Battlemage

The howling north wind, thick with swirling blizzards, ravaged the northern wilderness with relentless fury. Heaven and earth blurred into a single, desolate void of white. Skeletal trees, stripped of their leaves, wailed in the frigid gale like a maiden in distress.

The once-bustling alleys were now eerily bleak and deserted. Rare pedestrians were encased in layers of heavy clothing, muffled from head to toe, leaving only two dark pits for eyes. They resembled mysterious, masked assassins, yet the bulkiness of their padded cotton coats stood in stark contrast to the legendary light-footedness of a true killer.

Winter in the North carried an oppressive sense of stagnation, as if all living things were in hibernation. In these days where a drop of water froze the instant it hit the air, even one's thoughts seemed to turn sluggish. Without urgent business, most people hunkered down within their homes, surrendering to a pervasive lethargy.

Inside a low-roofed, thatched hut, Soga sat quietly on a wooden bed. His hands moved with exquisite nimbleness as a stream of water, as thick as a thumb, wove an intricate dance between his fingers. This was his only toy, and his closest companion.

Cough... cough...

A series of muffled coughs drifted from the adjacent room. Though clearly suppressed, they did not escape Soga’s keen ears. With a slight flick of his wrists, the long ribbon of water miraculously retracted into his palms, vanishing as if it had never been.

Leaping deftly off the bed, Soga hurried out. He poured a cup of boiling water from the iron kettle on the stove and, carrying it with practiced care, walked toward the next room.

Inside, a frail woman leaned weakly against her pillows. Her right hand pressed against her chest, her brow furrowed in a mask of pain. Yet, the moment Soga pushed the door open, her agony was instantly cloaked. Her expression shifted with lightning speed, smoothing into the serene grace of a "crabapple blossom waking from a spring slumber."

Soga approached the bed softly. "Mother... are you feeling better? Should we ask a doctor to come? Your cough seems to have worsened these past few days."

The woman reached out her right hand, gently stroking her son’s jet-black hair with doting affection. "No need, my darling... Mother is fine. I will be better in a few days."

Soga frowned, looking at her with skepticism. He touched the side of the cup to test the temperature before bringing it to her lips. "Drink some water, Mother. After that, I want to hear more stories about Father."

Accepting the cup with a gratified smile, the woman took a small sip to soothe her throat. "Stories of your father? Of course... but first, you must show me how your skills have progressed. If you have practiced well, I shall tell you a tale!"

Soga’s eyes lit up with excitement. He flung his arms wide, his body pivoting in a graceful arc. Suddenly, a stream of water, as thick as a man's wrist and nearly ten meters long, manifested out of thin air, coiling around his body like a miraculous serpent.

The woman nodded, looking at her son with expectant eyes. "Good. Now, perform for me. Let Mother see what level of mastery you have achieved over the currents!"

Soga nodded, his hands dancing in a graceful, rhythmic motion. He controlled the ten-meter stream with absolute confidence, juggling it like a masterful performer. Soga possessed a profound faith in his ability to command water. Since his fifth birthday, when his mother first taught him this "game," he had practiced every single day. Now, after three years, the water was an extension of his own soul—moving as naturally as his own limbs, obeying every whim of his heart.

After a long moment, Soga pulled back his hands. The long, pale-blue stream retracted into his palms and vanished. Looking at his mother with pride, he declared firmly, "Do not worry, Mother. One day, Soga will become a great warrior, just like Father!"

Hearing his words, the woman gave a bitter nod. A warrior? Could a water-controller ever truly become a powerful warrior? She looked at her son with a gaze full of hidden apology. She knew that as a hydro-adept, Soga was better suited to be a Mage. If he aimed to be a warrior, he would face a path of near-impossible hardship. Frail water could not easily slay enemies; even if one could condense water into ice, how could it ever stand against the devastating might of a Fire Warrior?

Soga climbed onto the bed, kicking off his shoes to nestle into his mother’s fragrant and warm embrace. "Alright, Mother... now, tell me about Father!"

Sigh...

With a silent lament, the woman realized that her son’s obsession with being a warrior stemmed from the very legends she told him. The boy’s father was indeed a formidable Fire Warrior, but unfortunately, the child had not inherited his father’s affinity. Instead, he took after his mother—a controller of water.

She tightened her arms around him, pulling him closer as her melodious voice began the tale...

The fading glow of the setting sun drifted softly through the window. As the story concluded, Soga gazed out at the twilight sky with a dreamy expression. "Mother... why hasn't Father come back yet? When will he return? I want to see him so much."

His words brought a sudden sting to the woman’s nose, and she nearly broke into tears. As the strongest warrior in the region, his father had left with his companions only six days after their wedding. He had been gone for nine years. He didn't even know he had a son, let alone that his son was already eight years old. Perhaps... he had forgotten not only his son, but his wife as well.

She held him tighter. He was all she had. But he was eight now—it was time for school.

Her face grew solemn. She looked down at the boy in her arms, her brow knit with worry. In a few days, the Academy’s enrollment would begin. Though she dreaded the thought of him leaving, she could not be so selfish as to keep him by her side and stifle his future.

But that was not the greatest problem. What troubled her most was that as a hydro-adept, her son was determined to be a warrior. Regardless of whether that choice was wise, the Academy would almost certainly refuse him.

"Soga," she began tentatively, "listen to Mother. What if you didn't become a warrior? Let’s be a noble Mage instead. You know, there are many beautiful little girls in the Water Department; you’d always have someone to play with!"

"No! Absolutely not!" Soga shook his head decisively. "I’ve already made up my mind. I will be the strongest warrior on the continent. I don’t want to be a Mage—only girls become Mages!"

"You...!"

Anxiety gnawed at her. An aspirant warrior who could only control water—the Academy would never accept such a student. Although every eight-year-old had a chance to apply, the standards were brutally strict. In a region of a million people, only a hundred spots were granted each year.

She looked at her son in despair. In the thousands of years of recorded history, no water-controller had ever become a powerful warrior. Based on that fact alone, no matter how great his talent, the Academy would reject him.

She knew Soga’s innate talent wasn't necessarily world-shaking; rather, it was his familiarity with water that was unparalleled, born from practicing since he was a toddler. She had never seen anyone control a stream of water with such miraculous precision—not even the most legendary Grand Hydromancers.

Though he had only practiced for three years, those were the three most critical years of his physical and mental development. The level of mastery he had achieved in this window was something others could not hope to reach even with thirty years of effort. If he missed this chance, he would never again be able to command the tides as if they were his own heartbeat.

Children are the purest of beings, but also the most astute. They are like blank slates; whatever is written upon them becomes their reality. If one hopes to achieve greatness in martial arts, training must begin in the earliest years of childhood. To miss the window before the age of eight is to lose any hope of ever reaching the realm of Absolute Transcendence—the state where one moves with the world in perfect, effortless harmony.

Yet, children are also playful and prone to distraction. How much of that precious time can they truly seize? If such time were measured in ten parts, a child who manages to utilize even one or two would already be considered a prodigy.

The woman gazed at her son with a sense of quiet relief. She knew that when she fell ill three years ago, her son had been too young to venture out and play on his own. Throughout those years, that slender stream of water had been his only companion—his only toy.

Her eyes softened with a