Daeryon straightened; the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the moment itself had weight.

  He said nothing for a long breath, studying Raion, his gaze wavering between hesitation and resolve.

  “Then… I will show you something,” he said at last, voice low and almost reverent. “The forms of the Seven Dragon Palms.”

  Raion tilted his head, curiosity bright in his eyes though his smile remained faint and playful. “Is it hard?”

  Daeryon’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “Everything worth learning is hard. But this… is about more than strength.”

  He stepped into the open courtyard; sunlight broke across the dark folds of his robe.

  Slowly and deliberately he raised his right arm, palm open; chi trembled at his fingertips.

  “Watch closely,” Daeryon said; his tone had shifted, firm now, the voice of a master.

  I leaned forward before I knew it, every part of me taut. The system had gifted me the Seven Dragon Palms and even given me an ability to support it.

  But I’d never truly seen the palms. Not like this.

  Daeryon rooted his stance, weight sinking low. His palm swept forward, not a strike but a tide rolling out.

  Smooth and unstoppable, the air shivered as faint pressure rippled across the courtyard stones.

  Raion’s eyes widened. “It… moved the air!”

  Daeryon lowered his arm and faced his son. “The First Palm, Flowing Water. Strength without rigidity; strike without pause. A dragon’s patience, not its fury.”

  Raion puffed his cheeks and planted his feet, clumsy in mimicry. He thrust his small hand forward; the sloppy push left him stumbling half a step.

  Rather than correct him, Daeryon steadied the boy’s stance with careful hands. “Not from the arm,” he murmured, pressing shoulder then waist. “Power begins at the root. Let it flow outward.”

  Raion nodded, tried again. This time his push was straighter, still weak, but his balance held.

  As I watched, my own hands rose without thought. I mirrored Daeryon’s stance, planting my feet as he had.

  My ghostly body carried no weight, no breath, yet the rhythm of his words and the shape of his movements sank deep into me.

  I moved with them: palm out, shoulder first, waist driving. Flow, not force. Patience, not fury.

  And then it clicked. Obsidian Dragon Flow was more than movement; it was the bridge.

  Each step could carry the palm, each pivot could sharpen its edge. The dance of unpredictability and the power of the dragon’s strike were not two techniques, but one, waiting to be bound together.

  Raion beamed at his father, chest swelling with pride. “Did you see that? I didn’t fall this time!”

  Daeryon gave the faintest nod, his voice low but steady. “Better. Again.”

  And so father and son trained in the courtyard, their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun.

  I, unseen, mirrored them in silence: a ghost learning alongside the living, carrying forward the weight of a martial art meant for dragons.

  Raion’s hands moved again, still clumsy, but each attempt sharpened faster than it should have.

  Daeryon nodded once. “Again.”

  Raion nodded, face set. He drew in a sharp breath, dropped his stance lower than before, and thrust his palm down.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The motion landed solid, rooted, carrying weight beyond what a child’s frame should allow.

  For an instant, Daeryon smiled. Then he smoothed it away, his voice quiet but firm. “Good. Very good.”

  Recognition stirred in my chest. Of course. This was Raion: my hero who could mirror what he saw, shaping it into himself with impossible speed.

  The gift I had written into him, now breathing before me.

  “Good. You’ve seen the first move.” His voice deepened. “Now comes the second.”

  His stance shifted, feet spreading wider. The air itself seemed to thrum as his palm rose higher, angling down as if to strike the very earth.

  When it fell, the stones beneath our feet shivered, dust scattering in tiny bursts.

  “The Second Palm,” Daeryon intoned. “The Palm of Breaking Stone. A dragon’s weight: its will carved into the ground itself. No defense can stand long before it.”

  Raion stomped forward, both hands slapping the air like he could force the same quake.

  Nothing happened, of course, except an echoing smack and a sheepish laugh. “It’s harder!”

  Daeryon crouched, his hand guiding Raion’s waist again. “Not harder. Heavier. Each strike must carry the ground with it, the strength of stone, not the rush of air.”

  As Raion tried again, I mirrored silently, lowering my stance. My palm drove down, chi surging through me.

  It was not enough to shake the ground, but enough that the air rippled with a faint echo.

