Chapter 6 – The Arena of Wind
When we rose into the arena, the noise hit me like a storm. A sea of faces filled the stands — shouting, cheering, jeering. The sound was so loud, so deafening, I thought my knees might give way. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Then I heard it.
The Wind Lord's voice.
And just like that, he was there — standing right in front of me.
"Oh—so quick!" Ashok exclaimed.
A second ago, the Wind Lord had been lounging in the high spectator's hall. Then the ground beneath him began to rumble. Slowly, a platform lifted from the earth, carrying him forward. It floated higher and higher until it hovered at the center of the stadium.
The noise died instantly. Thousands of eyes locked on him. Even the wind seemed to still.
"Thank you, my lovely people," the Wind Lord said, smiling like a man who had ruled these skies since the dawn of time. "Thank you for being here to witness this grand program."
He turned toward us. "Here are today's challengers — or should I say… prisoners?"
His gaze settled on Ashok. "This one is Water, Level Two."
Then his finger shifted toward me. "And that one… is Pathless."
The word dropped like a stone in my stomach.
The crowd erupted. Laughter. Whistles. Mocking shouts.
"Pathless!" someone roared.
"Not the strongest indeed!" another called.
"World record! First ever Pathless!" a voice jeered from my right.
I kept my eyes down, but each word felt like a blade pressed against my chest. My fists tightened.
Ashok stepped closer and murmured something in a strange, flowing language. The words curled through the air, soft and heavy, like smoke.
"What?" I whispered.
"It's an old tongue," he said. "He told us the match will be in three levels. Five days total. This isn't sport — it's execution with an audience. Lose any round, we die."
Before I could answer, the Wind Lord spoke again, this time in Sanskrit. His voice carried a weight that made the hairs on my neck rise.
"The three levels will be these: first, the Wind Commander. Second, the Fire Commander. Third…" He paused, letting the silence deepen until you could almost hear the crowd leaning forward. "…a surprise. Surprises are thrilling, are they not?" His laughter rolled across the stadium like distant thunder.
Then his gaze pinned us in place. "In one hour, you will face the Wind Commander. Prepare yourselves."
"Huh… who is he?" Ashok asked.
The Wind Lord's lips curled into something between a smirk and a warning. "You'll soon find out."
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We were led to a waiting room deep beneath the arena. The stone walls were cold, the air thick with the faint metallic tang of blood.
For thirty minutes, silence sat between us. I kept my eyes on the floor, my thoughts running in circles.
Finally, Ashok spoke. "What will we do if he's powerful?"
I didn't answer right away. Sometimes silence says more than words. But after a moment, I said, "We're just kids, Ashok. Teenagers. We don't have much of a chance. He could be the battalion commander of the Wind Regiment."
Ashok nodded once, then said nothing more.
Only ten minutes remained. He began practicing his water forms — sharp, fluid movements that splashed faint droplets onto the stone floor. I stayed still, my focus drawn to the mark on my arm.
It was heating up. Pulsing. Like it had a heartbeat of its own.
A memory stirred.
I was two years old again, holding my mother's hand as she led me into her combat classes. I could smell incense. Hear steel meeting steel. I couldn't recall her exact lessons, but fragments surfaced — wind, fire, nature. The pathways she taught.
Some part of that knowledge still lived in me. Faint, like embers in ash.
The door to the arena creaked open.
It was time.
The moment everything would change.