CHAPTER 2: THE RUNNING TIDES OF GRAND CANYON
Part 1: Sunset over the Red Sanctuary
A century passed like the single blink of a mountain god.
Elora, the cougar-riding maiden of old, had long since become a legend buried beneath the stone tombs of the Andes. Yet, Geronimo remained. Having spent a hundred years observing the flowing tides of heaven and earth, he was now a centenarian sage with hair and beard as white as the mountain snows.
Deep within the red, arid gorges of the North—at the Red Cliffs of Grand Canyon—he had founded a monastic sanctuary of warriors dedicated to maintaining natural balance. His disciples did not use black magic to slaughter, nor did they use firearms to pillage. Instead, they trained their minds to flow like water and wind, yielding to conquer force, defending the last bastion of freedom for the indigenous tribes.
Among his seven chief disciples, the fifth—Tristan (Trương Th翠 Sơn)—possessed the highest comprehension and the most chivalrous, free-spirited heart.
One evening, as the setting sun painted the red cliffs of the Grand Canyon in a hue as rich as molten gold, Tristan sat cross-legged in deep meditation on a rocky ledge jutting out over the bottomless abyss. The desert wind whistled through the narrow chasms, rustling his neatly tied black hair. Across his lap, his polished steel sword lay silent, catching the dying light of the sun.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound of hurried footsteps from behind shattered the quiet. A young disciple ran up out of breath, dropping to one knee with a trembling voice:
"Tristan! The Grandmaster summons you to the Great Hall immediately! There is a terrible crisis in the deep gorge below!"
Tristan slowly opened his eyes. They were deep, dark, and as still as a lake without a single ripple. He let out a long, slow breath, the air current from his lips gently blowing away a stray leaf hovering before him. He stood up, sheathed his sword, and asked calmly:
"What has made you so anxious, junior brother?"
"An armored caravan of the Castile Empire... fifteen men, including runic-arquebus guards, were slaughtered in the gorge ten miles from here!" The disciple swallowed hard. "The terrifying thing is, the entire scene and the bodies were incinerated by some form of highly volatile lightning. The surrounding stone melted into black-green glass. The Grandmaster fears the Castile Expeditionary Force will blame our sanctuary and use this as a pretext to launch a full-scale invasion!"
Tristan frowned, his expression turning solemn.
"Destructive lightning? In these lands, save for the thunder priests of the Southern Eagle Tribe, no one possesses the power to manipulate lightning to such a degree. Tell the Grandmaster I am on my way. I will investigate this personally."
Part 2: The Thunder Priestess and the Scorched Earth
Tristan bounded across the vertical red cliffs of the Grand Canyon as swiftly as a hunting eagle. Within minutes, he reached the deep, desolate gorge where the slaughter had occurred.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of sulfur and charred flesh. Three heavily armored Castile wagons had been torn apart into jagged splinters of steel and wood, as if crushed by a giant fist from the heavens. The surrounding earth was scorched gray, and lightning-shaped fractures stretching for dozens of meters still hissed with pale blue vapor. The bodies of the Castile soldiers lay scattered, their steel plate armor warped and melted directly into their blackened flesh.
Tristan knelt, lightly touching a fracture in the ground. A tiny, residual electric charge jolted his fingertip.
"Highly volatile current, carrying immense lethal intent," Tristan murmured. "This was no act of nature. It was an act of war."
"Have you seen enough, warrior of the red stone?"
A clear, haughty, and challenging voice suddenly echoed from the top of a massive boulder above Tristan's head.
Startled, Tristan kicked off the ground, vaulting backward fifteen paces. His hand clamped onto his sword hilt as he looked up.
Stepping out from the shadow of the rock was a maiden of wild, breathtaking beauty. She wore a form-fitting tunic of Puma leather that accentuating her sun-kissed waist. Her long black hair was woven into intricate small braids, adorned with the vibrant teal feathers of the great thunder eagles. Around her wrists, arcs of blue lightning crackled intermittently, twisting like twin serpents guarding their mistress. This was Nalin (Ân Tố Tố), the thunder priestess of the Southern Eagle Tribe.
