Two whole year had passed. Twenty-Four long, storm-woven months of trial, doubt, and relentless discipline. Bolt stood at the edge of a precipice—not just of a cliff, but of mastery. The training for the Fifth Form had begun.
Unlike the earlier forms, which he approached with youthful vigor, the Fifth Form was something else. It demanded stillness, but not passivity; fury, but not recklessness; power, but also peace. It was a paradox, and within it lay a truth so sharp, so transcendent, that even Bolt struggled to comprehend it.
At first, his days were spent in silence. Master Thomas took him to the highest peaks, where the clouds almost kissed the earth, and thunder was born. "To control the final form," Thomas said, "you must stop controlling it. You must become it."
For hours, sometimes entire days, Bolt sat in meditation. But instead of calm, he felt chaos. Inside his chest, the electric nature surged like a beast, resisting form. His aura sparked out of rhythm. Sometimes it burned the ground around him; sometimes it vanished altogether. It was as if the very essence of lightning refused to be caged.
Weeks passed, and frustration built. Bolt, who had once cleaved mountains with a wave of his hand, now trembled trying to steady the electric storm within. He was losing control.
"Master, it's slipping away! I can't feel the same calm I once had," Bolt admitted one evening, breathing heavily, hands twitching with residual sparks.
Thomas looked at him with gentle eyes. "That is because you are trying to hold lightning like water. You must learn to flow with it, to become one with the storm."
And so, the real training began.
Thomas took him into the heart of nature—where thunderstorms raged, where the wind screamed like ghosts of old warriors. There, he made Bolt stand for hours under the fury of the sky, resisting nothing. No barrier. No shield. Just a boy, standing amidst nature's wrath.
The rain beat down. The winds howled. Thunder cracked like celestial drums. And Bolt... stood.
At first, it tore him apart. Literally. His aura would scatter and reform, bruises would swell across his body, and yet he stood. Every time he tried to summon lightning, it fought back.
"You cannot summon it," Thomas reminded. "You must invite it."
Understanding came not through thought, but through surrender.
Bolt began to listen—to the rhythm of the wind, the whisper of charged air, the heartbeat of the clouds above. He let the lightning flow through him without resistance. Instead of commanding it, he became its conductor. And slowly, his aura began to harmonize.
He stopped trying to generate lightning and started being lightning.
Months passed. Bolt's control improved. He could feel electricity flow into his nerves like second nature. But with every inch gained, the burden grew. The power was immense—too immense. Some days, he would wake up with the sky already rumbling above him. Animals fled. Trees bent. And he hadn't even raised a hand.
It became harder to contain. He'd tremble in his sleep. At times, a touch would leave burns. The aura was spilling.
Master Thomas saw this and knew Bolt was nearing the threshold.
So, the final month came.
"Bolt," the Master said, "now you must find balance within chaos. For the Fifth Form is not just the highest form of Sage Nature. It is the form where your aura, body, and spirit align completely."
And Bolt knew. This was it.
For thirty days, he fasted, meditated, and trained like a man possessed. He practiced sword forms while standing in rivers during storms. He held stances for hours while lightning circled him. He would walk bare feet on rocky paths charged with static currents.
And one evening, the moment arrived.
The clouds gathered above the cliff like a divine omen. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blood-orange hue across the world. Bolt stood alone.
He took a breath. Deep. Measured. A breath that carried two years of pain, love, learning, and loss.
He closed his eyes.
He felt his aura. Not as a weapon. But as a part of him. A breath. A pulse. A truth.
And then, the transformation began.
A low hum echoed across the mountain. The wind died down—as if the world held its breath.
Electricity started to crackle around Bolt's body. Tiny sparks at first, then streaks of light. His hair began to float, charged. His heartbeat synced with the sky. The clouds turned darker, heavier, swirling like a cyclone.
His eyes opened.
They were no longer human.
A deep, glowing blue—they radiated raw power, flickering with arcs of lightning that danced like stars. His body was glowing—not with light, but with electricity. Controlled, focused, divine.
The sky roared.
Thunder cracked.
A lightning bolt descended from the heavens, and as if gravity no longer bound him, Bolt lifted a single finger.
The lightning obeyed.
It struck his finger with blinding brilliance—yet he didn't flinch. The aura around him exploded. Wind howled, thunder rumbled continuously, the clouds swirled into a vortex above his head.
