The Earthbound Guardians are now students of Airious, they never asked for this, but fate brought them together in the most tragic ways and yet, they never broke
The meditation ended with a breath that felt like it could blow away mountains. Jack stood up, feeling lighter but heavier at the same time, like a sword newly forged but not yet wielded.
Kainen waited for them at the training grounds, arms folded, face stern, the kind of man who didn't need to yell to be obeyed. The Earthbound Guardians gathered, some still shaking the cobwebs of old insecurities from their heads.
"You've taken your first step," Kainen said, voice slicing through the air like a clean blade. "now, we shape the rest."
Jack and Henry glanced at each other, excitement rippling like static between them.
"You are all born with affinities," Kainen continued, pacing like a tiger. "But raw power is not enough. Anyone can burn bright and destroy. Few can burn steady and build."
He turned and faced them fully.
"Your powers are ranked," he declared. "Tiers of mastery, like layers of your own soul: Initiate. Adept. Ascended. Paragon. Legendary. And Forger."
Charles tilted his head. "How do we climb?"
"By evolving," Kainen said. "Each tier is a mirror. Until you reach one hundred percent of your own reflection, you cannot shatter it and move forward."
Jack narrowed his eyes. One hundred percent... of who he was. Not who others thought he was.
"But these tiers," Kainen said, voice lowering like thunder rolling over distant hills, "are not about raw power. They are about restraint. Authenticity. The courage to know yourself without flinching."
Sonia shifted uneasily. Kennedy rolled his neck, cracking joints. Henry just stared, electricity humming at his fingertips.
"Now," Kainen barked, "you will learn the first true weapon of a Guardian."
He smiled then, a rare, wild thing.
"The Sage Arts."
Jack felt a shiver trail up his spine. He hadn't heard of it before, but something deep inside him recognized the name... like an old lullaby from a time he had never lived.
"The Sage Arts are not about domination," Kainen said. "They are about balance. Equality. Adaptation. You will match your opponent's strength, neither overreaching nor falling short. You will become their equal... and surpass them by becoming more yourself than they are themselves."
Ian whistled low. "Sounds... impossible."
"Good," Kainen grinned. "Because anything less would insult you."
Without another word, he waved his hand, and a portal of shimmering gold ripped open in the air behind him. It pulsed with calmness... but it also pulsed with challenge.
"You will train in Sage City," Kainen said. "The birthplace of balance. The forge where true warriors are made."
Jack's heart pounded in his ears. He could almost hear Valitor's voice whispering in the wind:
> Authenticity is not freedom to destroy, Jack. It is freedom to create without losing your soul.
Jack tightened his fists, feeling the lightning crackle under his skin.
No more running.
No more shrinking.
He would learn the Sage Arts.
He would master himself.
And he would light the very sky with who he truly was.
He looked at Henry, who smirked and said, "Ready to fry some brains with me, sparky?"
Jack laughed. "Always."
Together, they stepped into the golden portal, the future pulling them into its roaring tide.
And Sage City waited.
When they stepped through the portal, Jack and Henry nearly lost their breath.
Sage City sprawled before them like a living myth — a place where mountains floated lazily above rivers of golden mist, and the sun painted the stone roads in glistening amber. Monks in flowing robes moved like water given form. Sages sat in gardens of singing crystals, meditating so deeply the very air hummed around them. And metaphysical creatures — beings stitched from pure Avian energy — roamed freely, bowing respectfully as they passed.
Everywhere Jack looked, impossible things were treated as ordinary.
He saw one Sage punch a boulder the size of a small building, and the boulder disintegrated like a puff of dandelion fluff. Another Sage drew a single line in the air with his finger, and reality bent in respect. No strain. No sweat. Just pure, elegant might, forged through devotion that made Jack's skin tingle.
These Airiens were not built different...
They were grown different.
As the Earthbound Guardians tried to soak it all in, a figure approached — confident, smooth, like a breeze that knew how good it smelled.
It was Miro.
He looked about their age, maybe a little older, with short silver hair that somehow caught all the light around him. His blue robes shimmered with marks of high mastery. His smile? That dangerous kind of charming that parents warn their daughters about — and daughters ignore anyway.
"That's Miro," Merina whispered, cheeks going pink. "One of the academy's best...and every girl's problem."
Henry nudged Jack and snickered. "Dang. Guess Sage City got heart-throbs too."
Miro bowed low with the grace of a flowing river.
"Welcome, Earthlings," he said, his voice smooth like warm honey. "I am Miro of the Third Wing. I will be your guide to the Sage Arts."
And with a wink, he added, "If you can keep up."
The next few hours blurred into a wonderland of movement.
Miro taught them not just to fight — but to live through Sage Arts.
He showed them the flow, the way every step could carry the wisdom of a hundred battles if taken with intent.
