Pain surged throughout his body, but Arnulf had no mouth to scream. The agony was so intense, it threatened to overwhelm him, yet he refused to let it consume him. Instead, he focused, thinking through the pain as it rippled across him.
Curse that god, Arnulf thought, though a realization started to form. Aurelius couldn't read his thoughts outside that throne room, he didn't know about his thoughts. The god was limited, he couldn't even look into his past lives. Even if I complete his plan, will Aurelius be able to lift my curse, unseal my power?
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain started to recede. He felt something tugging him out of the void, a grip pulling him gently yet forcefully.
He opened his eyes to see blood. His world was upside down. He was being held, his face wiped clean by a cloth before being gently placed into a warm, cushy basketlike shape.
"What? Why isn't the baby crying, Shaman?"
A voice asked.
"Hush, be quiet. I sense something... powerful. This child is different,"
The Shaman replied.
A soft, swirling wind caressed his skin. Arnulf recognized the wind spirit's touch. So, it begins, he thought.
"Your child is blessed by the spirits. That's why he did not cry. He is protected. He will be a fine Shaman."
The Shaman, his voice a quiet murmur.
The woman holding him, Delbee, was pale and exhausted but smiled weakly. Her husband, Ulaan, stood beside her, a fierce protectiveness in his eyes.
"What if the boy doesn't want to be a Shaman and chooses to be a warrior instead?"
Ulaan's voice was laced with frustration.
The Shaman remained calm.
"That would not be wise. I will petition the Khan that this boy be trained as a Shaman when he comes of age."
Ulaan looked ready to draw his sword, but before he could, Delbee placed a hand on his arm.
"Ulaan, our child is just born."
"But Delbee—" Ulaan began, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Ulaan, it is not our choice. It is his choice to make."
Delbee turned to the Shaman.
"Shaman, guide us. Name this child—this child blessed by the spirits."
The Shaman raised his staff, and the air around them seemed to hum. "I name this boy Tengri, son of Ulaan and Delbee, for he will ride the winds of fate and be loved by the spirits."
By age three, Tengri's life had already diverged from that of other children. His birth, marked by the presence of spirits, set him apart. While the other children cried and screamed, Tengri's eyes remained calm, even inquisitive. Rarely did anything surprise him, and he never cried. He was always at ease, as though his soul had already seen the world in its entirety.
The tribe, a nomadic people, was focused on survival. The scent of hay and animal dung always lingered in the air, mixing with the dry dust from the plains that the wind carried, stinging their eyes. Herds of goats, sheep, and oxen were constantly moving, their heavy hooves stirring up the earth, filling the air with the sound of bleating and lowing, the creak of leather saddles and harnesses. The tribespeople would occasionally stop and listen to the soft clink of bells worn by the sheep as they traveled across the barren, unyielding land. The earth itself was as unforgiving as the wind that howled through the plains.
Tengri's father, Ulaan, was a warrior,skilled with both the bow and as a horseman. His mother, Delbee, took care of the household, managing the animals and maintaining their yurt, a mobile home made of felt and wood.
There was no abundance of mana in this land, but spirits thrived here, and they were worshiped fervently. Every migration, every skirmish, and every significant event was marked by rituals led by the Shaman. The sounds of chanting and the scents of burning incense would fill the air, swirling with the spirits' presence.
At the age of one, he tried to move, but his limbs were too weak, unable to support his efforts. Still, he waited, biding his time until he was three, confident in his body's ability to finally move freely. At this age, he began his first attempts at harnessing Spirit Energy, though at first, he had no idea what he was doing.
Sitting cross legged in the dirt, the sound of the wind carrying through the grass, he felt the faint stirrings of energy. At first, his instinct was to gather mana and form a magic core, but the mana here was too thin, too sparse. So he turned to the energy around him, a weak breeze, like a whisper across his skin, too subtle to control.
Why can't I control it better? Tengri thought, his hands trembling slightly. His heart raced as he focused, trying to gather the energy. His first attempt ended in failure, nothing happened.
Tengri was not accustomed to failure. He had lived many lives, as a king, a sorcerer, a conqueror. But in this life, in this form, his power felt limited, weak, unrefined. I need to understand this, he thought. I need to know how to control it.
Drawing on his knowledge as Arnulf Wolfsburg, he reflected on energy flow and cycles. It's just like the way energy moves in the universe… he mused. If I can learn to move it, control it...
In his mind, he saw the way energy flowed in circles, like a vortex. Thinking logically, Tengri told himself, his mind racing through the teachings of his past life. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.
Closing his eyes again, he imagined the vortex of energy, swirling in his chest, drawing in the flow of energy from his surroundings. He could feel it now, subtle but persistent.
Balance. Resonance. Tengri had learned from his past life that energy moved in patterns, resonating with itself when in harmony. If I can find the right frequency, I can amplify it.
By the age of six, Tengri began to understand the energy more clearly. His connection to the spirit world deepened, and the wind spirit, ever present, helped him feel the subtle shifts of the energy around him. He began to experiment with the Spirit Vortex, a technique to gather the energy into a continuous flow.
