Nathan and Ash walked steadily toward the northern district, the air growing cooler as the sun dipped behind the rooftops. The lively chaos of the marketplace gradually faded into a more disciplined environment. The scent of incense, metal, and sweat grew stronger the further they went.
The faint sword-like aura Nathan sensed earlier still lingered in the wind sharp, cold, and focused. It wasn't strong enough to belong to a high-realm cultivator, but it carried precision. Precision meant training. Training meant potential.
And potential meant…
"Master?" Ash whispered, noticing how Nathan's gaze sharpened.
"That aura," Nathan murmured, "it's young… but extremely refined."
Ash blinked.
"So… a genius?"
"Likely," Nathan said. "Or someone raised with strict discipline."
Ash shivered.
"Are they dangerous?"
Nathan smiled slightly.
"Danger depends on the direction of the blade. If it's pointed at us? Maybe. But if it's pointed away? It could become our sect's greatest sword."
Ash nodded, absorbing every word.
As they turned the final corner, the northern district unfolded in front of them, a massive circular arena constructed of stone and wood, surrounded by smaller training yards where youths practiced kicks, punches, and weapon techniques.
Shouts echoed through the air:
"Again!"
"Lower your stance!"
"Don't swing like you're swatting flies!"
Nathan scanned the area.
Martial teachers, apprentice cultivators, vendors selling basic weapons…
But the aura he sensed grew stronger the farther he walked.
Ash tugged his sleeve.
"Master, look!"
In the largest courtyard, a group of teenagers surrounded a single figure at the center — a young boy around Nathan's age when he died… maybe fifteen or sixteen.
He wore simple black training clothes, his posture straight, his expression cold. A wooden practice sword rested loosely in his hand.
Nathan recognized the aura immediately.
"It's him," he whispered.
Ash looked confused.
"He doesn't look that strong."
Nathan shook his head.
"Strength isn't the only thing that matters. Look at his stance."
Ash squinted.
The boy's feet were planted with perfect balance.
His grip was relaxed yet firm.
His eyes watched everything around him — calculating, emotionless.
"He's like a coiled blade," Nathan murmured. "Waiting to strike the moment someone makes a mistake."
As if on cue, one of the older teens stepped forward, sneering.
"You think you're better than us just because your swings are pretty?"
Another stepped up. "You've been here one month and already act like a master."
More boys closed in, all holding wooden practice swords.
Ash gulped.
"Master… they're surrounding him."
The black-clad boy didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
One of the teens smirked.
"What, cat got your tongue? Try dodging this!"
He lunged forward.
The wooden sword swung down—
—and WHIP!
A blur of motion.
Nathan's eyebrow rose.
Before the strike even completed, the black-clad boy sidestepped smoothly and flicked his wrist. His wooden sword tapped the attacker's wrist, causing the older teen to drop his weapon with a yelp.
The courtyard went silent.
Another teen growled.
"Beginner's luck!"
He rushed in.
WHIP!
He was disarmed too, his wrist stinging.
A third teen ran in with a shout — more desperate, more wild.
SWIFTTAP.
Another weapon fell.
The entire group hesitated now, fear creeping into their eyes.
Nathan crossed his arms.
"Not bad," he murmured. "No wasted movements. No anger. He fights with pure technique. This boy is special."
As the teens backed off, embarrassed, the instructor nearby only sighed and muttered:
"That kid again… why does trouble always follow him?"
Ash tugged Nathan's sleeve.
"Master… is he strong enough to join us?"
Nathan smiled faintly.
"He might be too strong for them. But for us? Perfect."
He began walking forward.
Ash hurried behind him.
The courtyard quieted as Nathan approached, his presence calm but commanding enough to draw attention.
When Nathan stopped in front of the mysterious boy, the boy raised his head slightly.
Cold eyes.
Sharp features.
A controlled breath.
Nathan smiled.
"You handled them well."
The boy didn't respond.
