Arthur, as Kai knew him, but as others knew him, Sir Arthur of the round table, the King of the Northern Territory of wind.
Sylvia on the other hand was a priestess, she ran a city, as a third tier mage, Arthur however was a level above such status.
A realm befitting of a king, the fourth realm, a powerful demigod, someone so powerful that he could erase a mortal with a mere thought. If the third realm was where one's emotions affected the world, the fourth was where one's very intent was fused with every action.
King's aren't the type to ride into battle normally or first as Arthur does but in the domain of wind, the land of freedom Arthur had already made his choice.
So he hit the ground running, he didn't look back, no that would have hurt him even more.
Sylvia, his little sister, not in blood of course; But, as the younger sibling of Arthur's late wife they were the only family each other had.
'Forgive me, little one.'
His pace increased, augmented by his wind affinity, his footsteps once landing on branches now hit open air. He soared, his body weightless as the wind he commanded.
His old clothes and ragged leathers fell away, beneath them shining armor adorned his body, lightweight and lithe was his build.
His armor complimented it, fitting him seamlessly. It was dense, but not too thick, only vital areas covered, the rest giving way to full mobility.
A regal set for a kingly man.
No jeweled crown graced his brow, only tempered steel.
On his fingers no signet ring, but a gauntlet of iron.
In his hand no golden sceptre, but a silver sword.
A sword that had claimed many lives, nevertheless the shiny metal retained its luster.
Sword intent, a type of mana that coated his sword, keeping it as pristine as the day it was forged.
One could only hope that today was not the day its glamour faded.
For today, was the fall of a king.
Upon his waist a simple belt encircled, engraved with gentle words of wind and flame. A gift, from the woman whose body sank beneath the ground but whose soul returned to the heavens.
Before him was a tide of beasts, snarling, snapping, howling.
Before them a single man, a warrior, the protector of his kingdom, tomorrow the order would arrive but he had to hold them off for today, no matter the cost.
Hundreds of bodies, realm four beasts, each one strong enough to level a small city, walking calamities.
These monsters even in vast numbers still grew silent as he approached.
The vast tide of black, red, orange, purple, every color imaginable, against a dull grey.
One brave beast stepped forwards, Nardhal, the serpent king.
It spoke, "Greetingsss King Arthur, come to beg for mer-ssss-e."
Tongue flicking out, it was black, and forked, eyes yellow, pupils slitted.
"Or…" a low -hisss- "have you come to fight"
The reptilian sneered, revealing its pointed fangs.
The only response returned was a raised sword, hazel eyes turning emerald.
Nardhal the vile snake reared its head and struck, breaking the stalemate, thudded to the floor, black blood pouring out of the bisected serpent, as the yellow eyes dimmed.
The beasts screeched, growled, hissed, and roared. Then all at once charged towards him.
Talons striking from above, paws swiping against his sword from the side.
Fangs glancing off armor, claws ripping flesh.
But the blade continued to dance, severing limbs, and rending flesh.
The man was a dam, and the monsters a flood.
But man's creation can only hold against nature up to a point.
Thousands of pounds worth of bodies crashed against him every minute, the mana barrier behind him taking up much of his sacred energy.
He endured, minutes to hours, the tide never faltering or receding, his helmet cracked, gauntlets beginning to rust and corrode from the acidic beast blood.
The belt on his waist was the only article left unblemished, a thin sheen of protective mana coating it.
The hours ran long, a beast snapping its jaws shut on his shoulder, ripping the guard off his chest plate. A single flash and the teeth lost their strength, falling to the ground with the decapitated head.
Long claws raked down his side, fraying the leather pads and separating flesh from bones.
'This is how useful my teachings are Kai… I can only hope you realise it yourself'
The green eyes flashed once more as 5 beasts piled on top of him, a second later he emerged, armor gone.
The helmet had bent inwards rupturing his eyes, he couldn't see, so he ripped it off.
Then restoring his punctured eyes, the wounds on his body rippled like water before closing.
This was Mana Neglection, Arthur's Transcendent Martial art.
The one he passed down to Kai.
The beasts swirled around him, the wind howled, not at him, but for him. A cacophony of music coming from the clamour of battle. Ringing silver agaisnt bone, snarling teeth agaisnt flesh.
His body had healed uncountable times, if not for his art he would have succumbed hours ago.
"It is easier to heal than prevent."
"Fear of pain is fear of progress."
"Your life is not your own Arthur."
A soft voice, barely perceptible came from the belt.
"I know… but it is mine to give."
Hazel eyes renewed with the luster of gemstones once more.
Mana Neglection
-ssshhh-
This was the final stand.
No scream left his lips, no space was given in retreat. He did not hold his laboured breaths, but fought with regal vigor.
In the end, there was no body, no blood, no crown—only silence, and a name that would outlast the war.
He was no longer Arthur, nor king, nor knight.
He was the wind itself. And the wind does not die.