But it was not perfect. His early attempts were chaotic. The vortex would spin too fast, too slow, or collapse altogether, leaving him exhausted. He needed to refine the technique, make it more stable, more controlled.
One day, while Tengri was practicing his riding and shooting, Batu, a bold and fearless friend, approached him. Batu was the only one who wasn't intimidated by Tengri's abilities. He had always shaved his head, declaring that he would only grow his hair back if he ever found something worth fighting for.
"Wow, you're already the best rider here, Tengri. No surprise, though. You've got the spirits blessing you. You should ask them to bless me, too. My hands are sore from practicing archery, and I still can't hit the target."
Tengri gave Batu a sideways glance.
"Sure, I'll ask them to silence you next time you complain. You know the Elder is strict, especially with me."
Batu's mischievous grin flashed for a second then, the Elder, his imposing presence hard to miss appeared behind them. Batu froze.
"Oho, you're pretty bold, boy"
The Elder said, his voice like gravel.
Batu's face turned pale as the Elder loomed over him with a thick, wooden staff. Batu had been dragged away, and no one saw him for the rest of the day. That evening, he returned bruised, and the other parents couldn't help but laugh at the story.
One day, as Tengri was riding with the other boys, Baasan, the son of the Khan, approached with his typical arrogance.
"I heard you're the strongest among your age group. But you're nothing but a child."
Baasan sneered.
Tengri didn't flinch, his gaze was steady, unaffected. He had lived many lives, fear had no hold on him. He had seen the rise and fall of kings, the destruction of entire worlds. This child's arrogance was nothing.
Before Tengri could speak, Batu, his loyal friend, stepped forward, unafraid, his voice cutting through the tension.
"Is that so, Baasan? Do you really think your father's title gives you power over everyone?"
Baasan's face twisted in anger. He didn't respond directly. Instead, he gave a sharp motion, and his lackeys advanced.
The first one swung a stick at Tengri. He sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid like a predator anticipating the prey's next move. He caught the stick in midswing, stopping it cold. Without hesitation, Tengri twisted his body, bringing his knee sharply into the boy's gut. The lackey gasped, winded, and crumpled to the ground.
Baasan's lackeys hesitated. Tengri's eyes flicked over them, and without waiting, he moved again. The second lackey swung wide, and Tengri simply stepped back, dodging by mere inches. The boy's strike went wide, and Tengri seized the opportunity, grabbing the stick and breaking it in two with a swift motion. The lackey stumbled back, eyes wide in shock.
Baasan, furious, rushed at Tengri, his eyes blazing with unrestrained rage. He swung at Tengri with greater speed and precision. Not bad, Tengri thought, admiring the boy's skill. But it was too slow.
Tengri dodged, grabbing Baasan's wrist, twisting it to disarm him. Then he headbutted the boy in the nose, the sickening crunch of bone against bone filling the air. Baasan staggered back, his eyes filled with rage and shock.
Without wasting a moment, Tengri kicked Baasan's leg out from under him, sending him to the ground. He followed with an uppercut that sent Baasan flying backward, tumbling to the dirt.
The sounds of the fight echoed across the camp, but soon, the Elder appeared. The other boys lay sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain. Batu stepped up, looking a little disoriented but unscathed.
"Enough!"
The Elder barked, his voice harsh and commanding. He eyed Tengri, then the others.
"The fight is over, but there will be consequences for this. Everyone, bring these boys to the Shaman."
Baasan's lackeys, bruised and humiliated, were taken to the Shaman, their injuries not severe enough to warrant anything more than a healing ritual. Tengri, however, was ordered to return home with his parents, the situation concluded but still full of lingering tension
That evening, Tengri returned home. His parents sat together, their faces showing mixed emotions, pride from Ulaan, concern from Delbee.
Ulaan spoke first, his voice steady.
"That was impressive, Tengri. You've shown them all your strength."
Delbee, however, looked troubled.
"But what about Baasan? His father is the Khan. What will happen?"
Before Ulaan could respond, the Elder arrived, his presence filling the yurt.
"Tengri will not be punished. It was a children's fight. Other children have testified that Baasan and his friends started it. The Khan will not interfere."
Delbee's relief was palpable, but she still worried.
"What does that mean for Tengri's future?"
The Elder shifted uneasily.
"The other parents have spoken. They've decided that Tengri will no longer train with the other children. He has surpassed them in riding and archery. Even I, as his teacher, can no longer teach him."
Delbee's voice rose in protest.
"But it was only a fight! He's just a boy, only six years old! They can't isolate him like this!"
Ulaan placed a calming hand on her shoulder.
"The Khan has ruled it. Tengri will not train with the others anymore."
The Elder then left their Yurt. Tengri, overhearing this, felt a flicker of mischief in his chest. Perfect. Now I can focus on my training, without the distractions of those useless lessons.
That night, as Tengri lay in the warmth of his family's yurt, the sounds of the tribe settling in for the night reached him. The crackle of fires, the soft murmur of voices, and the distant bleating of sheep filled the cool air. His parents spoke softly, Delbee's voice carrying a trace of concern, while Ulaan's tone was more approving but laced with a slight edge of caution.
