The storm had judged him worthy, but the test was not yet over.


    Ash followed the Raijū Elders through the shattered battlefield, his steps heavy with exhaustion, his body aching from the battle with Raijin. The Oni-Wraith slumbered within him now, its hunger momentarily sated, but its presence lingered—a dark ember waiting to be reignited. Lightning flickered across the distant sky, illuminating the jagged peaks of the storm-forged mountains as they approached the ancient stronghold carved into the cliffs.


    Beyond the grand stone gates lay the Hall of Tempests, a sanctum where thunder itself seemed to breathe. The very air pulsed with latent power, the walls engraved with sigils that shimmered in sync with the storm''s distant roars. Ash felt the energy vibrating beneath his skin, a subtle hum in his bones, as though the storm itself recognized him. The Elders led him deeper into the fortress, past warriors cloaked in crackling energy, their movements fluid as they trained in the art of lightning. This was a sacred place, where those chosen by the storm were not merely tested—they were shattered and reforged.


    An Elder turned to face him, his eyes like twin storms barely contained. "To wield the power of the Raijū is to surrender to the storm," he intoned. "Your battle with Raijin proved your worth. But worthiness is not mastery."


    The ceremonial doors before them groaned open, revealing a vast chamber bathed in unending lightning. Spiraling currents of energy roared within, a vortex of chaotic, unrelenting power. The storm was alive in this place, bound to neither mercy nor reason. Ash''s breath hitched as the sheer force of it crashed against him, the air itself thick with raw electricity. His muscles tensed involuntarily, instincts screaming at him to turn back.


    "The Trial of the Tempest is simple," another Elder said. "Survive."


    There was no warning. No time to prepare. The storm struck with the fury of a living beast, arcs of lightning spearing down with ruthless precision. Ash barely dodged the first strike, his body moving on instinct, his honed reflexes guiding him through the chaos. But this was unlike any battle he had fought. The storm had no form, no pattern, no logic to exploit. It was unpredictable, merciless.


    A bolt seared past his shoulder, leaving the acrid scent of scorched fabric. Another struck the ground at his feet, the explosion sending him skidding backward. His heart pounded against his ribs. He could feel the Oni-Wraith stirring within, its dark hunger curling at the edges of his mind.


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    No.


    He clenched his teeth, pushing the wraith''s power back into the abyss. This was his trial. He would master the storm with his own will, or not at all. His breaths came shallow, controlled, as he focused on the rhythm within the chaos. The lightning struck in erratic pulses, but beneath the disorder, there was a pattern—a heartbeat hidden in the fury.


    He moved again, not away from the lightning but with it, weaving between the strikes, anticipating their fall before they landed. His body screamed in protest, every nerve alight with the raw charge in the air. Each second stretched into eternity. But he persisted. He had fought gods, walked the abyss, and returned. He would not falter here.


    Then the storm changed.


    The winds howled, shifting from a test of endurance to one of destruction. The chamber blurred as the lightning twisted into a single, towering entity—a Storm Avatar, a being of pure, unchained wrath. It had no face, no true shape, only endless, shifting energy. It regarded him in crackling silence, judgment woven into every pulse of its form.


    Ash exhaled sharply. "Let''s finish this."


    The Avatar struck first. A spear of lightning lanced toward him. He dodged, barely escaping the searing heat. He had no weapon, no Oni-Wraith to rely on—only his instincts, his will, and the storm itself.


    Then it clicked.


    The storm was not his enemy.


    He reached out—not to resist, but to understand. The air thrummed beneath his fingertips, the charge dancing over his skin. He felt the current, the pulse of the storm. He did not fight it; he became part of it. As the Avatar''s next attack came, he moved with it, guiding the flow rather than opposing it. The lightning wove around him, through him, no longer a force of destruction but one of unity.


    With a final surge of will, he extended his hand, grasping the heart of the tempest.


    The chamber fell silent.


    The Avatar dissolved into a cascade of sparks, the lightning no longer wild but tamed. The Elders watched, their expressions unreadable, the air still humming with residual energy. Then, finally, the eldest among them stepped forward and nodded.


    "You have done what few ever have," he said. "You have become the storm."


    Ash, breathless but unyielding, met their gazes without hesitation.


    "I am ready."


    The Oath of the Raijū awaited.


    The days that followed were grueling beyond anything Ash had endured. The Raijū did not train warriors in the conventional sense—they reforged them. Every lesson was a battle, every test a crucible of pain and endurance.


    He trained under the endless rain, his body pushed to the brink as he learned to wield the lightning within. He fought against illusions crafted from raw energy, facing foes that did not tire, did not yield. The Oni-Wraith, ever watchful, lurked at the edge of his consciousness, whispering, testing, reveling in his suffering. Each time Ash faltered, it reminded him: There is no fairness in war. Fight as one.


    He embraced the shadows, honed the storm, and in time, he began to understand. This was not merely about strength. It was about control. About mastery. About becoming something beyond himself.