Champion: Before The Wind

The morning air hung thick as mist curled through the trees.

Gintan followed Hades in silence, boots crunching softly over stone and dirt. The trail they walked wasn't a trail at all—just broken ground snaking downhill, half-swallowed by roots and brambles. It wasn't meant to be found. That much was clear.

Neither of them had spoken since leaving Windrest's edge.

Gintan didn't mind.

Every step away from the village made it easier to breathe.

They passed under a natural arch of split rock. Ivy draped across it like forgotten cloth. Then the forest fell away entirely—and Gintan stopped short.

The quarry opened before him like a scar in the earth—deep, silent, and long forgotten.

Jagged walls ringed the hollowed basin, rough and cracked from time and weather. Stone scaffolding clung to the cliffs like the skeletons of machines long dead. The air down there felt different. Still. Heavier somehow. The sun hadn't yet reached the bottom.

Hades stepped to the edge and looked down. "Welcome to your new life."

Gintan approached slowly. His eyes scanned the depth of it—the winding ledges, the broken pulleys, the faded chalk lines along the wall where tools once hung. This wasn't just a pit.

It was a graveyard for ambition.

"How deep does it go?" Gintan asked.

Hades didn't answer. He just started down the incline without looking back.

Gintan followed.

The path was narrow, sloped, and unstable. Loose gravel skidded beneath his boots. At one point, he had to press his hand to the wall just to stay upright.

When they reached the basin floor, everything was quiet.

No birds.

No wind.

Just stone.

Hades stopped near a half-buried slab and dropped his pack beside it. He looked around once, then at Gintan.

"This place doesn't care who you are," he said. "It only remembers what you survive."

He knelt, pulled out a worn cloth, and began wrapping his right forearm. The gauntlet was nowhere to be seen.

Gintan stayed standing. 

His heart hadn't stopped racing since the descent.

"So," he said. "Where do we start?"

Hades didn't look up.

"You already did."

***

The first thing Hades did was hand Gintan a stone.

Not a weapon. Not a command.

Just a jagged block, the size of his chest, dense and gray.

"Carry it," he said. "One lap around the pit."

Gintan blinked. "That's it?"

Hades didn't answer. Just picked up his own pack and walked toward a ledge, where he sat down without ceremony. 

Gintan looked at the stone again.

It weighed more than it looked. The corner cut into his arms as he hoisted it to his chest. Dust scratched his throat. His boots scraped against gravel.

The quarr was quiet except for the sounds of his own movement.

One lap didn't seem like much—until the incline tilted. Until the stone pulled forward on every step, and his arms started to shake before he was halfway around.

He gritted his teeth. Adjusted his grip. Kept going.

By the time he finished, his legs felt numb and his lungs burned like fire. He dropped the block at Hades' feet with a thud.

The man didn't move.

"What now?" Gintan asked.

Hades stood. Walked over to a half-rotten scaffold near the far wall. It was tilted at an angle, one side crumbling where support had collapsed.

He pointed at the beam. "Walk it."

Gintan looked at the beam. Then at him.

"That thing barely holds weight."

"Then don't fall."

The words weren't cruel. They were calm. Matter-of-fact. They landed with weight anyway.

Gintan exhaled slowly, wiped his palms on his pants, and climbed up. 

The wood creaked.

The quarry floor suddenly felt a lot farther down.

He didn't walk fast. Focused on keeping his balance, knees bent slowly, arms out. His muscles still ached from the stone, and the breeze through the open pit did him no favors.

Halfway across, a piece of wood splintered under his boot. He froze.

Hades didn't say a word.

Gintan kept going.

When he finally jumped down at the end, knees bending to absorb the drop, he turned to look at Hades.

"Is any of this supposed to make me stronger?"

Hades met his eyes. "No."

Gintan frowned.

"It's supposed to keep you alive."

***

The next task was balance.

Hades had Gintan climb onto an uneven ring of stones—flat, wide, but placed at awkward intervals, some wobbling slightly underfoot. No pattern. No rhythm.