"I thought you might hold back, but you didn't."
Delbee murmured, her eyes on her son. "
Tengri turned his head slightly, his gaze calm, his expression unreadable.
"I only did what was necessary."
Ulaan chuckled, though his smile was tight.
"You're strong, Tengri. The strongest of your age. But you must remember, strength is more than just power. It's about control."
"I understand"
Tengri replied, his voice steady but distant. It was clear to him that his father's words, while well meaning, were not entirely necessary.
"It's fine, mother, father. I can train by myself. Or I can help with chores in the house. Maybe even join my father for hunts."
His parents exchanged worried glances, but Tengri only smiled at their concern. They didn't understand. He understood. With more time to himself, he could focus on perfecting his Spirit Vortex, no more distractions.
For the next several weeks, Tengri trained alone in the hills nearby. The air was crisp and cold, with the scent of sagebrush and wildflowers carried on the wind. The landscape stretched out before him was vast, rolling plains dotted with patches of greenery and rocky outcrops. Tengri could feel the earth beneath his feet, solid and steady, but it was the spirit energy that pulsed around him, just out of reach, that called to him. Batu would come from time to time usually to speak with him or skip the lessons.
As he meditated, the wind howled around him, whipping through the grass and tugging at his clothes. He felt the wind's presence, like the spirits themselves were circling around him, watching, waiting. He closed his eyes and focused on the flow of spirit energy, imagining it swirling around him like a vortex. His concentration sharpened with every passing moment, but the energy was still elusive and still fragile. Each attempt was a battle of wills, forcing the energy to do his bidding.
By age seven, Tengri had created the first rudimentary form of Spirit Vortex. His energy-gathering technique started to resemble a whirling cyclone within his chest, constantly spinning and gathering Spirit Energy from his surroundings. It was still weak and difficult to control, but it worked.
However, it wasn't perfect. His early attempts were chaotic. He felt the energy gathering, but it was like trying to control an unstable force, constantly slipping out of his grasp. The vortex would spin too fast, or too slow, or it would just collapse, leaving him exhausted. I must refine the technique, he thought. It must become more stable, more controlled...
In the back of his mind, theory guided his actions. Energy cannot exist without being part of a cycle. Everything that moves does so in patterns circular, harmonic, or otherwise. With that thought, Tengri focused more on the circular nature of the vortex. The energy must move continuously, like a wheel that never stops turning, feeding into itself.
One day, the tribe gathered as the Elder called for a meeting. The reason was clear, the tribe had to migrate once again. The plains, although vast, had begun to grow sparse. The herds had grazed most of the land bare, and the tribe's nomadic lifestyle demanded they seek new pastures every few years. But there was also the looming threat of other tribes encroaching upon their territory, tensions growing with every passing season. The Chief had made the decision, it was time to move.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke from the cooking fires and the sharp tang of animal dung as the tribe began to prepare. Herds of sheep and oxen were led into formation, and carts were packed with belongings. The familiar clink of leather straps and the rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the earth filled the air as the tribe began its slow march across the plains.
Tengri stood by his family's cart, his hands resting lightly on the yaks that were to pull the load. The wind had begun to pick up, blowing across the grass and carrying the scent of sage and dust. As the tribe began to move, he could feel the shift in the atmosphere, a mix of anticipation and the quiet anxiety that always accompanied the migrations. It was always the same, months of travel, crossing endless plains, with the ever present threat of other tribes or dangers lurking just beyond the horizon.
The tribe's yurts were rolled up and packed away, replaced by the sight of herds of oxen being led forward, their low bellowing the only sound aside from the creaking of wheels as the wagons rolled along the rough paths. There was the distant, rhythmic clinking of bells as the sheep followed behind, their wool heavy bodies swaying with each step.
Tengri's eyes lingered on the land. The vast, dry plains stretched endlessly before him, a horizon of dust and grass, the occasional breeze rustling through the low growing shrubs. The land was rugged, unyielding, but it was home.
By midday, the tribe had moved far enough to set camp, the heat of the sun bearing down heavily on the travelers. Tengri's family settled into their own space as the rest of the tribe set up around them. The smell of meat roasting over open fires mixed with the scent of freshly cut grass as some of the women began to prepare food. Tengri, however, was not interested in the communal tasks of setting up the camp. His thoughts were elsewhere. With the time and space now freed up from being isolated from the others, he would have the chance to train alone, just the way he preferred it. No distractions.
As night began to fall, the firelight flickered brightly, casting shadows across the camp. The tribe settled around the fire, some speaking in low voices, others looking out over the darkening plains. The soft crackling of embers filled the air as Tengri sat quietly, his back against a nearby rock, his focus inward.
With the wind howling softly around him, he closed his eyes, tuning out the noise of the camp. The smell of the smoke from the fire and the earthy scent of the plains seemed to merge, creating a sense of peace.
The air around him grew still as he focused, his breath slow and controlled. He felt the energy of the earth beneath him, the whispers of the wind across the plains. It was a connection he had long yearned for, but now it was stronger than ever. He could feel the subtle vibrations in the air, the energy swirling just beyond his reach.