"Not talkative, are you?" Nathan asked gently.
The boy blinked once.
"…They were bothering me."
"True," Nathan said. "And you responded with precision, not violence. That's rare."
One of the teens scoffed from the sidelines.
"Hey! He only looks good because we went easy—"
The black-clad boy turned his head.
Not a glare.
Not a threat.
Just a cold, emotionless stare.
The teen shut up instantly.
Nathan chuckled.
"What's your name?"
The boy hesitated — just a flicker.
"…Cyril."
Nathan nodded.
"Cyril. Good. I'm Nathan."
Cyril didn't bow, didn't smile, didn't give any respectful gesture.
Ash whispered nervously,
"Master… he doesn't seem very friendly…"
Nathan whispered back,
"Blades aren't friendly, Ash. But in the right hands, they're priceless."
Cyril watched them silently.
Nathan stepped closer.
"You fight with perfect technique. But I can see something else."
Cyril's brows twitched for the first time.
"What do you see?" he asked quietly.
Nathan's eyes locked onto him.
"Restraint."
Cyril's expression stiffened.
Nathan continued:
"You're holding back. Even when they attacked you, you avoided their weapons instead of breaking their wrists."
He leaned slightly forward.
"That's not weakness. That's control."
Cyril's grip on his wooden sword loosened.
Nathan smiled warmly.
"You weren't trained to bully the weak. You were trained to fight the strong."
Cyril flinched — the tiniest movement, but telling.
Ash stared.
"Master… how did you know?"
Nathan smirked.
"Because I've seen eyes like his before."
He faced Cyril again.
"You're alone. You're hiding. Running from something… or someone."
Cyril's breath hitched ever so slightly.
Nathan softened his tone.
"You don't have to tell me now. I don't need your secrets. Only your trust."
Silence fell.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
Nathan extended his hand the same way he had with Ash.
"Cyril… I want you to join me."
Cyril stared at the outstretched hand.
Ash whispered excitedly,
"Master found another genius!"
Cyril's gaze shifted between Nathan's hand and his face.
"…Why me?"
Nathan didn't hesitate.
"Because you fight like someone who's had everything taken from him… yet refuses to stop moving forward."
Cyril's throat tightened.
Nathan stepped closer.
"You don't have to be alone. You don't have to hide your strength. I can give you a path others can't."
The wind brushed softly across the courtyard.
Cyril slowly — very slowly — reached out.
His fingers brushed Nathan's palm.
Nathan smiled.
But before Cyril could grasp his hand—
A sudden explosion of killing intent crashed down like lightning.
BOOM—
Cyril jerked his hand back, eyes wide with fear.
Ash fell to his knees, gasping.
Nathan's robe snapped violently in the wind.
A cold voice echoed from behind them:
"So this is where you were hiding… Cyril."
Nathan turned toward the newcomer, his expression calm.
A young man — around seventeen — stepped forward wearing the uniform of a large, prestigious sect. A sword with a silver hilt hung at his waist. His aura was sharp, heavy, suffocating.
Cyril trembled.
"Z–Zayden…?"
Nathan narrowed his eyes.
The aura didn't belong to a teen.
It belonged to a monster in the making.
Zayden smirked.
"Cyril, little runaway…
I told you."
He rested his hand on his sword.
"There is nowhere you can hide from me."
Nathan stepped forward, placing himself between them.
His voice was cold.
"Oh?" Nathan said calmly.
"And who said he was hiding?"
Ash whispered, trembling,
"Master… that guy… he's really scary…"
Nathan smiled.
"Good. That makes this more interesting."
He lifted his chin slightly, meeting Zayden's killing intent head-on.
"You're standing in my way."
The air crackled.
The courtyard fell silent.
Cyril's eyes widened in disbelief.
Ash gasped.
Zayden's smirk darkened.
"And who do you think you are?"
Nathan smiled slowly.
"The man who decides who leaves this place."