The sun rose lazily over the Aetherwyn estate, brushing the clouds in hues of gold. Aaron stood barefoot atop the eastern cliff, facing the ocean. His hair fluttered in the wind as he clutched a half-burnt scroll in his hands, the title just barely legible: "Art of the Celestial Wind Steps."
He tilted his head, squinting. "Wind-dodging footwork? Huh. Sounds like a basic agility drill."
The next line was completely unreadable, a charred smear of ash.
Aaron shrugged. "Probably not important."
He had found the scroll stuffed behind a shelf labeled 'Basic Conditioning for the Frail and Feeble', which, to him, meant it was safe for average folks like himself.
"Let's be honest," he mumbled, stretching his legs. "My reflexes are still garbage. I've tripped over my own robes three times this week. I bet even a squirrel could dodge better than me."
He stepped to the edge of the cliff, watching the gusts swirl up from the sea below. The winds were strong here—unpredictable. Perfect for dodging practice.
Aaron planted his feet, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Okay. Focus. Just… move with the breeze."
And then he jumped.
---
His foot landed lightly on a jutting stone mid-cliff. The wind slammed into him, and he stumbled, arms flailing.
"W-Whoa—!"
He caught himself just in time, slipping into a low stance, his muscles trembling.
"Okay. Okay. That's one step. See? Not bad."
He pushed forward again, hopping to another ledge. Another gust screamed past, and Aaron twisted, trying to follow the air's direction.
What he didn't realize was that each movement—each instinctive twist of his body—was aligning perfectly with the lost rhythm of the Celestial Wind Step, an ancient movement technique only ever mastered by one mage in the last thousand years.
His mana, dormant and unnoticed, resonated with the sky itself. The wind began to curve unnaturally around him, no longer resisting but swirling with him. The clouds above shifted. Trees bent on the hillside. Down below, the sea churned with rising waves.
Aaron, panting, leapt to the next boulder, landing so lightly the dust didn't even stir.
---
In the nearby village of Windharbor…
A farmer dropped his rake.
"Oi, Emile! You seein' this?"
His wife stepped outside and looked up. The sky had dimmed strangely—though the sun still shone. A massive spiral of clouds formed overhead, centered around the high cliff near House Aetherwyn.
And in the heart of the storm… was a figure.
A man. Dancing.
"No way," Emile whispered. "Could that be the Sky Phantom? The Guardian of the Southern Winds?"
Another villager gasped. "I thought he was just a legend!"
Someone else muttered, "We should inform the capital."
---
High above, soaring through the clouds…
Sky General Lysander, commander of the 4th Aerial Legion, was flying his patrol route when he felt the shift. The air buckled. Mana twisted. Wind bent like a bowstring under tension.
He narrowed his eyes.
"…That's not natural."
He turned toward the disturbance, cloak flaring behind him, eyes glowing faintly with wind-imbued magic.
And then he saw it.
On the cliff's edge, a lone figure danced like mist. Each movement was perfect harmony—fierce and fluid. The very air worshipped his motion, spiraling in tandem, as if the heavens bent to match his steps.
Lysander's mouth fell open.
"No. It can't be…"
He landed silently on a cloud and dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"…The Wind Saint has returned."
---
Back on the cliff…
Aaron jumped too early, slipped on some moss, and faceplanted into a patch of gravel.
"Gah—stupid footing."
He groaned and pushed himself up, brushing his scraped palms.
"I'm seriously hopeless. I bet even that farmhand with the limp could do this better than me."
He turned to the side and caught sight of a particularly thin gust of wind spiraling like a thread.
He blinked.
"…Pretty."
Then it vanished.
He sighed. "That was probably just normal weather stuff."
---
Meanwhile, back at the mansion…
The Duke held a communication crystal in one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other.
"You're telling me… the sky general knelt to my son?"
"Yes, my lord. He believes the young master is the reincarnation of the Wind Saint."
The Duke sighed so hard the fire in the hearth flickered.
"Remind me again—has my son ever once shown interest in wind magic?"
"No, my lord. He said it sounded 'too breezy.'"
---
Later that day…
Aaron limped back toward the house, clothes torn, hair windswept, and pride in tatters.
"Note to self," he muttered. "I am not agile. Not even close."
He glanced at his arm, where a faint trail of glowing mana had unknowingly coiled. It shimmered for a second, then faded.
He didn't notice.
"What I need," he continued aloud, "is a real training method. Something normal. Something average."
He passed by a group of guards whispering behind their hands.
"…That's him, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The Wind God."
Aaron waved without looking. "Morning."
The guards jumped and bowed. "G-Good morning, young master!"
He yawned and scratched his head. "Ugh. I hope I didn't catch a cold from all that wind…"
---
End of Chapter 9