A Tempest Bound in Steel

Parting the wind, cleaving the breeze, Arcel Libern stood smiling. It was not a broad grin, nor was it the sort of smile that made him look obviously giddy. He simply stood before the main gates of the newly erected research division, hands neatly clasped in front of him, a faint trace of satisfaction gracing his eyes. His long, sky-blue hair flowed gently over his shoulders in the wind, and the collar of his research robes—pressed far more neatly than usual—carried the faint, lingering scent of fresh fabric and chemical reagents.

Ena stared at his face. Without breaking her stride, she thought to herself:

What the actual fuck.

Naturally, she did not utter it aloud. The Commander-in-Chief of the **Sword Order** could hardly let such a vulgar thought slip the moment she laid eyes on one of her squad captains in front of the **5th Research Division**.

Ena simply walked on, her expression as serene as ever. The black-scabbarded **Ilryun** swayed gently at her hip, and the hem of her white Eastern-style robes fluttered softly in the breeze sweeping past the new facility.

Arcel bowed deeply from the waist. "You have arrived, Commander-in-Chief."

His voice was remarkably soft. Ena studied him for a moment.

The laboratory, which just a few days ago had its ceiling blasted open to let in raw sunlight and wind, had been transformed into an entirely different structure. The outer walls extended much further than before, the central dome rose an entire story higher, and a row of exhaust towers lined the roof, designed to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vent heat, pressure, and magical turbulence.

And above the main entrance hung a brand-new plaque. An inscription carved in silver lettering upon dark wood:

Ena stared at the words. They did not disappear.

What the actual fuck.

As if he had been eagerly anticipating her gaze, Arcel's smile deepened. "Does it please you?"

Ena remained silent.

Roen's pen began to move.

Arcel's smile faltered ever so slightly. "Adjutant Roen. I do not believe that particular entry is necessary."

"It holds historical value," Roen replied flatly.

"Even my thoughts on the new name?"

"It is the official designation of the new research facility, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠making it highly significant."

Arcel closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them. He seemed exceptionally patient today.

Ena spoke up. "You seem to be in high spirits."

"Indeed," Arcel did not bother to hide it. "I am."

Stepping aside, he gestured grandly toward the new facility, as if presenting a prized masterpiece. "The previous central laboratory possessed severe structural limitations. The ceiling was too low, the barrier intervals were far too narrow, and the ventilation system was utterly inadequate for high-output experiments."

Arcel's eyes gleamed. "Thanks to you personally demonstrating those limitations, Commander-in-Chief, I was able to fast-track our expansion plans."

Roen's pen scratched against the paper once more.

"That phrasing is a bit hurtful," Arcel said quietly, though his smile remained firmly in place.

Ena stared at the new facility. She had given him funds to *repair* it. She had never authorized an *expansion*.

She fell silent for a moment, thinking to herself:

Is this really okay?

Arcel, seemingly interpreting her silence as silent approval, gestured forward. "Please, step inside, Commander-in-Chief. I have something to show you today."

As the main gates of the new laboratory swung open, the vastly widened central laboratory came into view. The floor, which had been completely vaporized by a mere ten percent of **Baekil** a few days ago, was now repaved with pristine black stone. The walls were reinforced with barrier plates several times thicker than the previous ones, embedded at precise intervals.

The ceiling was towering. If the old laboratory had been a mere room, the current central laboratory felt closer to a small training arena.

Ena briefly looked up at the ceiling.

Arcel blurted out in a panic, "I do not mean to suggest we test Baekil here just yet!"

Ena looked at him. Arcel was smiling, but there was a distinct, albeit tiny, trace of sheer terror laced in his expression. "I truly, deeply do not."

Roen's pen scratched.

Arcel, looking as though he were swallowing a heavy sigh, muttered, "Adjutant Roen. You really do not need to write that down."

"It is important."

"My laboratory was literally just rebuilt."

"Which is precisely why it is of the utmost importance."

Arcel ultimately chose to remain silent.