"Full circle," Hades said. "No stumbles."

Gintan exhaled, stepped onto the first rock.

It was harder than it looked. His legs were already trembling from the lap and the scaffold. Sweat ran down his back. Each step felt like threading a needle with his whole body. When he reached the third stone, it tipped suddenly under his foot.

He flailed—arms out, heart jumping—

—but the wind shifted.

Barely.

Just enough to steady him. A faint push. Like the air beneath his foot had thickened for a heartbeat.

He caught himself.

Didn't think twice.

Kept going.

Hades narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

By the seventh stone, Gintan's breathing turned ragged. His balance slipped again, and again the wind nudged—soft, natural, barely there. Helping.

He didn't notice.

But Hades did.

When Gintan finished the circle and stepped off, legs shaking, he dropped into a seated crouch, arms resting on his knees.

His vision pulsed with black dots.

"I can't feel my legs," he muttered.

Hades tossed him a flask. "Good. That means you're finally starting."

Gintan wiped sweat from his face. "You call this starting?"

"You've been chasing results," Hadse said. "I want control."

Gintan looked up.

"No one survives on heart alone," Hades continued. "They survive by knowing exactly what their body can do. And what it can't."

He turned away.

"Get up. You've got one more drill."

Gintan groaned. "I thought we were done."

"You'll know when we're done," Hads said, his voice sharper now. "And you'll hate me for it."

He meant it.

Gintan slowly stood, body protesting every movement.

Behind him, a soft breeze moved through the pit again—subtle and strange, like it had waited for him to rise.

***

The next drill didn't involve words.

Hades took a handful of stones—flat, light, palm-sized—and began tossing them at Gintan's feet without warning.

"Move," he said.

That was it.

The first one hit the ground near Gintan's left boot. He flinched.

The second one came faster.

He jumped back.

The third came right after, landing behind him.

He spun, slipped on loose gravel, caught himself, then looked up—just as the fourth flew low toward his chest.

He swatted it away with his forearm, stumbling two steps sideways. Dirt scattered under his boots.

"Too slow," Hades said.

"You're throwing rocks at me!"

"You think an enemy warns you first?"

Another one flew.

Gintan twisted out of the way, barely dodging it.

His body was moving on its own now—tired, shaky, but faster. His arms blocked without planning. His feet adjusted without thought.

One stone came at knee height. He jumped over it.

Another flew toward his head.

Just as he turned, a gust of wind pushed across his back.

It wasn't strong.

But it shifted him—just enough for the stone to miss by an inch.

Gintan blinked, breathing hard. He didn't register the wind.

But Hades did.

He paused mid-throw.

Something changed in his face—eyes narrowing slightly, jaw still. Like he'd been watching for this.

"Again," Hades said.

More stones flew.

Gintan moved faster now. Off-balance, yes. But there was a rhythm starting. A flow. The air around him wasn't just present—it was timed. Every step, every dodge, had a margin he shouldn't have cleared.

He didn't question it.

He was too tired to.

And that's when it worked best.

***

The rocks stopped.

Gintan stood, panting, chest rising and falling like a drumbeat. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. Dust clung to his sleeves. A drop of sweat slid past his brow, curved along his cheek, and vanished under his collar.

He felt it then—wind brushing his neck.

Just for a second.

Not breeze.

Movement.

Like it had followed him.

He turned slightly to look at Hades.

"Was that you?" he asked.

Hades didn't answer.

He just pointed to the balance stones. "Again."

Gintan frowned.

His body ached. His shoulders stung where a stone had slipped him earlier. But he stepped forward anyway, hands clenched.

This time, he thought harder.

He mapped the stones before stepping. Focused on the gaps, on each shift in pressure. When the first stone rocked beneath him, he adjusted—not from feeling, but from planning.

And it failed.

His left foot missed its edge.

He slipped.

Fell hard. Knee slammed against dirt. Elbow scraped raw.

"Dammit!" Gintan shouted, rolling to his side.

Silence.

