Thunderclad Savior

Chapter 10: Thor’s Next Mandate

The stone floor of his small storage-room-turned-dorm was cold, but the internal heat of the mana flowing through his core made it feel like a bed of embers. Raka shifted, his tired limbs aching with a rhythmic, pulsing throb. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim him, but the system had other plans.

[SYSTEM ALERT: THRESHOLD REACHED.]

[NEW QUEST AVAILABLE: CLIMBING THE GALE.]

[OBJECTIVE: REACH THE SUMMIT OF THE ACADEMY PEAK DURING AN ONGOING STORM.]

[REWARD: PERMANENT MANA CAPACITY +10, ABILITY: STATIC SHIELD (Lv. 1).]

[WARNING: THE STORM IS NATURAL. IT WILL NOT SPARE THE WEAK.]

Raka let out a ragged, dry laugh, the sound grating in the silent room. "You’ve got to be kidding me. Another one? My bones feel like they’re held together by sheer spite."

“The storm does not care for your fatigue, vessel,” the voice of the god resonated in the hollows of his mind, cold and distant. “It waits for no one.”

Raka rolled onto his side, propping his head up with a hand that still buzzed with a faint, residual violet glow. "Fine. But I’m going to need more than just ambition to get up that peak in the middle of a monsoon."

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, his boots thumping against the floor. "Hey, are you still there? Or did you go back to watching the universe burn?"

There was no answer, only the faint, mechanical hum of the system waiting for his confirmation. Raka stood, his body swaying slightly before he caught his balance. He grabbed his staff, the wood vibrating slightly as if it sensed the impending atmospheric change.

"Natural storm," he murmured, walking toward the door. "That means real wind, real rain, and zero warning. This isn't your training wheels anymore, is it?"

He slipped out into the corridor. The academy was dead quiet at this hour, the stone halls bathed in a pale, silvery moonlight that was rapidly being swallowed by creeping, dark-bellied clouds. He could feel the pressure dropping—a dull ache in his sinuses that signaled the coming deluge.

"Where do you think you’re going, Raka?"

He froze, his hand tightening around the staff. A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the hallway. It was Kael, his face partially obscured by the darkness, though his golden pauldrons caught the faint light of the distant wall lanterns.

"Don't worry about it, Kael," Raka said, not slowing his pace.

Kael stepped into his path, his expression tight, a mixture of lingering anger and genuine confusion. "You’re heading for the back gate, toward the Peaks. It’s barely three in the morning and a gale is hitting the academy."

"I know," Raka said, his eyes scanning the corridor. "That’s why I’m going."

Kael snorted, crossing his arms. "You’re a suicidal idiot. You barely held your own in the sparring ring, and you think you can handle the Academy Peak in a weather event that usually clears the lower slopes of everyone but the most experienced scouts?"

"Maybe I’m tired of being a scout," Raka countered, stepping around him.

Kael grabbed his arm, his grip hard. "Listen to me, Raka. People have died on those slopes. Real lightning doesn't just 'tap' you like you did to me. It turns you into ash before you even hear the thunder."

Raka looked down at Kael’s hand, then up at his eyes. The static in his blood flared, a warning vibration that made Kael flinch and pull his hand back. "Then maybe you should stay inside, Kael. If you’re so worried about my health, don't follow me."

"I’m not following you," Kael hissed, his voice dropping to a low, frustrated whisper. "I’m telling you that you’re going to get yourself killed. Is it worth it? Just to prove you’re not the kid who couldn't light a candle?"

"It’s not about proof anymore," Raka said, his voice quiet, devoid of the defensiveness he used to carry. "It’s about making sure I’m never the kid who couldn't light a candle again."

He left Kael standing in the hallway, the leader’s confused, angry stare burning into his back. Raka didn't look back. He reached the heavy oak doors of the back gate, pushing them open. The air hit him like a physical blow—cold, damp, and smelling of ozone and wet stone.

