A soft breeze whispered through the trees outside his window.
Gintan opened his eyes before the sun had cleared the ridge. The room was dim, the sky outside still colored in deep blues and early golds. He lay still for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling above him, the familiar creaks of their small house settling around him.
Then he sat up, slow and quiet.
His feet touched the soft carpet.
From under his bed, he pulled out the old blade—rusted at the edges, the grip wrapped in worn cloth. He slung it over his back, adjusted the strap, and moved to the door without a sound.
The hallway was still. His parents' room remained closed. He crept past it every step a calculated risk, like he was sneaking out of enemy territory instead of his own home. He paused at the front door, hand on the latch, listening.
No movement.
He slipped outside.
Windrest greeted him with its usual silence. Trees swayed gently, their leaves catching the faint morning light. Smoke hadn't yet begun rising from chimneys. The village still slept.
He walked a narrow path through the woods behind his home, boots barely brushing the moss. Birds called somewhere in the trees. A squirrel scattered across a low branch, indifferent to him.
Up ahead, a clearing waited.
A space no one else visited. Not anymore.
He stepped into it, the trees giving way to a worn ring of dirt and trampled grass, with one battered wooden post standing crooked in the center.
This was where he trained.
Every morning.
Without fail.
He dropped his bag to the ground and rolled his shoulders.
The sword came off his back with a metallic scrape. He took a breath, exhaled slow, and squared up to the post.
Then he swung.
The first strike landed with a dull thud. The second was off-balance. The third, cleaner.
He kept going.
Left swing. Reset. Downward slash. Step in. Twist. Strike again.
The post shook but it didn't splinter. He could feel every flaw in his form—the way his wrist twisted too late, the way his footing slid out when he moved too fast.
He didn't stop.
Sweat gathered at his brow. His shoulders burned. The rusty blade cut through the air with more stubbornness than strength.
"One day," he thought, "I'll make it clean. Sharp. Fast."
He stepped back, reset his stance.
Then he moved faster.
A flurry of swings now—dozens in a row. He gritted his teeth, trying to mimic the sequences he saw on-screen, the fluid style of Ryu's aggression, or the precise weight of Hades' timing.
But it wasn't the same.
There was no element to back him. No heat or stone. Just effort.
His foot caught a root. He stumbled. The blade wobbled mid-swing and glanced off the post, sliding awkwardly down the side.
He hissed through his teeth. Stepped back again. Held the sword out in front of him with both hands.
It shook slightly.
"I'm not like them," he muttered. "I know that."
He lowered the blade.
"But I'll get there anyway."
Gintan wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
The morning sun had climbed higher now, pushing shafts of light through the trees. His arms felt like lead. The wooden post leaned slightly, scarred from months of punishment.
He sheathed the sword and turned back toward the path.
The village had started to wake.
By the time he stepped onto the main road, people were setting up shop. Fresh bread baked somewhere nearby. A cart rolled past, loaded with kindling. A few kids ran by, chasing each other with wind-blown leaves, laughing.
Gintan kept walking.
No one stopped him. A few nodded. One old man gave a half-wave from behind a stall.
It was always like this. Friendly enough. But not close.
Windrest was small, and small towns remembered things.
By the time he reached the school building—a modest structure with stone steps and glass that always looked like it wanted to fog—he was already fading into his usual role.
Sit in the back. Stay quiet. Listen when needed.
Inside, the air smelled like paper and hot dust. A few students were already practicing their elements—one kid gently altering the water out of the water fountain, another sparking flint between his fingertips.
Gintan sat at his desk and kept his hands folded.
The teacher entered, gave the usual roll call, then pinned something on the board.
A red banner.
Champion Recruit Trials – Open Registration This Week
Gintan's eyes locked on it.
Around him, the room buzzed.
"Think anyone from Windrest'll make it?"
"Did you see that lightning guy from Arxium last year? Freakin' monster."
"I'm entering. No way I'm staying in this place forever."
Gintan didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His hand drifted to the folded slip of paper hidden in his pocket.
The application form.
Dinner was quiet.
The clink of silverware on ceramic echoed louder than the words not being said.
Gintan sat at the table across from his parents, chewed slowly, eyes on his plate. The food was fine—root stew, sliced greens, soft bread—but he barely tasted it. He could still see the red banner from school in his head, could still hear the voices buzzing around it.
He reached into his pocket under the table. The paper was still there. Folded, worn at the crease. The application.
His thumb brushed over the corner of it.
His father cleared his throat. "How was school?"
"Fine," Gintan muttered.
His mother glanced up. "They put up that sign, didn't they?"
He froze.
She set down her spoon. "The Champion Trials."
Silence.