Tuning out their bickering, Ena cast her gaze toward the deepest recess of the central laboratory. There stood a large storage pedestal. Unlike the other state-of-the-art equipment in the new facility, this pedestal was far from new. In fact, it looked ancient.

The dark wood, heavily oiled and weathered, had settled into a deep, somber hue, its corners worn smooth by generations of hands. Upon it lay no glowing blue magic circles, no crystals from the Magic Tower, nor any newly engraved protective runes. Instead, it was wrapped in an old sealing cloth—a faded, ash-grey fabric.

Small bronze rings were attached to each knot, and those rings were trembling ever so slightly. Even though there was no wind.

Ena stopped in her tracks. Arcel's gentle smile faded as well.

The proud researcher boasting about his laboratory's expansion vanished, replaced by the solemn countenance of a magic swordsman preparing to unearth something ancient.

"Commander-in-Chief," Arcel said softly. "What I wish to show you today is not the laboratory."

At his signal, two squad members carefully began to untie the sealing cloth atop the pedestal. The bronze rings chimed softly. *Clink.*

The sound was quiet, yet strangely, the entire central laboratory fell dead silent, as if the room itself had stopped to listen. With each layer of the sealing cloth removed, a faint, low breeze swept across the floor. The hem of Ena's robes fluttered, and the edge of Roen's ledger lifted slightly before settling back down.

The final layer of cloth fell away. What lay beneath was not a sword, but a scabbard. An ancient scabbard.

It was a deep, dark grey—the color of a storm-laden sky heavy with rain. There were no ornate decorations on its surface. No gold leaf, no embedded jewels, no royal crests. There was only a faint, long grain running along its length. Lines resembling wood grain, wisps of clouds, or perhaps ancient scars were etched subtly across the entire scabbard.

Ena stared at the scabbard. She knew instantly. There was a sword inside.

Yet, her first impression of this object was not of a blade. What she felt before any edge was the scabbard itself—a shell binding a tempest, an object holding the heavy silence just before the sky collapses.

Arcel spoke. "This is **Cheonram**."

He took a step back from the scabbard, maintaining a distance born of deep respect. "A sword that harbors the storm."

The air around the scabbard was bizarre. Due to the exhaust towers, a faint draft circulated through the new laboratory, but the space immediately surrounding Cheonram's scabbard was different. The air did not flow. It was frozen. No, it was waiting.

The dust around the pedestal lay pressed flat against the floor, and the sleeve of the squad member who had untied the cloth tugged imperceptibly toward the scabbard. Cheonram was not radiating power outward; it was drawing everything inward.

Ena found herself liking that.

Gazing at Cheonram, Arcel explained, "This is not a sword to be swung with brute force." His voice was calm. "Nor does it simply blast wind outward. To be precise, it cleaves the wind and aligns the severed currents along the trajectory of its strike."

Roen's pen moved.

Arcel did not stop him this time. "If one's swordsmanship falters, the wind will scatter as well... though that is hardly something you need to worry about, Commander-in-Chief."

Ena stared at Cheonram. Arcel continued, "The more refined the trajectory, the greater the wind becomes." A brief pause. "In other words, the cleaner your swordsmanship, the more devastating the storm."

Ena slowly reached out her hand. Arcel spoke up reflexively. "Commander-in-Chief."

"Speak."

"Please, do not draw it in here."

Ena's hand hovered over the scabbard. Arcel offered a gentle smile, but his eyes were completely deadpan. "This is a brand-new laboratory," he said with utmost politeness. "The *New the Perfect Arcel Laboratory*."

Roen's pen scratched.

Arcel ignored Roen entirely. "Cheonram is far tamer than Baekil. It is much easier to control. But that is only in comparison to Baekil. It does not mean it is safe to unleash indoors." He gestured toward the scabbard.

Ena stared at Arcel for a moment, then withdrew her hand. "We shall test it outside, then."

Only then did Arcel let out a breath—so faint that an ordinary person would have missed it. But Ena caught it. *Why is he acting like this?* She felt a tiny bit slighted.