First came the Palm Strike — where power wasn't in the strength, but in the softness.
"Push like the tide," Miro said, demonstrating. A simple palm to the chest of a metal statue sent it skidding a hundred meters away, silently and gracefully. No violence. Just inevitability.
Then the Finger Punch — precision so deadly it could shatter armor with a touch.
"Your fingers are like spears," he said, tapping a stone pillar so lightly it cracked down the center like a dry twig.
Next was the Redirection Maneuver — flowing around an attack like water slipping through grasping fingers.
"You don't fight force with force," Miro explained, swirling around Jack's mock punch. "You invite it, borrow it, then return it with interest."
The Guardians stumbled, fell, laughed, tried again.
Jack threw a palm strike and landed flat on his back.
Henry attempted a finger punch and poked a tree — only to yelp when a squirrel threw an acorn at him in revenge.
Even Kainen, watching from a distance, allowed himself a rare grin.
But with each try, they improved.
A little faster.
A little smoother.
A little more... themselves.
Jack could feel it — the wisdom of Sage City seeping into his bones.
Not just how to punch.
But how to breathe, to move, to exist without wasting even an ounce of himself.
Miro clapped his hands together as the sun dipped low, casting the city in an orange dreamscape.
"You're rough," he said, smiling mischievously, "but you have heart. And that's rarer than strength."
Jack grinned, sweat dripping down his forehead, lightning still itching under his skin.
This was it.
This was the life he wanted to carve.
Not as a monster.
Not as a god.
But as himself.
And as the night crept over Sage City, the stars above seemed to shimmer just a little brighter — as if even they were watching, waiting for what Jack and the others would become.
The courtyard fell silent.
Miro stood in the center, the evening light catching on his silver hair like a halo made of blades. His robe shifted gently in the breeze. Around him, the Earthbound Guardians lined up, hearts thudding, eyes wide.
"Who will spar with me?" Miro asked, smiling like a wolf who knew the sheep thought they had a chance.
And from the ranks stepped forward...
Osei Jerry.
A quiet boy, with a heavy quietness, the kind that wraps around the soul like a winter coat. His eyes burned with a deep, simmering fire — not of anger, but of survival.
Of regret.
Everyone knew Osei's story.
A boy whose instincts once lashed out uncontrollably, leading to tragedy.
A boy who once believed he was broken.
But here, in Sage City, the world didn't label him.
Here, they listened.
Miro tilted his head, studying him, as if peering into the marrow of his being.
"No Affinity," Miro said, voice firm but kind. "Just your instincts. Show me your truth."
Osei nodded.
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.
A real smile — crooked, brave, alive.
The moment cracked open like lightning across a clear sky.
Osei moved.
Fast. Blisteringly fast.
He didn't think — he simply was.
A flurry of punches, compact and sharp, like a predator testing the wind.
His feet glided across the ground, no wasted motion, no wasted breath.
Miro dodged, swaying like a reed in the river. Calm. Fluid. Effortless.
But behind his casual grace, there was a flash of something deeper in his eyes — surprise.
Because Osei wasn't just swinging wildly.
No, no...
His fists narrowed with every miss.
Each dodge from Miro was being mapped, calculated, felt in the very sinews of Osei's bones.
He was hunting Miro's intent.
One punch — narrowly missed.
Two punches — slipped under.
Three punches — grazed Miro's sleeve.
Jack leaned in, whispering to Henry, "Dude, he's syncing to Miro's breathing..."
Henry nodded, goosebumps running down his arms. "It's not instinct anymore. It's something...deeper."
Miro chuckled, sidestepping another blazing jab.
"You're dangerous," he said lightly, ducking. "Not because of your power."
He parried a strike, only for Osei to immediately switch angles mid-swing, forcing Miro to actually block.
"You're dangerous," Miro said again, spinning away with a grin, "because you feel."
The audience could barely keep up — it wasn't a fight, it was a conversation without words, two souls speaking in the raw, guttural tongue of battle.
Osei's fists blurred.
Miro's feet whispered against the stone.
Strike. Evade. Counter. Redirect.
Every heartbeat a thunderclap of intent and response.
Osei almost landed a blow to Miro's side — just a breath away — when Miro pivoted and tapped his forehead gently with two fingers.
Tap.
Like a whisper.
And just like that, the fight was over.
Osei stepped back, panting, a fierce grin spreading across his face.
Miro bowed to him deeply — a real, respectful bow, the kind given to someone worthy.
"You," Miro said, his voice loud enough for all the others to hear, "are closer to true Sage Arts than most students who've been here for years."
Osei blinked, stunned.
For the first time, the weight he carried — the guilt, the shame, the self-doubt — cracked, just a little.
He wasn't broken.
He was brilliant.
Just... misread by a smaller world.
The Guardians erupted into cheers, clapping and hooting like mad.
