The first days in the guild were quiet, not because nothing happened, but because everything had to be measured. I didn't issue orders. I didn't enforce rules. I simply created the space, and then let the storm take shape on its own.
Darian, Selvara, Kaelen, the black-flame wielder — they were the pillars. I observed each, noting tendencies, strengths, weaknesses. Each had potential, but raw potential alone was useless without direction.
Darian worked with the fighters, teaching discipline and control. He drilled them relentlessly, pushing until their muscles burned and their lungs screamed. He had the kind of presence that commanded attention without words — when he struck, it was precise; when he corrected, it was exact. Even I sometimes nodded at his techniques.
The berserker girl moved differently. Her style was chaos refined — raw power focused under Ashura's guidance. I let her lead the endurance drills, letting the newer recruits experience controlled fury. Watching her, even I felt the pull of her evolved strength; she wasn't just training them, she was reshaping their understanding of force.
The black-flame wielder's lessons were quieter but no less devastating. He taught control over destructive power, showing how precision could outmatch brute force. When he ignited his black fire, it wasn't just heat — it was a living shadow of energy, dancing along the air, stopping just short of harm until released at the exact point of his choosing. The recruits learned fear and respect at the same time.
Selvara, meanwhile, was different. Quiet, methodical, she observed, noted, and recorded. She began experiments with her latent divinity, testing small flashes of what I suspected could someday rival gods themselves. She didn't yet understand the breadth of her own power, but she listened, and she learned — faster than anyone else.
Kaelen, the boy, was impulsive and reckless, but brilliant in motion. I trained him directly, guiding his strikes, reading his instincts, showing him how to temper instinct with intent. Each day he grew, not just stronger, but more controlled, more attuned to the storm that I embodied.
I watched them at night as the wraiths patrolled the grounds. Vyre darted among the shadows, a silent whisper of the storm; Eldrin stood like a sentinel, ready to strike. I allowed my recruits to see them occasionally, to remind them that power could be harnessed, shaped, and obeyed — even without flesh.
One evening, I gathered the five of them together in the courtyard. The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows, and the air smelled of ozone and rain from a storm I had summoned overhead, just enough to keep them alert.
"You are not my equals," I said plainly, letting the purple lightning in my veins flare subtly. "You will never surpass me. If I fight seriously, none of you survive. Understand that."
They nodded, silently. It wasn't fear — it was recognition. They understood that survival here wasn't about arrogance or titles. It was about learning what it meant to face the impossible, and to endure.
"You are the first," I continued. "You will form the foundation. Others may come. You will teach them. But this guild is my crucible. Do not expect comfort. Do not expect mercy. Only one law exists here: the storm decides."
For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the wraiths and the faint crackle of my lightning. Then, one by one, each of them bowed — not out of subservience, but respect for the truth they could not ignore.
And that was enough.
The first recruit cycle had ended. They would not yet face the dungeons alone, but the foundation was laid. The guild existed now — small, precise, deadly in concept, and centered entirely around one man and his storm.
I allowed myself a brief smile. They were not soldiers. They were not heroes. They were the first sparks in a gathering tempest.
And soon, the world would see how storms could consume, shape, and remake everything in their path.