A storm raged over the fields of Gyreo, a small island lost in the desolation of the Dead Seas. It was merciless and vile, laying waste to everything caught in its wrathful domain.
Crimson lightning tore through the skies, each strike unleashing devastating shockwaves that flattened trees and left animals lifeless or dying. Escape was impossible; the storm's fury rendered even the coastline unreachable. To be trapped within it was nothing short of a death sentence—a grim fate for any soul ensnared, especially for those who found themselves at its very heart.
And yet, there he stood: a lone man clad in a tattered cloak and shattered Black Shell armour, famed for its resistance to wind and lightning. His once-brilliant starry eyes now blurred, dulled by pain and exhaustion. Agony wracked his body, but he refused to yield. He couldn't—not now, not after enduring so much to come this far.
The strangest part wasn't just his endurance but his very survival. By all reason, he should have been dead. No ordinary man, no matter how strong, could withstand such punishment—let alone remain standing. Yet here he was, defying Logic once again.
But for how long? he wondered, his breaths laboured as his gaze fixed on his foe. The Storm Calamity. A living cataclysm, the most vicious natural disaster to ever scour the world. The stronger of its kind could obliterate entire islands in mere moments. By some twisted stroke of fate, this one was young and inexperienced, yet it still battered him as though he were nothing more than a fragile reed.
The Calamity's roving gaze finally landed on him, its chaotic form coiling with menace.
Great. It's seen me. So much for catching my breath.
Without hesitation, the Storm Calamity attacked. Its colossal leg, an amalgamation of a raging tornado and solidified lightning, slammed into the ground. The earth shattered beneath its strike, sending a tidal wave of destruction outward. The man narrowly dodged the crushing blow, but the ensuing shockwave was too vast to escape. It hurled him through the air, flinging his battered form across the broken landscape like a discarded doll.
He hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop amidst the debris, and the storm's roar was deafening. Yet, even as pain lanced through his body, he clawed at the dirt, forcing himself upright. Surrender was a luxury he didn't have.
"No time to heal. No time to mend the bone either. Ugh, it hurts…"
The man muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rough with pain. With a sharp tug, he ripped away the remnants of his nearly shredded cloak, exposing his battered Black Shell armor—a shadow of its former glory. Beneath the grime and damage, strands of his peculiar hair caught the faint light of the storm. It wasn't the pale silver of age nor the lustrous silver-blonde of nobility. Instead, it was a rough, ashen hue, streaked with faint threads of dark brown, as though it couldn't decide what it wanted to be. It, too, defied Logic.
His eyes began to glow, a strange and vivid gold. The thin black "X" in his pupils grew darker, sharper, as if carved by the very storm around him. It was another thing that defied logic.
A dark grin curled his lips as he straightened. Despite the agony twisting through his body, he reached inward and Skilled an armament from the depths of his soul. Slowly, deliberately, the blade emerged from him, as though tearing free from his very essence. His hand wrapped around the hilt, and the scabbard fell with a dull thud to the broken earth.
The sword gleamed with a soft blue radiance that rippled like liquid light along its edge. Justice. One of his oldest armaments. No matter the strain, no matter the battle, it had never broken nor rusted. Like its wielder, it defied Logic itself. He felt an odd attachment to the weapon—though he didn't truly understand what attachment even was. There were so many emotions he had yet to grasp, so many feelings still waiting to be discovered.
And that was why he couldn't die. Not here. Not now.
With a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the hilt and assumed Tyrant Stance. Power coursed through his battered form as he Skilled and reached out for Enhance Physical Ability, his movements now sharper, swifter, more precise. Without hesitation, he surged forward and charged at the Storm Calamity.
The colossal monster paused, as if caught between curiosity at the man's audacity and disdain for his apparent recklessness. Whether intrigued by bravery or bemused by stupidity, the hesitation was enough. The man seized the moment, darting forward with precision and intent to deliver a decisive blow.
He moved with practiced efficiency, his enhanced speed and stamina pushing his body beyond its limits. Gaining enough distance from the beast, he dismissed his current Skilling with a flicker of thought and prepared a new one. Flame Spirit.
Channelling his energy, he pointed the sword toward the Storm Calamity, its chaotic form looming like a force of nature incarnate. He didn't hesitate; there was no room for doubt.
Don't let me down.
The Flame Spirit erupted from his weapon, a fiery force tearing through the storm's wrath. It streaked through the howling winds and crimson lightning, its blazing form unwavering as it latched onto the Calamity's massive right leg. The flames fused with the swirling tornado-like appendage, spreading quickly through the beast's chaotic body. They surged downward into the solidified lightning of its feet and upward to its upper thigh, engulfing the creature in a torrent of fire.
The Storm Calamity bellowed, a guttural roar of pain that reverberated through the battlefield. Its immense frame began to falter, the relentless flames consuming the foundations of its form. In mere moments, the blaze subsided, but the damage had been done. The creature's right leg disintegrated, leaving it kneeling, its balance broken.
The man's ashen hair whipped around his face as he watched the behemoth falter, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope. If it can be immobilized, it can be killed.
A familiar sensation welled up within him, one he rarely permitted himself to feel: triumph.
He levelled his sword at the fallen monster, its glowing eyes seething with raw hatred.
"That's right," he taunted, a confident smirk curving his lips. "Lose your temper. Get mad. The angrier you are, the easier it'll be to kill you. I'll finish you and get off this damned island. NOW COME GET ME!"
With that, he Skilled once more, the energy surging around him like a second storm. His name was Cinder Ashenborn, the man who defied Logic simply by existing. And he wasn't done defying it yet.