"Who are you? Why did you slaughter these men?" Tristan demanded, though his heart stirred slightly at the fierce grace of the girl before him.
Nalin let out a melodic laugh, her voice as clear as silver bells echoing through the silent gorge. "I slaughtered them? Ha! My dear naive warrior of the Canyon, do you have any idea what was locked inside the iron chests of those wagons?"
She lightly kicked a piece of the shattered carriage. A heavy iron chain, stained with dried blood and torn fingernails, rattled onto the red sand.
"They kidnapped twelve young girls from the smaller tribes of the Western Valley to take back to Lima as slave-specimens for their dark magic experiments," Nalin's eyes suddenly flashed with dangerous sparks of lightning. "I merely demanded justice in the name of the Thunder God. What of it? Is your famed sanctuary of the Grand Canyon now acting as the lapdog of the Castile conquerors?"
Tristan was stunned by her words, his anger over the carnage instantly melting away by half. He relaxed his grip on his hilt and sighed. "If that is true, they were indeed wicked. But lady, by executing them so brutally, the Castile army will surely retaliate. They will rain fire and iron down upon the innocent villages near here. Your actions do not save lives; they invite further ruin."
"Enough of your lectures!" Nalin barked. "I despise you hypocrites the most! Take one of my strikes and show me if you even have the right to preach to me!"
Part 3: The Dance of Wind and Lightning
Nalin whipped her right arm forward. A massive bolt of blue lightning, as thick as a grown man's thigh, roared through the air, heading straight for Tristan's chest. The heat of the bolt warped the very air around it.
Tristan did not flinch. He did not draw his sword to block directly—the electricity would only conduct through the metal and fry his meridians. Instead, he took a diagonal step to the left, his hands opening wide, palms facing the oncoming bolt.
Employing the soft "Thái Cực" breathing art Geronimo had taught him, Tristan created a gentle, swirling vortex of wind in front of him. When the fierce lightning bolt hit his palms, Tristan did not push against it. He subtly turned his hips, guiding the raw energy in a perfect circle around his body before redirecting his hands downward.
BOOM!
The massive bolt was completely diverted, striking the stone at Tristan's feet. It exploded into a molten crater, but Tristan remained untouched. Not even the hem of his tunic was scorched.
Nalin's beautiful eyes widened in absolute shock. She took a step back. "What? You... you can manipulate my lightning without using magic?"
Tristan withdrew his hands to his chest, his expression calm and peaceful. "Every force in heaven and earth flows in its own current. Your lightning, lady, is simply energy seeking release. I do not fight you; I merely show your power the quickest way to the earth."
Nalin stared at him. For the first time in her life, she had met a man who could neutralize her deadliest strike so elegantly. The hostility in her eyes vanished, replaced by an intense curiosity and a strange, warm spark in her heart.
She crossed her arms, tilted her head slightly, and asked in a softer, playful tone: "Tell me, warrior, what is your name?"
"I am Tristan, fifth disciple of Sage Geronimo," he replied gently.
"Tristan... not a bad name," Nalin smiled, her eyes shining in the twilight. "I am Nalin, daughter of the Eagle Chief. You have true skill. But if you truly want to cut this evil out by its roots, stop lecturing me here. Follow me south to the port of Tortuga."
Tristan was taken dazed. "Why Tortuga?"
Nalin stepped closer to him, leaning in to whisper, her breath carrying the warm scent of wild desert sage: "Someone has found the 'Dragon’s Fang', the great blade carved from the tooth of Quetzalcoatl. The Castile fleet and the tribes are descending upon the port to seize it. If that weapon falls into the wrong hands, this continent will bleed. Do you dare come with me to stop them?"
Tristan looked into Nalin’s deep, radiant eyes. He knew that by walking with this fierce maiden, he would be stepping away from the peaceful life his master desired for him. Yet, an invisible pull of destiny urged him forward.
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"Very well," Tristan gripped his sword hilt and smiled. "I will go with you."
"Splendid! Let us move!" Nalin laughed, grabbing Tristan's wrist and pulling him along. The two shadows quickly melted into the darkness creeping over the red cliffs of the Grand Canyon.
