Fire Seed

After lunch, White Wax Island was as quiet as a stagnant pool. At the hottest hour of the day, everyone in town was hiding in the shade. Even the dockworkers had stopped working, lying beneath the warehouse eaves for a nap.

Mila was not asleep. Neither was Roy.

The two entered the white wax forest one after the other. Afternoons had always been their agreed-upon training time.

Roy stopped in a clearing among the trees and drew his short blade. Out of habit, he loosened his wrist first, rotating it three times before holding the blade horizontally before him and lowering his center of gravity.

"Wait."

Mila's voice came from behind him.

Roy turned around.

Mila stepped out from behind a white wax tree, holding something in her hand.

A musket.

The best of the three they had seized from the pirate ship yesterday.

She had wiped the rust off the barrel, oiled the trigger, and replaced the tattered cloth once wrapped around the stock with fresh hemp rope, wound tight and neat.

She gripped the musket with both hands, raised it, and aimed at a white wax branch stretching overhead.

She pulled the trigger.

Flame burst from the muzzle. The bullet punched through the tip of the branch, blasting apart leaves and wood chips that fell onto her shoulders.

The gunshot exploded through the forest, startling a flock of unknown seabirds from the canopy. They flapped into the sunlight and scattered.

Mila lowered the musket. Smoke still curled from its muzzle.

"Your shuriken or this—which is more useful?"

He opened his mouth, his brow furrowing.

Mila did not wait for him to decide.

"We need new long-range methods."

She tucked the musket at her waist, moving as deftly as if she had done it a hundred times.

"Go practice Fire Release. We should have enough chakra now."

Roy's brow was still furrowed, but the corners of his mouth curled up first.

"I think your wrist strength is just too weak to use shuriken properly."

Mila turned and shot him a vicious glare.

That glare hit harder than the musket shot she had just fired.

Roy laughed, sheathed his short blade, and followed after her, dry leaves rustling beneath his feet.

The two headed deeper into the forest. The white wax trees were denser here, their crowns blocking most of the sunlight. The ground was covered in a thick layer of old fallen leaves, soft beneath their feet and carrying the sweet scent of rotting wood.

Mila found a tree root protruding from the ground and sat down. She drew the musket from her waist, laid it across her knees, and began cleaning the barrel.

She cleaned it slowly and carefully, from breech to muzzle, wiping every inch.

Roy stood in the middle of the clearing.

He closed his eyes.

Chakra.

It had been a year. Ever since that night a year ago, extracting chakra had become the first and last thing he did every day.

When he woke in the morning, he would lie in bed and awaken that invisible river inside his body, letting it flow from his lower abdomen through his meridians again and again until his fingertips and toes grew faintly warm. He would do it once more before sleep at night, until he was utterly exhausted and could fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Over the course of a year, that river had grown from a thin thread into a stream, and from a stream into a small river.

It was still not wide enough or deep enough, but it was enough to move certain things.

He gathered his chakra and drew it up from his lower abdomen, past his chest and throat, concentrating it at his larynx.

The place felt unfamiliar. Whenever he sent chakra there, he could feel a distinct sense of blockage.

His hands began forming seals.

Six seals.

He had memorized their sequence long ago. Over the past year, every night after putting out the light and closing his eyes, his fingers would unconsciously trace through that sequence. He had done it thousands, tens of thousands of times, until the muscles in his fingers remembered it on their own, until he no longer needed to think.

But memorizing it was one thing. Forming the seals accurately while chakra flowed was another.

Roy pursed his lips. Chakra was guided from the roof of his mouth to the tip of his tongue, then expelled.

Huff.

A tiny wisp of sparks drifted from his lips. It glowed for less than a blink, then went out.

Like a speck of charcoal that had splashed from a stove, gone with the first gust of wind.

Roy opened his eyes and stared at the empty air before him.

"Where's the fireball?" Mila said.

Roy ignored her and closed his eyes again.

Chakra. Lower abdomen. Chest. Throat. This time, he did not rush to force it upward. Instead, he paused at his throat, letting the chakra linger there as he sensed the width and course of that "riverbed."

The blockage was still there, but it felt slightly lighter than before.

He formed the seals again.

This time was less than half a beat faster. The six seals connected without pause, his fingers flowing from one position into the next.

Exhale.

A small ball of flame burst from his mouth.

It was not a fireball, merely a shapeless cluster of flame with blurred edges. Its color lay somewhere between orange-red and dark red, like a flower that had withered halfway before it could bloom. The flame hovered before him for less than a breath before the sea wind scattered it, leaving not even smoke behind.

But that was fire.

Not sparks—real, burning flame.

Roy stared at the place where it had vanished, his chest rising and falling. A scalding heat spread from his throat, seeping outward from within.

"Again," Mila said.

Roy closed his eyes once more.

The third time.

The chakra flowed faster than during either of the first two attempts. That riverbed was being washed open, the blockage changing from a solid stone into several fragments.

The six seals slipped through his hands like flowing water. He exhaled.

The flame was a circle larger than before. It had gone from "a flower" to "a cluster," its edges beginning to take shape, revealing an irregular spherical outline. Its color also shifted from dark red toward orange-red, and its center brightened.

The flame flew three steps away, burned in midair for two breaths, then went out with a puff.

Sweat appeared on Roy's forehead.

"Again."

Fourth time. Fifth time. Sixth time.

He began to lose count. Chakra up, seals, exhale. Chakra up, seals, exhale.

The flames grew larger each time.

On the seventh try, a complete orange-red fireball with clear edges shot from his mouth. It no longer drifted out—it fired forward with a definite direction and speed. It flew five or six steps through the air, struck the trunk of a white wax tree, burst into a spray of sparks, and then went out.

A patch of bark had been blackened.

Roy bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the leaves over his feet.

Mila rose from the tree root and walked to the blackened white wax tree. She reached out and touched the scorch mark. A layer of bark had burned away, exposing pale wood beneath. It was still warm to the touch.

"You have a fireball now," she said. "Phoenix Flower Fire is still a long way off."

Roy straightened up and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Let me rest..."

"Stop training."

Mila's voice suddenly changed.

Roy raised his head.

Mila stood beside the blackened white wax tree, but her face was turned neither toward the tree nor toward Roy. She was facing the sea.

Her chin was slightly raised, her eyes narrowed as if trying to make out something far away.

Roy turned in the direction of her gaze.

The forest ended here. Beyond it lay a pebble beach, and then the sea.

On the horizon, a gray-blue silhouette was moving slowly.

A warship, much larger than any merchant vessel or fishing boat. Its hull was painted gray-blue, its bow cutting through the sea as two white wakes rolled outward from either side. A flag flew from its mast.

White background. A seagull with wings spread wide.

It was a Navy warship.

It was sailing toward White Wax Island.