He looked up—expecting Hades to mock him. Call him weak.

But he didn't.

Instead, the older man stood at the base of the ring, watching with an unreadable expression.

Then he spoke.

"Thinking too much."

Gintan grit his teeth. "Isn't that the point?"

"No," Hades said. "Not today."

He walked forward slowly.

"You want to control every step. Every breath. But power doesn't live in your head."

He stopped a few feet away.

"It lives in moments. The kind you ruin when you start narrating them in your mind."

Gintan didn't answer. His knee throbbed. His pride worse.

"You did better when you were half-dead and had nothing left to think with," Hades said.

A pause.

"Why do you think that is?"

Gintan stayed quiet. But something in his face shifted.

Not defeat.

Understanding.

***

They didn't speak for a while.

Gintan sat on the ground, hands dust-covered, knees drawn up. The sun had started to dip past the quarry rim, casting long shadows across the pit. Light and wind moved together, threading between broken stone and scaffolding like they'd always belonged there.

A small breeze stirred the air.

This time, Gintan noticed.

Just barely.

He looked up toward the ledge where they'd come down hours ago. The air moved uphill—against gravity. Gentle. Soft. But oddly timed.

He frowned. Rubbed his arms. Didn't speak.

Hades stood nearby, arms crossed. His face unreadable.

But he was watching again.

Not Gintan's stance.

Not his balance.

His presence.

The way dust shifted slightly near his boots. The way his fall earlier had landed softer than it should have. The way his breathing had synced—almost unconsciously—with the rhythm of the wind.

Hades' eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened once. He turned away.

"Come with me," he said.

Gintan blinked. "Now?"

"We're not done."

He grabbed his pack and started walking toward the far side of the pit—toward a narrow switchback trail that Gintan hadn't seen before. The path cut upward, between jagged walls of stone. Old ropes dangled from wooden pegs long forgotten.

Gintan hesitated, then stood and followed. 

They climbed for several minutes. The air thinned. Wind picked up—sharper now. Real. Cutting.

At the top, a narrow ledge jutted out into open space.

It overlooked a drop.

Not wide. But deep.

At the bottom: cracked stone, dead brush, and a half-dry pool of muddy rainwater.

Gintan stepped to the edge, breathing heavy.

"Why are we up here?" he asked.

Hades didn't answer right away.

Then he said, low and measured:

"You want to know if you're elementless?"

Gintan looked at him.

Hades didn't blink.

"Jump."

***

Gintan stared over the edge.

Loose pebbles slipped from beneath his boots and clattered down the rock face, vanishing into the quiet below.

It wasn't the height that made his stomach twist.

It was what it meant.

Because Hades wasn't testing his courage.

He was testing something else.

Something Gintan had no name for.

He looked back at Hades. The man stood perfectly still, arms crossed, face unreadable beneath the half-mask.

"You serious?" Gintan asked.

A pause.

Then a nod. One, quiet. Final.

Gintan turned back to the ledge.

The drop was maybe three stories. Not deadly on paper—but that assumed you feel right. That you didn't land on a rock. That you didn't flail or twist or catch your ankle halfway down.

He swallowed hard.

Every instinct screamed at him to stop.

But something deeper pushed forward.

The same something that had kept him going in the woods. That had whispered through bruised muscles and early frost. That had wrapped around his legs when he trained until he couldn't walk straight.

He closed his eyes.

He thought of the alley.

The post.

The long silence in his parents' kitchen.

The flyer—burned and gone.

I just want to be strong enough to live with myself

He opened his eyes again.

The wind moved.

Not hard.

Not cold.

But there—curling his back, rising from the quarry like it had been waiting.

He stepped over the edge.

Toes past the line.

And jumped.

***

For the first second, he was falling.

Free and fast and alone.

Air tore at his jacket. The pit opened around him like a mouth. His body twisted, instinct kicking in too late, limbs pullin in—

—and then the air shifted.

Not like a gust.

Not like a miracle.

Like an answer.

