The forest behind Varric's training grounds stood silent at dawn, painted gold by the first rays of sunlight. The morning mist hung heavy between the trees, cool and sharp, filling the air with the scent of dew and earth.
Nazeku stood before a thick, big tree — its bark dark and hard as stone. He flexed his hands, tightening the straps on his damaged gauntlets. The left one was gone beyond repair, its frame twisted from Varric's final blow. Only the right one remained, patched crudely, a reminder of his previous defeat.
He raised his fist slowly, the faint hum of aura surrounding his arm.
"Aura is life's flow," he muttered, recalling the words from his past life. "If I can direct it properly… I can condense it."
He clenched his hand.
A faint shimmer rippled across his knuckles, not stable, flickering like dying firelight.
He struck.
Thud!
The blow landed with a dull, unimpressive sound. The tree stood unmoved.
He winced and shook his hand, the pain biting through his knuckles. His aura dispersed instantly, unable to maintain shape.
"Tch… still too thin. My concentration is leaking."
He inhaled, grounding himself. The dragon's voice echoed faintly, soft, restrained, like a whisper from deep beneath the surface of his mind.
Power is not in the strike, but in the control that precedes it. You still breathe like a child.
Nazeku's brow furrowed.
"Then I'll learn to breathe like a monster."
The first day was failure. Every attempt at focusing aura to his fist ended exhaustion. His control slipped each time the energy surged beyond his palm, dispersing into the air like mist.
The second day, his rhythm improved. He learned to regulate his breathing with the movement of his aura, a slow inhale to gather, a short exhale to release. The impacts began to sound different: sharper, heavier.
By the third day, his aura thickened, forming a faint layer around his fist. His blows made the tree bark crack and splinter. His arms trembled from the strain, his skin bruised, his veins burning hot.
And on the dawn of the fourth day… he felt it.
The air around him warped faintly as he inhaled. His aura flowed smoothly through his veins, warm, dense, obedient. It pooled in his right arm, circling his wrist like liquid light.
The faint hum of energy grew stronger.
"Aura Fist…" he whispered, lowering into a stance. "Let's see if I can still remember this."
He slammed his fist forward, slow at first, then faster.
The impact echoed across the clearing. The earth quaked beneath his feet, scattering leaves and dust. The tree did not fall, but deep fissures spread across its bark where his fist connected. The wood groaned, the roots trembling beneath the soil.
Nazeku stepped back, breathing heavily. The aura around his fist faded, but the echo of its power lingered in the air.
"Not bad…" He smirked faintly. "Four days — and it finally worked."
He looked at his hands, bruised, bleeding slightly, but alive with energy.
He sat cross-legged at the base of the tree, eyes closed, letting his pulse settle. The steady beat of his heart synchronized with the faint rhythm of his aura.
"It's strange… the more I push myself, the more natural this feels."
The dragon's voice rumbled in the depths of his mind.
That is the nature of will. Aura obeys those who understand pain, not those who run from it.
Nazeku chuckled under his breath.
"Guess I've had plenty of that."
He stood, brushing dirt off his pants. The sunlight shimmered against his arm as faint wisps of aura coiled again, brighter now, stable, sharp.
He turned toward the horizon.
"If I can do this at Bronze 2…" he said softly, his grin widening, "…then the academy will be fun."
From the window of a nearby training hall, Varric watched silently, arms folded. He said nothing, only smiled faintly.
"He's not just talented," Varric murmured. "He
might become dangerous if lead in the wrong direction."
The forest wind carried Nazeku's faint laughter through the air as he resumed his training, each strike heavier than the last, every impact echoing like the heartbeat of something awakening.