Sssring—

The sound of Cheonram sliding from its scabbard was not just the thin friction of metal against wood. Ena raised the sword to eye level. The blade, fully revealed under the sunlight, was undeniably bizarre.

Unlike typical blades that stretched straight and smooth, Cheonram's edge possessed undulating curves resembling flowing waves. These curves were not exaggerated for decoration; they melted naturally into the overall balance of the sword.

The surface of the blade was closer to a hazy, pale blue-white than bright silver. It looked as though the light filtering beneath heavy clouds just before a tempest had been hammered thin and spread across the steel, flowing quietly along the edge.

Along the spine of the blade ran a faint, subtle grain. It looked like wood grain, or perhaps ancient ripples frozen and preserved deep within the steel. When caught by the light, the grain curved and layered along the entire blade, making it seem as if the sword itself had compressed countless layers of wind and trapped them within a single sheet of metal.

Ena gazed silently at the blade. Her eyes were always cold and objective when evaluating a weapon. She was never easily swayed by grand epithets like "masterpiece," and she cared even less for legends or origins.

How does it feel in the hand? Where is the center of gravity? How honestly does it translate the micro-movements of the wrist? How far does it follow when the trajectory is altered, and where does it breathe when brought to a halt? These were the only things Ena ever looked for.

Cheonram felt somewhat unfamiliar from the very first touch. It was not heavy, yet it was not light either.

Ena rotated her wrist ever so slightly. The blade tilted quietly, catching the sunlight, and that single movement alone sliced the surrounding air paper-thin. There was almost no sound, but the tips of her hair fluttered. A single strand of Ena's silver-white bangs drifted away from her cheek, pushed by a sudden draft, and the tip of Roen's collar behind her trembled minutely.

Not missing this brief reaction, Arcel spoke up immediately, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. "You see? That sword does not wait to be swung; it draws the surrounding currents to itself first."

Ena did not reply. She merely lowered her sword hand a fraction. As the tip of the blade pointed toward the ground, the fine dust settled on the dry earth was swept forward, tracing a thin line. Though the line dispersed instantly, Ena had already felt enough. This sword was fundamentally different from Ilryun.

The moment one grasped Ilryun, its presence was unmistakable. Its weight and silence, akin to having a sun stuffed inside a scabbard, warmed the surrounding air even when idle, perfectly aligning with its master's power.

Cheonram was the exact opposite. It was quiet. Excessively so. It felt as though the sword did not contain a storm, but rather the long, condensed silence right before a storm, bound tightly within the blade. It remained perfectly still until moved. But once it caught the flow, even the slightest slip of a finger would be amplified.

"The blade is shaped like waves," Ena remarked quietly.

Arcel replied instantly, "It is not a mere aesthetic choice." He took a step forward, but remembering Ena was holding a live blade, he quickly stepped back a fraction. "Those curves catch the wind."

Roen's pen scratched.

Arcel ignored the scratching sound once again. "In other words, the cleaner your initial strike, the greater the following currents will be."

Ena stared at the sword, then slowly turned her body. The vast testing grounds outside the laboratory stretched out before her. Looking out over the wide expanse, Ena took a short breath. Her sword hand lowered naturally, her opposite shoulder relaxed, and the angle of her feet pressing against the earth shifted by a hair.

The two men instinctively took several steps back.

Ena kept her eyes on Cheonram. The peculiar blade. The unfamiliar balance. The wind whispering along her fingertips. Within a few breaths, she was assimilating all of it into her body.

Cheonram possessed a fastidious nature. If suppressed with crude force, it would push back; if swung with sloppy speed, it would throw off the wielder's balance. But if one traced an honest, perfect trajectory, the wind would answer that honesty. Ena was already reading this answer through her palm.

"Not bad." It was an incredibly brief evaluation. Yet, Arcel's face brightened instantly. That single phrase was more than enough.

Ena raised the blade once more. Sunlight slid along its length, looking like a thin silver thread laid gently over flowing water.

"Good," she said, her voice clearer this time. "Let us see how far this storm can grow."