The first roll of thunder shook the ground, deep and visceral. It wasn't the artificial, mechanical crack of the system’s training; it was the raw, guttural roar of a mountain being swallowed by a tempest.

"Okay," Raka whispered, clutching his staff. "Let’s see how natural you really are."

He started the climb. The path up the Academy Peak was steep, a treacherous, winding trail of shale and mossy rock. The rain started as a drizzle, then turned into a heavy, biting sheet of grey water that soaked his tunic in seconds.

"Focus," he muttered, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "Ground the energy. Don't fight the friction."

The wind howled through the narrow mountain passes, threatening to lift him off his feet and send him tumbling into the abyss below. Raka kept his center of gravity low, his boots finding purchase on the slick, black rock. Every strike of lightning that touched the distant crags blinded him, the white-hot after-images dancing in his retinas for seconds afterward.

[SYSTEM ALERT: HAZARD LEVEL DETECTED.]

[STAMINA DEPLETION ACCELERATING.]

"Shut it," Raka growled, wiping water from his eyes. "I know. Just keep the path open."

He pushed upward, his fingers cramping around the staff. He had to keep his core temperature up, his mana circulating in that tight, efficient loop he had perfected in the storage room. If he slowed down, he would freeze. If he panicked, the storm would find the crack in his resolve and snap him in half.

Halfway up the ascent, he slipped. A patch of mud gave way beneath his left boot, and he tumbled backward, his back hitting a sharp outcropping of stone. The breath left his lungs in a painful wheeze.

"Get up," he panted, his hands shaking as he tried to find a grip. "You can’t stay here."

He looked up toward the summit, a dark, jagged silhouette against the bruised purple of the clouds. And that was when he saw it.

About fifty yards ahead, a small, lithe shape was moving up the trail with an unnerving, fluid grace. It wasn't a mountain goat, and it certainly wasn't an academy scout.

"Who's that?" Raka whispered, blinking against the driving rain.

He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the low light. The figure was moving too quickly for the conditions, their silhouette cutting through the gale with a focused, deliberate energy. They reached a difficult vertical stretch—a section of the climb that looked nearly impassable in the rain—and didn't even hesitate. They scrambled up the wet stone, their movements precise, almost rhythmic.

Raka felt a spike of frustration. "Am I not the only one crazy enough to be out here?"

He pushed himself up, ignoring the bruising in his ribs, and redoubled his pace. He wanted to see who else was braving the fury of the peaks.

"Hey!" he shouted, his voice instantly swallowed by the roar of the wind.

The figure didn't stop. They kept climbing, their silhouette becoming clearer as they neared the next ridge. They were small, dressed in dark, form-fitting gear that clung to their frame, and they possessed a speed that made Raka’s own climb look sluggish by comparison.

Raka scrambled up the shale, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt the Conductor ability working overtime, drawing the static from the air and channeling it into his tired muscles. It gave him a fleeting, sharp burst of strength.

He closed the distance, his lungs burning, his skin raw from the wind. He was ten paces behind the figure now. They paused, turning slightly on a ledge, and for a split second, the lightning illuminated the mountain.

Raka stopped dead.

The figure turned, their hood falling back just enough to reveal sharp, focused eyes and a streak of silver-white hair that looked less like a biological trait and more like a scar of the storm itself. It was a girl, and she wasn't looking at the path. She was looking at the clouds, her expression one of predatory anticipation.

She looked back at him, her eyes widening, not in fear, but in surprise. She didn't speak. She didn't slow down. With a single, fluid jump, she vaulted over a gap in the trail and vanished into the swirling mist above.

Raka stood alone on the ledge, the wind screaming in his ears, his body tingling with the raw, chaotic energy of the summit. He looked at the trail ahead, then back at the girl’s disappearing form.

"Great," Raka breathed, his pulse quickening. "The storm just got a lot more interesting."

He gripped his staff, his knuckles turning white, and took the first step after her. The summit was still waiting, and for th

e first time, he wasn't just climbing for himself. He was climbing to catch the shadow in the storm.