In there, I saw an elf who was sitting cross-legged on a raised dais, his posture regal and unyielding. He was older than the others, his hair a cascade of pure white, woven with threads of gold, and his eyes—deep pools of wisdom—locked onto mine. He wore robes embroidered with symbols of nature: vines, leaves, and flowing rivers. The moment our gazes met, an overwhelming wave of respect crashed over me. It wasn't just awe; it was like kneeling before a force of nature itself, ancient and unshakeable. My legs buckled, and I immediately fell to my knees, my forehead touching the cool floor. Tremendous respect towards him filled my chest, 'Welcome Fogo' he said. His voice was calm as the ocean on a summer afternoon. 'I'm sorry for your loss. We couldn't reach you in time. If we could, maybe your village would have been alive.' The memories of my parents filled my cerebrum—my brain, the faces of my village filled my eyes. I was in a huge void of soreness. The air in the room felt thick, like it was pressing against my skin, reminding me of the smoke that had choked the skies over my home. My father, with his strong hands that had once taught me to wield a wooden sword, now lay still in my mind's eye. My mother, whose laughter had been the heartbeat of our small world, silenced forever. The village—our neighbors, the elders, the children I'd played with—reduced to ashes and echoes. Katsuo's demons had come like a storm, swift and merciless, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. I had hidden in the woods, trembling, as the screams faded into the night. Survivor's guilt clawed at me, sharper than any blade. 'Don't worry,' he said, his tone unwavering. 'WHO IS KATSUO!' My rage boiled over, spilling out like lava from a volcano. I slammed my fist against the table, the wood groaning under the impact. My heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the life I wanted to avenge. 'Katsuo is the king of demons, their creator. He rules from the shadows, commanding legions that feast on human, elf and troll fear, flesh and blood. He's not just a monster—he's the architect of nightmares, twisting the natural order to his will.' 'I want to kill him.' The words tasted like blood in my mouth, raw and unyielding. Because of his calm nature, I thought that he would say something like, "Don't worry, forgive him," but what he said was just surprising: "I know how you feel, so I want you to destroy his reign and his existence. But for that, you have to be a member of the Wing Corp." For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to hear my answer. I searched his face for any sign of anger or hesitation, but there was none—only a quiet certainty, the kind that comes from someone who has already walked through fire and learned its cost. His words weren't driven by rage; they were measured, deliberate, and far more frightening because of that. He stood there, a man in his thirties perhaps, with scars peeking from beneath his sleeves—remnants of battles I could only imagine. His eyes held the weight of countless losses, yet they burned with purpose. "The Wing Corp isn't just an organization," he continued, turning away as if recalling memories he'd rather forget. "It's a commitment. Once you step inside, there's no turning back. You give up your old name, your old life, and even your doubts. In return, you gain power, influence, and the chance to change the balance of this world. We are the guardians of the veil between humanity and the demonic realms. Our members train in ancient arts—breathing techniques that harness the elements, swordsmanship that cuts through shadows, and strategies that outmaneuver the abyss." I felt my hands clench at my sides. This wasn't the path I had imagined, yet it suddenly felt like the only one that made sense. Revenge, justice, or something in between—I couldn't tell anymore. All I knew was that the calm man standing before me had just opened a door I could never unsee, and whether I walked through it or not would decide everything that came next. 'Sir,' I said, gathering all my courage, 'I want to learn how to kill demons, and this thing called . . . umm . . . nature breathing, if you don't mind, cause I've heard a lot like I'm the last one who can do that.' My voice cracked at the end, betraying the boy I still was beneath the fury. 'All right, as you wish, Fogo.' He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. 'But first, you must understand what it means to join us. Come with me.' He led me out of the room, through dimly lit corridors that smelled of incense and old wood. The building was a fortress hidden in the mountains, far from prying eyes. As we walked, he explained more: the Wing Corp had been founded centuries ago by survivors of demonic invasions, blending martial arts from forgotten cultures with mystical breathing forms. Nature breathing, he said, was the first one along with star breathing ,rare—a technique that synced one's breath with the earth's rhythms, allowing the user to draw power from the elements themselves. Only those with a pure heart and untapped potential could master it, and rumors had spread that I, Fogo, possessed that spark. We entered a grand hall where other members trained. Men and women sparred with wooden swords, their movements fluid like water or sharp like lightning. One woman, with tattoos swirling like vines on her arms, demonstrated a breathing exercise, her chest rising and falling in perfect harmony with the room's rhythm. I watched, mesmerized, as she swung her katana, chopping the air and making it follow the katana which then extinguished a candle flame from across the room. It was so fast that I couldn't even see it properly. "That's wind breathing," Shivansh whispered. " a child of nature breathing."