The storm stretched for days — or perhaps no time at all.
In the First Sky Realm, distance and hours were illusions; only purpose had weight.
Cled walked through rain made of light, each droplet humming faintly as it touched the air.
The relic in his chest glowed with every thunderclap, as if remembering an ancient rhythm.
Ahead loomed the storm-citadel.
A fortress of obsidian and fractured sky-glass, floating above a sea of lightning.
Chains of molten gold anchored it to nothing, their ends disappearing into the clouds below.
As Cled approached, the air thickened with pressure.
He felt it before he saw it — a presence, vast and furious, older than any mortal memory.
When the thunder broke, it carried a voice.
> "Another seeker comes to bleed."
The clouds parted. A figure descended slowly, wreathed in burning wind.
He was tall — impossibly so — clad in tattered armor etched with divine runes.
His hair, silver streaked with black flame, whipped violently as he landed upon a floating bridge of crystal.
In his hand he held a blade that shimmered with shifting reality — as if the sword refused to exist in one form for too long.
The Sky-Sundered Blade.
Its very presence tore faint cracks in space, through which fragments of distant stars bled.
Cled bowed his head slightly. "Serath," he said quietly.
The name had come to him through the relic — the last echo of a warrior who once guarded the heavens.
Serath's gaze burned. "You know my name. Then you know my curse."
> "You wield the blade that can cut destiny," Cled replied, calm. "But it devours all who hold it."
A bitter smile twisted the warrior's lips. "Devour? No. It frees. It slices through the lies of fate. Only cowards call that curse."
He pointed the weapon toward Cled.
> "You carry Heaven's Heart. You think you can mend what the gods themselves could not. Let me test that arrogance."
Cled said nothing. He simply placed a hand on his chest, feeling the slow pulse of light beneath his palm.
> "I will not fight to destroy," he murmured. "Only to understand."
Serath laughed — a sound of thunder cracking against stone.
> "Then you will die in confusion."
He vanished.
The world shattered into motion.
The first strike cleaved through the sky itself; the horizon split like a mirror.
Cled stepped aside a heartbeat too late — the edge of the blade brushed his sleeve, slicing through fabric without touching skin.
Even near-misses burned reality.
He raised his palm, summoning a ripple of stillness.
The storm hesitated — for a fraction of eternity, lightning froze mid-air.
But Serath broke through it, roaring, his blade trailing cosmic fire.
Every strike carried memory: wars, betrayal, the fall of the heavens. Each blow screamed Why did the sky fail us?
Cled parried with open hands, redirecting rather than opposing.
The monk's words echoed within him: Power that only heals soon learns not all wounds wish to close.
Serath's fury was not aimless — it was sorrow sharpened.
Cled could feel it in every clash, every burst of light.
Between strikes, Cled spoke softly.
> "You fight to prove pain still matters."
Serath's eyes blazed. "Pain is the only truth left!"
The blade came down again, but this time, Cled did not move.
He raised his bare hand — and caught it.
The impact shattered the bridge beneath them, sending fragments of sky tumbling into the storm.
For a moment, all was chaos.
Then — silence.
Cled stood amid falling shards, his hand bleeding faint light.
The blade trembled, its surface flickering between existence and nothingness.
> "Why do you not strike back?" Serath demanded.
> "Because anger cannot hear," Cled said. "And you are deafened by your own grief."
Serath froze — just long enough for the relic's glow to spread outward.
A soft pulse rippled through the storm, revealing the truth beneath the warrior's fury.
Behind Serath stood countless faint silhouettes — soldiers, comrades, friends — all bound in chains of light, their faces blurred by sorrow.
They were his fallen legion.
Cled understood.
> "You hold the Sky-Sundered Blade not to defy destiny," he said gently, "but to remember those destiny erased."
The warrior's hands shook.
The sword's light dimmed.
> "I… I couldn't save them," Serath whispered. "The Council ordered the purge. I obeyed. I killed those who trusted me… until the blade turned on me."
Cled lowered his hand. "Then forgive yourself."
> "Forgiveness is weakness."
> "No," Cled replied, "it is surrender — not to pain, but to peace."
Serath fell to his knees, the storm screaming around them. The blade's glow flared violently — the weapon resisting its master's change of heart.
> "It won't stop!" he shouted. "It feeds on regret!"
Cled stepped forward and placed both hands on the sword. The relic within his chest pulsed once — twice — then merged with the blade's unstable rhythm.
A harmony formed — delicate, fragile, perfect.
The sword stilled. The storm quieted.
The glowing cracks in the sky began to mend themselves, threads of silver light weaving across the air.
Serath looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. "You… silenced it."
> "No," Cled said softly. "It silenced itself. It only needed to be heard."
The warrior's form began to dissolve, his body turning into fragments of light.
> "Then perhaps I may finally rest."
He extended his hands, offering the now-gentle blade to Cled.
> "Take it," he said. "Let its edge remember peace, not war."
Cled accepted it reverently. The sword's hilt felt weightless, yet infinite. As he gripped it, the relic's light intertwined with the blade's core. A faint sigil formed upon its surface — the mark of balance.
> "You have learned the voice of conflict," the relic whispered. "The second fragment awakens."
Serath's fading voice lingered like wind in the clouds.
> "When the sky turns against you, remember — every storm ends in silence."
The last of his light scattered into the heavens.
Cled stood alone once more upon the rebuilt bridge, the Sky-Sundered Blade resting quietly at his side.
He gazed upward, where the storm had thinned to reveal calm blue skies stretching endlessly.
For the first time, he felt something shift within him — a deeper understanding of what it meant to be both strong and gentle.
Power was not the ability to destroy, nor even to protect.
It was the ability to listen — even to pain.
The relic pulsed warmly, echoing his thought.
> "You have earned harmony within discord. Ahead lies the realm of echoes — and the truth of the heavens' fall."
Cled turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, where faint ruins floated above an ocean of light.
He took one step forward, his calm unwavering.
> "Then let the echoes speak," he said softly.
The clouds parted before him, forming a path of silver mist.
Cled walked on, the wind whispering through his robe like the breath of a sleeping world.
Behind him, the storm sighed — no longer angry, only grateful.
And somewhere in the vastness of the First Sky Realm, the broken heavens hummed once again with quiet hope.