The wind curved around his torso, cradled under his arms, pressed his chest—not stopping him, not lifting him, but guiding.

The fall didn't vanish.

It bent.

It slowed.

His spine aligned. His feet adjusted. He moved with the wind now, not against it, not through it—but within it.

His knees hit first—rough but not breaking.

His hands touched next.

Then stillness.

He lay in the dust, heart pounding like war drums, breath sharp.

But nothing was broken.wi

He stared up at the gray sky above the quarry rim, wind still coiling gently around his body like breath that had never left him.

And for the first time in his life—

He didn't feel alone.

Not in the way that mattered.

***

At the top of the ledge, Hades hadn't moved.

His eyes tracked every part of the fall.

His mask didn't shift.

But his posture had.

His arms had slowly lowered. His jaw clenched—just once.

His gaze locked on the way the air moved in spirals around Gintan's body even after the landing. It danced off the boy's shoulders like it knew him.

And in that moment, something behind Hades' eyes flickered.

Not fear.

Not relief.

Recognition.

A memory he didn't want.

He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the rising wind.

And said nothing.

***

Gintan stayed on the for a long time.

His heart had slowed. His breathing was calm. The ache in his back and legs was still there—but it didn't own him. Not anymore.

The wind still moved around him.

Not a breeze.

Not background noise.

Something Present.

It swirled near his feet. Stirred his collar. Waited.

He sat up slowly, dirt clinging to his coat. His palms were scraped raw, and there was a small tear in his sleeve. But he barely noticed it. 

Because the air shifted again—following his breath.

He raised one hand.

The wind responded.

Not dramatic. Just… aligned.

Instinctive.

Like it had always been there.

He blinked

Waited.

It didn't stop.

That's when he realized something else.

He'd never seen this before.

Not once. Not in the tournaments. Not at school. Not in Windrest or Arxium. Not in the Recruit Trials footage, the Champion broadcast replays, or any story he'd grown up hearing.

Fire. Stone. Ice. Lightning.

But not this.

"...What even is this?" he muttered.

Wind?

The word felt strange in his mouth. Like it didn't belong. Like he was naming something people didn't talk about because they didn't know it existed.

***

Footsteps echoed down the ledge.

Gintan looked up.

Hades approached without a word.

Hades' eyes met Gintan's.

And in that look—just for a second—was something buried. Something old.

Not approval.

Not pride.

Recognition.

Hades stopped a few feet away.

"You're not elementless," he said flatly.

Gintan looked at the ground, then at his hands again.

"It's wind… isn't it?"

A pause.

Then a single nod.

"I've never seen anyone use this," Gintan said. "Not once."

Hades didn't answer.

His face didn't move. But the silence spoke louder than anything.

"You've seen it," Gintan said.

Still no answer.

Just the faintest narrowing of Hades' eyes.

Gintan pushed once more. "Where?"

Hades turned away. "Get some rest. We start over tomorrow."

And that was it.

He walked back up the path without another word.

But his steps weren't casual.

They were deliberate.

And behind the mask, something had shifted.

***

The stars were out by the time he reached the edge of Windrest.

Gintan didn't go home.

He didn't feel ready for bedsheets or dinner or words.

Instead, he climbed a ridge just beyond the treeline. One of the old lookout spots he used to visit when he was younger—before training, before fights, before any of this felt real.

He sat on the old flat stone overlooking the forest. The capital was barely visible in the distance—a thin glow beyond the black trees.

He let his sword rest at his side.

The wind moved gently around him.

Not strong.

Not showy.

But constant.

Like it had found him, and didn't plan to leave.

He raised his hand again, just to feel it.

The breeze curved around his fingers.

He didn't try to control it.

Didn't command it.

He just let it be.

It responded.

A small lift of air. A weightless drift across his knuckles. Like it was breathing with him.

He let out a breath that had been lodged in his chest for years.

"I'm not nothing," he said softly.

No one answered.

The stars blinked. The trees swayed. And the wind turned slowly in place.

It wasn't an anthem. It wasn't a title.

It was a beginning.