Jack was whooping.
Merina wiped a tear.
Henry pumped his fist.
Kainen, watching from afar, simply nodded once.
Another soul saved.
Another warrior awakened.
And Sage City, ancient and wise, hummed with approval.
The courtyard breathed with the weight of a hundred battles fought in silence.
After Osei's instinctive blaze, the others stepped forward — some eager, some dragging old fears like heavy cloaks behind them.
Sonia was next, a tempest in human form.
She charged like a comet, fists flying, heart roaring louder than her own thoughts.
Miro weaved around her, a dance of ghostly grace.
"Slow down," he said, sidestepping another fiery swing.
"Your heart is your supernova, Sonia. But if you don't guide it..."
He ducked under a wild punch, tapping her shoulder lightly.
"...it'll burn you before it touches your enemy."
She paused, panting, frustration bleeding from her pores.
"Balance," Miro whispered, voice like calm thunder.
"Don't kill your emotions.
Conduct them."
Sonia closed her eyes for a moment...and breathed.
The next time she moved, it was different.
Not an explosion, but a wave — patient, heavy, unstoppable.
Miro smiled.
Progress.
---
Kennedy sauntered up next, cracking his knuckles, trying to act casual but clearly vibrating with nerves.
He circled Miro with careful steps, weaving, dodging, moving... but his flow stuttered like a movie skipping frames.
"Your spirit's strong," Miro said mid-sway, "but your pacing's stiff."
Kennedy winced. "Yeah...wasn't exactly a street brawler back on Earth. I used to animate stick figures in my room, not throw hands."
Miro laughed — genuinely, warmly.
"Then you're perfect," he said.
"Sage Arts isn't about strength or violence. It's about expression. You're an animator? Then animate yourself. Make every movement a drawing in the air."
Kennedy blinked.
Ohhh.
For the first time, he moved a little looser, a little lighter, his feet sketching invisible lines over the stone.
A warrior's storyboard, still messy — but alive.
---
Charles Oduro stepped into the circle next, arms folded, mind racing.
Miro attacked softly — small jabs, faint movements.
Charles read them like a coder reading bugs in a program.
He saw the patterns.
The loops.
The glitches.
But his body?
A half-second too slow.
He dodged one blow — caught another.
Miro touched his chest gently, smiling.
"You're brilliant," he said.
"But analysis without action is just observation."
Charles nodded, adjusting his glasses sheepishly.
"Use that brain. Sage Arts mirrors intent.
You're not fighting me.
You're debugging me."
Charles' eyes lit up, the click of understanding firing somewhere deep inside.
Next time, he'd move differently.
---
Yvonne approached with a healer's hesitation.
She raised her hands awkwardly, unsure whether to punch or pray.
Miro bowed lower this time — in respect.
"Fighters break," he said softly.
"But healers...they bend."
Instead of trading blows, he showed her redirection — the art of catching a punch and folding it into a dance, of letting enemies defeat themselves by the momentum of their own anger.
Yvonne practiced — slow, patient — like weaving stitches through battle itself.
The courtyard watched, hushed.
Healing and fighting...not so different after all.
---
Merina bounced into the ring like a tide rushing home.
"Hey, Miro," she teased, "still babysitting newbies?"
Miro snickered. "You know me. Daycare is my specialty."
They circled each other in mock combat, flowing, grinning, nudging shoulders.
Miro feigned a serious face. "Where are the others? The ones who used to keep you in check?"
Merina rolled her eyes. "Dealing with interplanetary threats. Y'know, regular Thursday stuff."
They clashed palms, laughed, spun apart — not a real duel, but a celebration.
Friends in the war of growth.
---
And finally.
Ian.
The boy with Slash manipulation.
The boy with hands made for blades, not fists.
The boy whose past bled from his very stance.
He stepped into the arena stiffly, arms tense, spirit heavier than gravity.
Miro didn't mock him.
Didn't belittle him.
He just stood there, waiting.
Ian charged, throwing a clumsy punch.
Miro caught it, redirected it, spun Ian harmlessly to the ground.
Again.
And again.
But never cruelly.
Never harshly.
"You weren't made for hand-to-hand," Miro said, offering a hand up, "but that's exactly why you'll learn it."
Ian wiped sweat from his brow, teeth gritted.
"Because one day," Miro continued, voice soft as rain, "you'll face an enemy who takes your sword away."
Their eyes locked.
"And I don't want you to lose... because you forgot you were dangerous even without it."
Ian swallowed hard...
And nodded.
A promise forged in bruises and breath.
---
The sun dipped low over Sage City, painting the sky with bruised purples and flaming reds.
They weren't just students anymore.
They weren't just survivors.
They were becoming.
One spar, one stumble, one lesson at a time.
Sage Arts wasn't just fighting.
It was remembering who they were.
And who they could still become.