The days after my return from the Tower of the Howling Sky carried a strange weight. Training in the courtyard didn't stop — Darian barked orders, the berserker drilled endurance, the black-flame wielder honed precision, Selvara watched and recorded, Kaelen burned with restless energy — but something had changed.
They all felt it. The recruits weren't just training under veterans now. They were training under the first sparks of a storm they couldn't fully comprehend.
I didn't need to announce a hierarchy; it formed on its own.
Darian became the spine — discipline, structure, order. When he spoke, the others listened. The berserker was the fire in their blood, the reminder that raw power, tempered, could tear through walls. The black-flame wielder embodied precision. Fear followed his flames, but so did respect. Selvara took notes no one else thought mattered, then turned them into insight. She was becoming the guild's mind. Kaelen? He wasn't a leader yet. But the recruits followed him anyway, drawn to his reckless energy. To them, he was proof that raw potential could be molded here.
I was above it, but never absent. The recruits didn't see me often — not fully. My presence lingered through the wraiths. Vyre struck when they grew complacent, Eldrin loomed when they grew arrogant. When I did step into the courtyard, silence fell.
Not because I demanded it. Because the storm didn't need to.
The guild's size remained small — a deliberate choice. I wasn't building an army. I was building something lean, sharp, and unshakable. A crucible. Only those who could survive the fire stayed.
But beyond the estate walls, the world was stirring.
Rumors spread faster than lightning: a nameless boy who cleared calamity-class dungeons alone. A guild that didn't answer to kings or councils. Wraiths that fought like men, but with no flesh to cut down.
The guilds in the capital sent scouts, watching from rooftops and taverns. Merchants whispered in alleys, arguing over whether I was divine-blessed or cursed. And far beyond, in the halls of lords and generals, my name was beginning to surface in conversations spoken only behind closed doors.
Some wanted me tested. Some wanted me captured. Others wanted me erased before the storm could break free of its cage.
One evening, Darian approached me after drills, his arms crossed. "They're afraid of you."
"The recruits?" I asked.
"The world," he replied flatly. "You've made too much noise too quickly. Guild leaders are circling like carrion. Kingdoms are listening. It won't be long before someone decides to force your hand."
He wasn't wrong. I'd felt the pressure too — the way eyes lingered in the streets, the sudden increase of whispers whenever I entered a market.
"Let them come," I said. Sparks coiled lazily along my fingers, harmless but humming with promise. "The storm doesn't bend. It consumes."
Darian didn't smile, but the faintest glimmer of approval touched his eyes.
Later, Selvara cornered me, notebook in hand. "If you keep clearing dungeons, your evolution will accelerate. But if outside forces move before you're ready…" Her voice trailed off, sharp with implication.
"You're worried," I said.
"I'm calculating," she corrected. "Worry is wasted energy. But I think you'll have to decide soon. Keep building here, or keep diving deeper into those keys."
I didn't answer her directly. Because she was right. And because the Tower of Silence key burned against my chest, waiting, daring me.
That night, as the storm wraiths patrolled the grounds, I stood beneath the clouds. The estate pulsed with energy — recruits training even past midnight, the first sparks shaping into something more.
But beyond the walls, the world was gathering.
And I realized something.
The storm wasn't coming.
It was already here.