Varyn tossed Ethan a gnarled oak branch, its bark peeling and leaves long dead. "Fight me."
Ethan stared. "With *this*?"
The swordmaster unsheathed his obsidian blade, its edge gleaming. "A branch in the hands of a master can cut deeper than a king's sword. Aura isn't in the steel—it's in the *wielder*."
Ethan swung the branch clumsily. Varyn parried, shattering it to splinters.
"Again."
Ethan grabbed another branch, his fingers tightening. "How?"
"Stop seeing the weapon. See *yourself*."
Varyn forced Ethan into the marsh, where stagnant water pooled and mosquitoes hummed. "Most knights bond with *one* element. Two, if they're gifted. Three?" He snorted. "Only three souls in Roudnam hold that honor. But you…" He kicked Ethan's knees. "You're no knight. You're *mud*. Breathe it."
Ethan sank into the muck, recalling the slums—the grit under his nails, the ache of hunger. His aura flickered, brown and earthy. The branch in his hand hardened, its surface crackling with energy.
Varyn attacked. Ethan blocked, the branch meeting steel with a resonant *clang*.
"Earth," Varyn muttered. "A farmer's element. Basic. But you're not done, are you?"
That night, Ethan dreamed.
*He stood in a grove of Eldertrees, their trunks scorched but roots pulsing faintly. Eryndor stood knee-deep in a crystalline pool, water swirling around him like liquid glass. "Aura is not bound to earth alone," he said, lifting a hand. The pool rose, forming a blade of water. "Few can bond with three elements. But four?" His voice echoed like thunder. "Four is the stuff of legends—the last wielded by the founders of Roudnam."*
Ethan reached for the water, and it coiled around his arm, cool and relentless.
*"Cedric drains the last sapling," Eryndor warned. "He hoards power like a dragon, blind to the rot he spreads."*
Ethan woke, his palms damp.
At dawn, Lira led them to the Ash Plains' hidden canyon. The Eldertree sapling, once vibrant, now wilted, its leaves brittle. Blackthorn soldiers surrounded it, siphoning amber aura into glowing vials.
"Faster!" barked their captain. "Prince Cedric wants every drop. He'll grind this stump to dust if it fuels his throne."
Ethan's branch trembled in his grip. "We have to stop them."
Varyn held him back. "Not yet. You're not ready."
A soldier laughed, crushing a sapling root under his boot. "This relic's worth more dead. Just like the gutter rat the prince wants gone."
That evening, Lira sharpened her arrows, her face shadowed. "My brother bonded with *three* elements. Fire, wind, light. Cedric called him a 'threat to the natural order.' Burned him alive with his own aura."
Ethan frowned. "Why?"
"Because Cedric fears what he can't control," she said, her voice brittle. "Elara's no saint, but she'll gut him. And I'll watch."
Varyn pushed Ethan to merge earth, air, sunlight, and water.
**The Technique**:
- **Earth**: Mud hardened the branch into a jagged spear.
- **Air**: Wind sharpened its tip to a razor's edge.
- **Sunlight**: Golden flames licked the wood, searing Varyn's defenses.
- **Water**: Condensed droplets slicked the surface, deflecting strikes like glass.
Ethan spun, the branch a blur. Varyn's blade shattered.
The swordmaster stared, his usual sneer replaced by disbelief. "Three elements are rare. *Four*… I've only heard tales. The founders of Roudnam, the first swordmasters—they wielded four. Cedric's champion, Draven, has three. And here you are, a slum rat, holding *legends* in your hands."
Lira smirked. "Bet that stings your pride, old man."
Varyn ignored her, gripping Ethan's shoulder. "You're chaos. A storm. Use it."
As they retreated to camp, Ethan paused. Sunlight speared through storm clouds, rain kissing his skin. He raised the branch, and the elements fused—mud, wind, light, and water swirling into a helix of raw aura.
Lira watched, her smirk wary. "You're going to get us all killed."
"No," Ethan said. "I'm going to remake this kingdom."
The Grand Tournament's gates loomed, its banners blood-red. Nobles jeered as Ethan entered, his branch strapped to his back.
Princess Elara nodded from her balcony, her gaze calculating.
High above, Prince Cedric observed through a spyglass, his lips curled. "Crush the gutter rat," he told Draven, his three-element champion. "Let the mud remember its place."