Wielder Of The Dragon Flame

Chapter 11

Four months had crawled by like wounded beasts dragging themselves across scorched earth. Asta lay sprawled on the top bunk of his assigned bed, his back pressed against the thin, lumpy mattress that had become all too familiar. The wooden slats creaked beneath him with every slight movement, a sound that had become the soundtrack to his restless nights.

 His arms were folded behind his head, fingers interlaced, as his brown eyes traced the cracks spider-webbing across the ceiling above him. Those cracks had become like old friends,he'd memorized every line, every junction where they split and spread like veins beneath skin.

The room was dim, lit only by the weak morning light filtering through a small window near the door. Dust particles danced in the pale beam, swirling lazily in the stale air. The bunker smelled of sweat, wood polish and the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to everything in the labor quarters.

“It's been four good months.”

Asta muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, rough from sleep. He shifted his gaze from the ceiling to his right hand, lifting it slowly until his palm hovered directly above his face. 

The calloused skin, the dirt permanently etched into the creases of his fingers, the small scars that had accumulated from training,he studied them all like they might suddenly reveal some hidden truth.

 "Four whole months, and I haven't been able to wield the so-called dragon flame."

His fingers curled inward slowly, forming a loose fist that trembled slightly in the air. The frustration settled in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold. He turned the fist this way and that, watching the way the weak light caught on his knuckles, highlighting the rough patches where skin had split and healed over, split and healed again.

"But I know one thing for sure." 

His voice grew steadier, the fist clenching tighter now, knuckles going white with the force of his grip. The muscles in his forearm tensed, cords standing out beneath the skin.

The memories flooded back then, unbidden and sharp as broken glass.He could see the training grounds clearly in his mind,the wide and dusty expanse behind the labor quarters where Old Man Kael had taken him every single day before dawn. 

The old man stood before him, weathered face creased with patience that Asta sometimes felt he didn't deserve.

"Feel the flame within you." 

Old man Kael had instructed on that first morning, his voice calm and measured. 

"It's not about forcing it out, boy. It's about recognizing it's there, acknowledging it, and then... letting it flow."

Asta had stood with his feet planted wide, knees slightly bent, arms extended with palms facing forward just as Kael had demonstrated. He'd closed his eyes, searching within himself for any flicker, any spark, any warmth that might indicate the dragon flame's presence, but nothing happened.

"Concentrate."

 Kael had urged, circling around him slowly.

 "Empty your mind for everything else. The flame is part of you, not separate from you. You're not summoning something external,you're awakening something internal."

Asta had squeezed his eyes tighter, forehead creasing with effort. He'd reached deep, searching through the darkness inside himself, looking for anything that felt like fire, like power, like the dragon flame everyone spoke of with such reverence.

Still nothing.

Minutes had stretched into hours. Sweat had begun trickling down his temples, his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His arms had started trembling from being held in position for so long, muscles burning with a very different kind of fire,the fire of exhaustion.

"I don't feel anything." 

Asta had finally admitted, his voice cracking with frustration.

“Again." 

Kael had said simply, his tone neither disappointed nor encouraging,just patient. Endlessly patient.

The second day had been no different. Kael had tried a different approach, having Asta attempt to channel the flame through movement instead of stillness.

"Strike forward!"

 Kael commanded, demonstrating a punching motion that ended with his fist wreathed in brilliant crimson flames that danced and writhed like living things.

 "Let the motion draw the flame out!"

Asta had mimicked the movement, throwing his weight into a straight punch that cut through the air with a sharp whistle. His fist had met only emptiness,no flame, no heat nor power. Just flesh and bone and disappointment.

"Again!"

Punch after punch, hour after hour. His shoulders had ached, his knuckles had split, but still no flame came.

By the third week, Kael had grown more creative in his methods. He'd had Asta meditate for hours, attempting to commune with whatever dormant power supposedly slept within him.

 He'd made Asta run until his legs gave out, hoping physical exhaustion might lower whatever mental barriers were keeping the flame locked away. He'd even had Asta submerge himself in ice-cold water, the theory being that extreme cold might provoke the inner fire to awaken in self-defense.

Nothing worked as usual.

Asta remembered one morning in particular,it had been raining, a light drizzle that turned the training grounds into a muddy mess. Kael had stood before him, water dripping from his gray beard, his eyes studying Asta with an intensity that made the boy squirm.

"There's something blocking you." 

Kael had said, more to himself than to Asta. 

"Something fundamental. It's as if... as if there's a wall inside you, and the flame can't get past it. Or won't."

"What does that mean?"

 Asta had asked, shivering in his soaked training clothes.

"I don't know, boy. I honestly don't know."

That had been two months ago. Since then, they'd continued the attempts, but both of them knew,though neither said it aloud,that something was deeply, perhaps permanently, wrong.

Asta blinked, the memories receding as he returned to the present moment. His fist was still clenched above his face, trembling now not with effort but with barely contained emotion.

"That I'm awesome at sword and hand combat." 

He continued his earlier thought, a hint of pride creeping into his voice despite everything.

 "These last four months, I've been training so hard with Old Man Kael to wield the dragon flame..." 

He paused, the pride faltering.

 "But I feel like something is really off with me every time I train. I feel like there's something inside of me that's... uncertain. Unstable and wrong."

He finally lowered his arm and sat upright, the sudden movement making the bunk frame groan in protest. His hand moved to his chest, pressing flat against his sternum, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath the skin.

 What was it? What was this feeling that gnawed at him during every training session? It was like standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark,you couldn't see the drop, but you knew it was there, could feel the empty space yawning before you, waiting.

"But I know for certain that I'll ace the swordsmanship exam." 

Asta said more firmly, trying to rebuild his confidence with words. His lips curved into a small smile, genuine despite the doubt that plagued him.

 "And the tournament too. I'll prove myself there, even without the flame. I'll show everyone that Asta isn't someone to dismiss."

His smile had just begun to solidify when three sharp knocks echoed through the small room.

knock! knock! knock! 

 The sound was aggressive and impatient,the kind of knock that demanded immediate response.

Before Asta could even respond, the door swung open with enough force to bang against the wall. A man filled the doorway,a higher official by the looks of his uniform. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that seemed permanently fixed in a scowl.

 His labor official's coat was pristine, unlike the worn, patched clothing the regular laborers wore. A badge gleamed on his chest, marking him as someone with authority over people like Asta.

"Get your ass out of that bed, Asta!" 

The official barked, his voice filling the small room like a physical force. 

"The laborers' gathering is starting in the quarters right now. You think you can just lie around while everyone else is already assembled?"

Asta opened his mouth to respond, but the official wasn't finished. His sha

rp eyes swept the room, landing on the bottom bunk directly below Asta. A figure was visible there, wrapped in a thin blanket, back turned to the room.

"And who the hell is that?"