Simon opened the Fury Tempest Art.
The first page contained no technique, rune diagram, or explanation about controlling the wind.
Instead, the moment he opened it, an image appeared above the book.
Simon was startled at first, but he quickly controlled himself when he sensed no danger from the image.
He glanced at the image, then he shifted his gaze to the page.
He saw a formation, and after looking at it for a few seconds, he understood that the formation was there to show this image.
Simon frowned, then he shifted his gaze back to the image.
The image was of a large demon sitting on a throne formed from bones. His body was thin, almost skeletal, while deep wounds covered his exposed chest and arms. Several of those wounds had been stitched shut with black metal threads.
Despite his terrible condition, there was nothing weak about him.
His long hair floated around his head as if he was standing inside a storm, and pale green lightning flashed within his dark eyes. Behind his throne were six enormous circular shapes, but the portrait did not show them clearly.
They might have been rings.
They might have been halos.
Or they might have been storms.
Simon wasn’t sure.
Beneath the portrait were several lines written in faded silver ink.
[Fury Tempest Art.]
[Created by Vhaurak, the Tempest Tyrant.]
[Supreme Demon Lord.]
[Written during the final seventy-nine days of my life.]
Simon raised a brow.
’An inheritance of a Supreme Demon Lord? That’s not easy to come by.’
A complete inheritance created by a Supreme Demon Lord was worth far more than what he spent at the Abyss Shell Pavilion, even if the art was incomplete or damaged.
However, the last line caught his attention.
’He created this when he was already close to death.’
Simon turned to the next page.
The handwriting changed.
The words were larger, rougher, and carried an arrogant violence that seemed to remain even after the death of their writer.
Simon began reading aloud.
"If you opened this book because you want to create a sharper wind blade, close it."
For some reason, Simon felt like he could hear the voice of the Tempest Tyrant through the quiet room.
"If you want to run faster, fly higher, or push your enemies with the wind, close it and find one of the countless worthless techniques created by demons who have never seen a true tempest."
Simon raised a brow.
This creator definitely did not waste time insulting whoever inherited his art.
He continued reading.
"My name is Vhaurak. Some called me the Tempest Tyrant. Others called me the Mad Wind of the West, although most of the demons who used that name died before they could say it a second time."
"I reached the rank of a Supreme Demon Lord with a low A grade wind affinity. However, I was born with a B grade wind affinity."
Simon paused and glanced at the portrait again.
A low A grade affinity was very good, but it was not extraordinary enough for many Supreme Demon Lords he had encountered. However, Simon could see from the image that the Tempest Tyrant was a demon that could not be trifled with.
Simon returned his attention to the book.
"For hundreds of years, I believed I understood wind."
"I used it to cut armies apart. I used it to crush mountains, carry cities into the sky, and tear the wings from demons who believed the heavens belonged to their race."
"I was wrong."
The arrogance in the earlier words disappeared.
What replaced it was colder.
"My descendants were killed during the Battle of the Sixfold Hell Bastion. Their bodies were hung outside the fortress, not because my enemies believed it would weaken me, but because they wanted to watch what I would do."
"... And I gave them what they wanted... I attacked."
Simon’s gaze became more focused.
He had never heard of the Battle of the Sixfold Hell Bastion, but he believed that it was not a battle that shook the entirety of the demon realm or he would have read about it in the Shadowgrave Clan.
"The bastion possessed six rotating defensive formations. Every attack I released was caught, divided, and thrown away. I broke the first formation before the first day ended. I broke the second on the third day."
"On the sixth day, I stood before the fifth formation with half my face gone, one arm missing, my demonic pathways burning, and my Demon Heart cracked."
"I had released every technique I knew."
"Every blade travelled forward and died."
"Every blast struck once and disappeared."
"Every storm I created spent its strength destroying what stood before it, then became nothing."
The following line was written in crimson, almost like Vhaurak had used his blood.
"That was when I finally understood why I lost."
Simon stopped reading for a moment. His fingers moved slowly across the edge of the page.
He was slowly understanding what Vhaurak was trying to say and how he felt.
Vhaurak was not blaming the rank of his enemies, the six defensive formations, or the wounds he suffered.
He blamed the principle behind his own techniques.
Simon continued.
"I treated wind like an arrow."
"I created it, released it, and watched its power disappear after a single attack."
"But a tempest is not an arrow."
"A tempest circles."
"It gathers."
"It steals the movement of everything around it, compresses that movement, and returns with more force than it possessed before."
"Anger attacks once and dies."
"Fury remembers."
A faint light appeared in Simon’s sky-blue eyes.
’Fury remembers.’
Now, he understood the reason for the name.
The Fury Tempest Art was not created from blind rage and neither was it a technique with a fanciful name. Its foundation was based of on fury.
And not just fury... A contained fury.
A force that was not released immediately.
Movement that continued gathering upon itself.
A storm that became more violent the longer it survived.
Vhaurak’s words continued.
"I failed to break the sixth formation."
"The defenders believed they had won when I fell from the sky."
"And as much as I hate to admit it... they were right."
"My Demon Heart was on the verge of shattering into pieces, and most of my demonic pathways had collapsed. Even if every healer in the demon realm gathered around me, I would still die."
"However, while I lay beneath the bastion, unable to move, I watched the six formations continue rotating above me."
"They had used the movement of my own attacks to protect themselves."
"They used my wind better than I did."
"I hated them for that."
"But I hated myself more."