The moment those words left her lips, Arcel's face stiffened again. Roen's pen paused for a fraction of a second. Then, the wind began to gather quietly along Cheonram's blade.

Ena raised Cheonram. With that action alone, the very texture of the wind sweeping across the testing grounds shifted. The breeze that had been brushing against the laboratory's outer walls, weaving through the barrier pillars, and gently rustling the dry soil and grass suddenly held its breath.

The dust settled. The flags went still. The tips of Arcel's sky-blue hair stopped moving over his shoulders. The corners of Roen's ledger ceased their faint fluttering. The entire testing ground held its breath.

Ena stood at the absolute center of this silence. Her white Eastern-style robes hung still, untouched by any draft, her silver-white hair cascaded softly over her shoulders, and only Cheonram, held firmly in her hand, gleamed faintly under the sun, its wavy blade catching the light.

Watching her, Arcel swallowed hard without realizing it. He knew Cheonram. He had researched it for years. He had let various swordsmen try to wield it. Some of them were incredibly powerful. Some possessed immense strength, others unmatched speed.

Yet, Cheonram had never truly awakened for any of them. When they poured raw strength into it, the wind seemed to swell, only to immediately scatter. When they increased their speed, the sword-qi lengthened, only to tear apart at the tip. If their trajectory wavered even slightly, the wind clinging to the blade would turn back to bite its wielder.

Cheonram was not a wild, violent sword. It was far more fastidious. A violent sword could be suppressed with raw power, but Cheonram loathed brute force. The moment one tried to crush it with strength, the wind refused to obey. Cheonram did not seek a powerful hand. It sought a perfect, precise line. And now, Ena was drawing that line.

Ena lowered Cheonram. The tip did not point toward the earth, nor did it point toward the sky. It rested precisely in between—an angle where the trajectory of the strike was already visible before the sword even moved.

Her left foot slid forward a fraction. It was a small step, but that single, minute shift completely altered her center of gravity.

At first, nothing was visible to the naked eye. Only the dust moved. The fine soil near the tip of the blade was slowly sucked toward the steel. Then, it suddenly stopped. It did not scatter, nor did it fall back down. It clung to Cheonram's projected trajectory like a thin thread.

The wind had gathered. No, "gathered" was an understatement. It had aligned. The chaotic, invisible currents of air seemed to anticipate the path Ena had yet to draw, lining up in perfect order.

Roen's pen stopped. He did not write. There are moments that defy recording—moments that must first be witnessed with one's own eyes. Arcel, too, held his breath.

Ena's fingers shifted slightly. The pressure of her grip on the hilt changed. It was an infinitesimal adjustment, but it traveled up to her wrist. Her wrist did not push the sword; it opened a path. Her elbow followed without a moment's delay. Her shoulder did not overextend. Her hips rotated subtly within a locked axis. The sole of her foot pressed against the earth. And then, Cheonram moved.

A perfect single strike. No other words could describe it. The sword moved with incredible speed, yet the sensation of absolute order preceded any perception of swiftness.

It was utterly silent. The blade did not make a sound as it tore through the air. Rather, it felt as though it had sliced away the very space where sound should have existed. The moment Cheonram passed, every gust of wind across the testing grounds recognized that line a beat too late.

A trajectory was drawn. From top to bottom, right to left. It was neither too long nor too short. There were no exaggerated movements. The tip of the blade did not waver, the wrist was not late, the shoulder did not lead, and the pressure of her feet never faltered. A single, perfect line.

Along that line, Cheonram cleaved the air. The atmosphere split. An invisible fissure opened where the blade had passed. The gap was so thin it seemed non-existent, but the surrounding wind reacted instantly.

*Fwooooosh.*

A low, hollow sound swept across the entire testing grounds. It was not the sound of wind blowing outward, but of air being violently sucked inward. The air on both sides of the trajectory collapsed into the fissure all at once. The flags were pulled toward the line of the strike. Arcel's hair whipped forward. The edge of Roen's ledger folded sharply. The blue runes engraved on the barrier pillars flickered violently.

