No More Heroes | The Curseborn Saga

Chapter I - To Whom Fate Smiles

Storm stood atop the edge of a floating world, the wind of the skies rustling through his black hair. Far beyond a swirl of clouds, the sun was just peeking her face into existence. He felt her warmth touch his cheeks as she rose higher, and for a long moment he simply watched.

Turning his back to the rising sun, Storm walked over to a tree standing not far from the cliff. About thirty paces to the side of the tree was a wooden cabin, with faint traces of smoke rising from a chimney. It was his home; the only home he had ever known.

The floating island he lived on wasn't much bigger than the cabin and their one tree. In fact, the cabin itself seemed to take up the majority of the land. Regardless, Storm was content and wished for nothing grander. And even if he did get a little stir crazy in the small space, all it took was one glance to the north and Storm's eyes would fall upon Falia, his birthplace, a nation of earth sitting amongst the clouds. The place infamously known as the Edge was only a hundred paces away from where he stood, nestled beyond a blank stretch of blue sky. Not far beyond the Edge, he could see the dark trees of Neverend forest looming tall and mighty.

Taking off his dark-hooded jacket, Storm hung it on one of the branches of the tree, feeling the touch of the morning breeze across his bare chest. Shards of black bone, native to all Sorians, grew out of the skin over his ribs like an exoskeleton, along with certain parts of his wrists and shoulders. Hanging from his neck was a silver chain that held a thin tablet; etched into the surface of it was his name, written in the language of the old.

Leaning against the tree trunk was a leaden training sword, charcoal in color but with no edge. With a few deep breaths, Storm lifted the sword off the ground, wincing under its weight. He hadn't been able to lift the sword at all until he was 14 cycles old, a triumph that still shined brightly within his memories.

A few feet to his right was a thin metal rod sticking out of the ground with a dozen steel rings slipped over the top of it. With the careful ease of someone lifting a heavy object, Storm picked up one of the rings and slid it over the tip of his sword. It fell down to the guard with a thump, and he felt the weight of the sword double. Lifting another ring in the same fashion, Storm continued placing them onto his weapon until three of the rings had fallen against the guard.

Using both hands to lift the sword, Storm walked to the side of the tree and searched for his focus. Closing his eyes, he raised the sword above his head, then brought it down slowly, stopping with it held out in front of him. He continued in this fashion, one fluid motion at a time, carefully and meticulously.

As the shades passed, the motion of Storm's movement became more and more fluent. The sun rose higher into the sky, causing beads of sweat to streak down his body. And as his steady slashes became more controlled, the speed of his swing began to increase. With each slash, the leaves of the tree began to ripple in his wake, and the dirt at his feet began to swirl and twist as if taking on the essence of the wind.

"994," Storm said, hearing the strain of his aching body through his voice.

"995," he continued, the hilt of the sword drenched in sweat.

Closing his eyes, Storm felt a sudden presence from the trees of Neverend. Relaxing his muscles, he could see the aura of somebody moving towards him. Over the course of his grandfather's training, he had learned about the nine senses of the Sorians, but one had intrigued him far more than the others. It was the ability to see the energy of living things; their life force, or in the words of his old man, their aura.