  Obsidian Dragon Flow answered the call: each pivot turned the downward palm into something sharper, faster.

  Stone and shadow weaving together. I clenched my fist, exhilaration buzzing through me.

  Raion stumbled again, but less this time. His palm landed firmer, feet rooted better.

  He beamed up at his father, sweat dotting his brow. “I’ll get it. I promise.”

  Daeryon’s face remained stern, though his eyes softened by a fraction. “Yes Raion, again.”

  And so they did. Again, and again.

  By the time the third palm came, the sun was shifting lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

  Daeryon lifted his arm, chi flaring sharper, hotter. His strike sliced through the air, a thunderclap following as though the sky itself had split.

  “The Third Palm.” His voice carried, resonant as the crack in the air. “The Palm of Splitting Sky. A dragon’s wrath, swift and unrelenting. To strike as though tearing heaven from horizon.”

  Raion covered his ears, eyes wide. “It was loud!”

  When Raion beckoned, he tried, thrusting his hand through the air with all his might.

  No thunder followed. Only a wheeze of effort and a stumble.

  Daeryon stepped behind him, steadying his arm. “Not the hand. The breath. Strike with the lungs as much as the body. Exhale when you cut. The roar of a dragon lives in its strike.”

  Raion puffed out his cheeks, then threw his palm forward with an exaggerated “Haaah!”

  Daeryon blinked once, then twice, before the faintest shadow of a smile tugged at his lips.

  And I mimicked, breathless though I had no lungs, chi coursing through my chest as I exhaled in rhythm.

  The air rippled louder this time, sharper. My heart pounded. The third palm was mine.

  By the Fourth Palm, the hostility deepened. Daeryon’s chi darkened, coiling like smoke around his arm.

  His palm lashed out, not down or forward, but sweeping in a wide arc. The ground scorched faintly, stone hissing as if burned.

  “The Palm of Burning Scales,” he declared, voice edged with fire. “The dragon’s fury. Each sweep consumes, leaving only cinders.”

  Raion stepped back, eyes wide. “It burned the rock!”

  His small hand swiped across the air, harmless. Daeryon guided the arc of his arm, adjusting the angle. “Even fire begins with a spark. Learn the sweep. The heat will come.”

  I swept with them, my palm cutting the air. Obsidian Dragon Flow bent the motion into something alive, a flame of movement, burning even without heat.

  By the Fifth Palm, Daeryon’s strikes had become monstrous. His hand thrust upward, chi exploding in a geyser that blasted dust and leaves into the air.

  “The Palm of Rising Storm,” he said, voice thunderous. “The dragon ascending. Power surging, unchecked, lifting all in its wake.”

  Raion squeaked as the gale nearly knocked him backward. His laugh bubbled out, breathless. “It almost blew me away!” His attempt was clumsy yet precise.

  I tried as well, chi roaring upward through my arms. For an instant, I felt it but nothing came out of it.

  But by the Sixth Palm, someone came. At first, I did not recognize him.

  The man’s steps were measured, his bearing too controlled, like a blade sheathed but always ready.

  When he spoke, his voice carried low, even, but firm. “Master.”

  Daeryon’s eyes shifted, the storm behind them flickering.

  “Master,” the man repeated, bowing with the weight of discipline. “It has been days since you last turned your eyes to the matters of the sect. The elders wait. Decisions linger. You cannot set them aside forever.”

  Daeryon straightened, shoulders squaring. His voice held no hostility, only iron wrapped in calm.

  “Jinhai.”

  The name landed between them like steel striking stone. Not a rebuke, but recognition.

  I froze. Jinhai. Of course. How could I have forgotten him? Daeryon’s right hand.

  The man who had stood beside him through countless wars, whose loyalty was as much legend as the dragon’s fury.

  He had followed Daeryon in every part I had ever written.

  And yet… I had forgotten. Overlooked him. As though a piece of history had been blurred from my own mind.

  I clenched my fists, screaming into the void. “How could I forget him? You... you useless ability, how could you let me forget something this important?”

  A pause. Then the familiar hum coiled through my mind.

  [Writer’s View Processing Master’s Desires…]

  The courtyard dimmed; air thinned to glass.

  [Writer’s View cannot restore what the master himself has forgotten.]