And in the next instant, a colossal gale surged forward. Along its path, the dust parted to either side. The earth split open along the trajectory, tearing apart as if peeling back. The soil was not merely blown away; it ruptured along the line. Small pebbles were tossed into the air, only to be sliced cleanly in two before they could even reach the center of the sword-qi.

At the far end of the testing grounds stood a massive boulder target—one Arcel had specially imported while constructing the new laboratory.

Cheonram's sword-qi struck the target. The air around the boulder warped. The pressure on the left and right sides diverged sharply, and the atmosphere spiraled into the cut. Then, the stone split.

*Crrrack!*

The sound came a beat late. The upper half of the target slid slowly off. The cut surface was not smooth. It was not a clean line of death like a strike from Ilryun, nor was it a white, hollowed-out void burned away by Baekil. Instead, countless microscopic grooves layered the surface, as if thousands of wind blades were still scraping the interior. Dust was sucked into those grooves, and tiny whirlwinds spun within the severed face. The strike was over, but the wind remained.

Arcel's eyes widened. "...It remains," he muttered.

"What does?" Roen asked.

Arcel stared at the cut. Inside the severed face of the stone target, tiny, razor-sharp currents of wind were still circulating. They were invisible to the eye, but dust was being drawn into them, and fine stone powder was continuously being shaved away from the inside.

If this were living flesh... If this were the regenerating body of a demon... The moment the flesh tried to knit itself back together, it would be torn apart again from within. The moment muscles tried to connect, they would be disrupted; the moment magic circuits tried to seal, they would warp; the moment the bleeding tried to stop, the pressure would force the wound open once more.

Arcel whispered, "Turbulence remains within the wound."

Roen's pen scratched again.

Even as he listened to Roen's notes, Arcel could not tear his eyes away from the target. He knew Cheonram. He had said the wind would grow larger the more refined the swordsmanship was, but he had never imagined it would reach this level. Because Ena had put absolutely no strength into the strike. The wind had all surged forward. Goosebumps broke out over Arcel's skin at that realization.

If a strike devoid of force was this devastating, how much greater would it be if she actually exerted herself? Even though it was her first time holding the sword. Even though she had only swung it once. She had instantly read what Cheonram loved and what it loathed.

Ena lowered the tip of Cheonram. Even after completing the strike, her posture remained flawless. Her wrist did not tremble. Her shoulder did not lag. Her breathing remained perfectly steady. A few strands of her silver-white hair fluttered in the delayed draft, and the hem of her Eastern-style robes settled a beat late.

She looked at the severed target, then down at Cheonram.

"A fine sword indeed."

Arcel was momentarily speechless. Cleaving a boulder, splitting the ground, leaving a lingering tempest inside the cut... and all she had to say was 'a fine sword indeed'?

Arcel slowly nodded. "Yes," he managed, catching his breath. "It is far broader and stronger than a pure blade." A brief pause. "But it will be much easier to control than Baekil."

Ena stared at Cheonram's wavy blade once more. The flow within the steel remained unchanged. Despite unleashing such a massive wave of sword-qi moments ago, there was not a single scratch on the blade. However, the air around the edge had grown slightly quieter—as if the sword, having tasted its master's trajectory once, was eagerly awaiting the next strike.

Ena's lips twitched ever so slightly. It was too faint to be called a smile, but her interest was undeniable.

"Again."

The moment the word left her mouth, Arcel's face stiffened slightly. Roen's pen paused once more. The wind began to gather along Cheonram's blade again—this time, even lower and quieter than before, as if the tempest itself were bowing its head.

Ena adjusted her stance. It felt even more comfortable than the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first time. More natural. As if sensing this, Cheonram caught the dust around its tip even faster.

Arcel instinctively took another step back, driven by the raw premonition that something massive was coming. And then—

"I quite like it," Ena said, a brilliant, radiant smile blooming across her face.

"..."

*Clatter.*

Roen's ledger board slipped from his grasp and hit the ground.