Then: "You didn't sign anything, did you?"
Gintan didn't answer.
His father's voice lowered. "Gintan."
He looked up at both of them. Slowly.
"I'm not stupid," he said. "I know I don't have an element. But I can still—"
"You can't." His mother's voice cut through clean. "You're not like them."
"I can be." He said it too fast. Too sharp.
His father sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We've seen what they do with kids like you. You go to that test, and you come back broken—or worse. That's not strength. That's a show."
"It's not a show to me."
His mother stood. "You don't have to prove anything. Not to them. And not to us."
Gintan stood too.
"I'm not trying to prove it to you."
His mother stared at him. Her arms were crossed, but her voice was shaking now.
"You don't get it," she said. "You never have. You think it's just about trying hard enough. You think if you swing that sword one more time, the world's going to change its rules for you."
Gintan's jaw clenched. "Someone like me has to try harder."
"You're a kid with no element!" she snapped. "Do you know what happens to people like that? You fail out of the first round. You get hurt. You end up in some back alley brawl for scraps while the real fighters move on."
"I don't care."
"You should."
His father stood now, too. Calm voice, but firm. "We're not saying this to crush your dream, Gintan. We're saying it because we've seen what happens to kids who chase that world without power to back them."
"I have power!" Gintan's voice cracked—half shout, half plea. "I've been training every day! Every morning while you're still asleep. I know I'm not like the others, but I want this. More than anything. And none of you believe in me."
His mother stepped forward. "It's not about belief. It's about survival."
He laughed—bitter, sharp. "You're not scared for me. You're scared I'll try and fail. That I'll make you look stupid for ever hoping."
"Gintan—"
"I'd rather fail chasing something real than rot here doing nothing."
He reached into his pocket and held up the application form.
She stared at it like it was poison.
Then she said the one thing that finally pushed him past the edge.
"You'll never be one of them."
He didn't say a word.
He crumpled the form in his fist, turned, and walked out.
The door slammed behind him.
Windrest's night air was colder than it had any right to be. The forest creaked softly in the dark, and pale light from a half-moon shimmered off the rooftops. Lanterns flickered in windows. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once and went quiet.
Gintan didn't stop walking.
He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
The crumpled form stayed in his fist, pressed so tightly the paper tore at the edges. He thought about throwing it into the ditch. Burning it. Eating it just to spite them.
Instead, he shoved it into his jacket.
The street narrowed the farther he walked, leading him away from warm-lit homes and into the edge of the village—where carts rusted behind fences and broken signs hung off doorposts. The kind of place where people stopped caring who you were or what you wanted.
He passed a shuttered blacksmith's shop. Then a dry well. Then a corner where three older teens stood leaning against a wall, one tossing a flame between his fingers like it was a coin.
Gintan glanced at them, didn't break stride.
"Hey," one called. "You that kid from the north fields? Elementless, right?"
He kept walking.
They stepped off the wall.
"Not a talker, huh? You heading to the Trials too?" The flame flipped again. "You know they don't even let your kind past the second round, right?"
He stopped.
Not because of what they said—but because of how they said it.
Like it was a fact.
Like it was funny.
He turned around.
And he didn't say anything.
He just reached for the sword on his back.
The sword came free with a harsh scrape, metal grating against leather and restraint. His hand was trembling, but not from fear.
The air around him felt too thin.
His pulse was pounding in his ears, thudding against his skull like war drums. His mother's voice. His father's. The weight of their doubt still coiled around his ribs.
And now these idiots.
"Whoa," one of the teens said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "Didn't know the twig carried steel."
Another one grinned, flame blooming between his fingers. It flickered bright and hungry. "What's the plan, elementless? Gonna poke us with your little butter knife?"
Gintan didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
Because right now he couldn't even think.
He stepped forward.
They moved too. The fire-wielder flared both palms, sending a small arc of heat across the ground—fast and low, meant to scare.
Gintan didn't flinch.
He charged.
Not like a fighter. Like someone trying to outrun something inside their chest.
The first swing was wide and reckless. It forced one of them to sidestep fast, muttering a curse. Gintan kept going, twisting into a second strike—this one faster, tighter, not aimed to hit, but to drive them back.
Flames flared up to his left. He turned too slow.
A boot slammed into his ribs, hard. He staggered. Air fled his lungs.
He dropped to one knee but didn't fall.
Their laughter hit harder than the kick.
"You're not a fighter," one of them spat. "You're just angry."
Another flame came in low. Gintan leapt it. The edge of his coat caught fire. He slapped it out, teeth clenched.
Still shaking.
Still standing.
He gripped the hilt higher, eyes wild. The blade rose again.
"I don't care if I lose," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not running."
They stopped smiling.