly to one side, bark worn off where his strikes had landed again and again. His footprints patterned the dirt like a ritual. He exhaled slowly as he took position, eyes narrowing.

Then he began.

Footwork drills first—circling the post, light on his heels, changing tempo with each rotation.

Then balance work—slow, deliberate cuts while standing on an uneven stone he'd wedged into the earth days ago.

Then endurance—full sequences, faster now, counting in his head, tracking his precision.

By midday, his arms burned. By dusk, his stance trembled.

But he didn't stop.

Not after everything he'd said.

Not after everything they'd heard.

***

By the sixth day, he had started to notice it again—that faint rustle at the edge of the trees.

He never turned to look.

Never spoke.

But he could feel it now.

A presence.

A weight.

Watching.

He just kept moving.

Because that's what you did when you had no element. No shortcut. No applause.

You worked.

And you waited.

***

It was early when he felt it again.

Not just a presence—footsteps.

This time, they didn't stop at the tree line.

Hades stepped out into the clearing, same as he had that first night. But this time, there was no mockery in his tone. No judgment in the way he stood.

Gintan was mid-swing. He finished the motion, lowered his blade, and turned.

Their eyes met.

"You came back," Gintan said, breath light.

Hades didn't answer right away. He looked around—at the post, the worn earth, the rocks Gintan used for balance drills. His eyes lingered on the blisters wrapped beneath fraying cloth.

"You're still here," Hades said simply.

"I said I would be."

Hades gave a small nod. "Good."

He stepped into the ring, not close—just enough to speak like a mentor instead of a shadow.

"I've been watching."

"I know."

"You didn't quit."

"I couldn't."

"And why's that?" Hades asked.

Gintan didn't answer right away.

"I used to think if I trained hard enough, I'd prove something," he said quietly. "To my parents. To Windrest. To everyone who looked at me like I wasn't enough."

He met Hades' gaze.

"But now… I just want to be strong enough to live with myself."

That made Hades go still.

The wind moved through the trees.

Finally, Hades spoke again. "The Trials are tomorrow."

"I know."

"You haven't turned in the form."

Gintan reached into his jacket and pulled it out. Crumpled. Creased. Still there.

"I wanted to."

"I bet you did."

He looked down at it.

"I thought maybe if I showed up anyway… maybe I'd get lucky."

Hades' tone darkened.

"Or maybe you'd get seen."

Gintan looked up sharply.

"There are people out there who remember what happened last time someone without an element passed the first round."

"Is that what this is about?" Gintan asked. "Protecting them from me?"

"No," Hades said. "Protecting you from what happens if they don't forget."

Silence.

Then Hades added, flatly:

"You're not ready."

And for once… Gintan didn't argue.

***

Hades let the silence linger. 

Then he said, calmly:

"Burn the flyer."

Gintan stared at him.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Gintan's grip on the paper tightened. "That's not training. That's a statement."

"Exactly."

Hades stepped forward, his tone sharpening—not angry, just undeniable.

"You want to train under me? You let go of that. That piece of paper, that idea in your head that some grand moment is coming to save you. That you'll walk into the Trials and everyone will suddenly get it."

Gintan didn't speak.

"Because here's the truth," Hades said, voice low. "No one's coming. No one cares how much you've bled. If you walk in there tomorrow, they'll see a name they don't know and a kid with nothing to his name."

He paid.

"And if by some miracle you make it through a round… someone important will notice. Someone who doesn't forget."

Gintan looked down at the flyer again.

It was a little torn. Smudged from rain. But still whole.

"It's everything I've worked for," he muttered.

"No," Hades said. "It's everything you've clung to."

That line landed.

Hard.

Hades stepped closer, now within striking distance—but there was no threat in his posture.

"Burn it. And I'll train you. Two years. My rules. No promises."

"And if I don't?"

"Then walk away. Take your shot tomorrow. But don't come back after."

Gintan's jaw tightened.

He looked down at the paper again.

Then back at Hades.

"I've given up everything else," he said. "You want that too?"

"No," Hades said. "I want the part of you that still believes in shortcuts—so I can break it."

***

Gintan stared at the flyer.

His thumb traced the folded crease like it meant something—like the worn paper had earned the right to be kept.

He thought about his parents.

The school.

The alley.

The sword.

And then he thought about the six days out here. Alone. Bleeding Working. Breaking bad habits before they became permanent.

He looked up at Hades.

"You really mean it," he said.

"I don't offer twice," Hades replied. "This is the trade. Two years. My way. Or you walk into that arena tomorrow with nothing but heart and a bruised ego."

Gintan didn't move for a long time.

Then slowly, he pulled something from his pocket. 

A match. 

It was cracked slightly along the stick. He'd kept it in his bag for light during the early morning training. Almost forgot it was there.

He struck it against a stone.

It hissed to life.

The flame was small.

He held the flyer above it.

It caught fast.

The paper curled inwards like it was trying to resist, edges blackening into smoke and ember. Gintan didn't flinch as it burned down to his fingers—just dropped the last bit into the dirt and stepped back.

Hades watched in silence.

Gintan turned to him. Voice quiet, steady.

"Two years."

Hades nodded once.

"No breaks. No praise. No guarantees."

"I'm not here for that."

"Good."

Hades turned without another word and started walking.

No dramatic gesture. No declaration. Just boots on dirt and the hush of trees folding in around them.

Gintan hesitated only once.

He looked back.

Windrest stood behind him, distant but visible through the tree line — chimney smoke curling into the sky, rooftops glowing under the early sun, still half-asleep.

He thought about his mother, sitting at the table with her arms folded tight.

And his father's voice, quiet now in memory:

"We've seen what happens to kids who chase that world without power to back them."

Gintan didn't know if he had power yet.

But he knew what he was chasing.

He turned forward again.

No regrets. No promises.

Just a match burned to ash in the dirt.

He followed.