His entire form levitated a few inches above the ground. Bolts of electricity coiled around his arms, surging through his veins, dancing on his skin. His clothes fluttered like banners in a war.
The very cliff cracked beneath his feet, as if unable to withstand the force.
This was the Fifth Form.
His physical abilities surged. Speed. Strength. Reflex. Awareness. All multiplied tenfold. He could see the flow of electrons in the air. His senses stretched beyond human.
He raised his hand. In his palm was not just lightning, but willpower refined into energy.
A nearby boulder exploded without him even touching it.
The winds carried his name like a chant—Bolt... Bolt... Bolt...
And then—
Silence.
His eyes rolled back.
His body collapsed.
Unconscious.
The Fifth Form had accepted him. But the price was heavy.
For a week, he lay motionless. The sky calmed, as if nature itself mourned the storm's slumber. Master Thomas stood vigil by his side, neither worried nor surprised.
"When one walks among gods," he whispered, "he must rest like mortals."
And in that sleep, Bolt dreamed not of battles, nor pain, nor power.
He dreamed of the sky. Of freedom. Of friends long gone. And of a world yet to come.
The Fifth Form was his. And with it, a new chapter waited to be written.
Bolt slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling above was familiar — the old wooden beams of the training temple. His body ached, his limbs felt heavy, and his skin still tingled with residual electricity. The storm inside him had quieted, but the memory of it — the sheer power, the blinding light, the scream of thunder and wind — still echoed in his mind.
He shifted slightly, groaning, and then saw him — Master, sitting beside his bed, eyes calm yet filled with a storm of their own.
The old sage looked at Bolt for a long moment. Then finally, in a voice quieter than usual, deeper than usual — a voice that carried the weight of centuries of wisdom — he spoke:
"I don't know what your future is, Bolt."
The words hit heavier than thunder.
"But listen to me — this form you've achieved... this power you've awakened… it is not for pride, not for show, not for war or glory."
Bolt blinked slowly, still weak, still unable to sit up.
"Only come to this form if it's a do-or-die situation. Not just for yourself, but for the world around you. Even in that moment…"
The Master paused, his voice wavering slightly as if reliving a long-buried memory.
"Even then… hesitate. Just for a moment. Ask yourself — is this the moment?"
A tear rolled down the old sage's cheek. Not of sadness, not of fear — but reverence. He had seen few reach this level. Fewer still survive it.
"You are lightning now, Bolt. Raw, divine, untamed. And lightning doesn't choose what it strikes."
Bolt turned his head, barely able to whisper.
"Master… I… I felt like I wasn't me anymore. It was like the storm was in control."
Master nodded.
"That's because it was. That form… it's beyond the human. It's closer to nature, closer to the gods. You don't control it. You borrow it."
"Borrow it…?"
"Yes," Master said, standing up now, walking toward the open window. Outside, the sky had returned to peace, but the marks of the thunderstorm lingered — shattered trees, scorched ground, and an eerie silence.
"Every time you use that form, you pay a price. Maybe not with your life… but with a piece of yourself."
"Then why teach me?" Bolt asked softly.
Master turned, his back straight, his expression resolute.
"Because the world you'll walk into… will demand it of you. And I'd rather see you ready than shattered."
As Master turned to leave, the wooden floor creaked softly beneath his sandals. But just as he reached the doorway, his voice rang out once more — steady, proud, and echoing with the weight of tradition.
"Bolt..."
Bolt looked up, still barely able to lift his head from the pillow.
"I am happy to announce…"
"…your training is complete."
The words hit Bolt harder than lightning ever could. His eyes widened.
"From today onward…"
"…you are one of us."
Master stepped out into the sunlight, pausing only for a moment.
"You have just become a Sage — like me… like Leo… like Chris."
Bolt, "So, what happens now?"
Master looked at him one last time.
"Now?" he said, a faint smile on his face.
"Now… you become the storm."
The door gently closed behind him, but the silence left in his wake was filled with meaning — filled with the gravity of a path chosen, a destiny unlocked.
Bolt stared at the ceiling for a long time, eyes burning not from the storm, but from the quiet truth of it all.
He was no longer just a boy with a gift.
He was now a Sage of Thunder.
And the world had just gained a storm it wasn't ready for.