Leonel Graythorne stood alone at the edge of the family arena, watching as the stone stands slowly filled with relatives, retainers, and honored spectators. Sunlight filtered through the high, arching pillars that bordered the coliseum, casting long, golden streaks across the sand-covered floor. The air thrummed with an anticipatory energy that seeped into his bones.
Three years.Three years since he had last stood in this place.
When he was younger, he remembered clinging to his mother's side as the tournaments unfolded—wide-eyed, fascinated, barely tall enough to peer over the stone railing. Back then, these competitions had felt enormous, filled with titanic clashes and thunderous applause. Now he was no longer a spectator. Now he stood where those warriors had once stood.
He felt older than eight. He felt as if he had stepped into another lifetime.
The years had changed him. His body had grown lean and honed from repetition. His mind had sharpened from meditation and relentless discipline. Every sunrise, every cold morning, every tired breath had carved away at him until only steel remained.
He felt stronger now—calmer, more in control—but he also knew something deeper: he had only just begun.
His eyes drifted across the arena floor, tracing the rough grains of sand. He remembered the exact day he first learned the Skyfall Slash. Back then, the technique had felt impossibly distant, too powerful for his small hands and unsteady stance. The raw force, the precision, the rigid flow of Essence required—it had been overwhelming. But he had persisted. Perseverance carved the impossible into the inevitable.
Now the Skyfall Slash flowed through him as naturally as breath. It no longer felt like a technique—it felt like a part of his very soul. It was his anchor, his answer to brute strength, his foundation. When he needed absolute force, absolute clarity, he relied on Skyfall.
But the Gale Shadow Strike was different. That one belonged to Elara.
A faint smile touched his lips as he recalled the day she demonstrated it for him—her blade vanishing into a streak of wind and shadow, almost too swift for his eyes to follow. The complexity had nearly crushed him; the timing, the rhythm, the fluidity were nothing like the straightforward might of Skyfall. The Gale Shadow Strike demanded instinct. It demanded grace.
Three years later, Leonel wielded it with a mastery far beyond what he once believed possible. His strikes were swift, disorienting, almost ethereal. Shadows clung to the edges of his movement, whispering just a half-breath ahead of each strike. His opponents rarely saw the attack until it was too late.
And then there was the third technique—Blackwind Slash.
He exhaled slowly, remembering the countless nights he had spent practicing in the windlit courtyard, chasing something that felt both within reach and impossibly far away. The Blackwind Slash was as much art as it was technique. It fused the force of Skyfall with the speed of Gale Shadow, but with something else—something darker.
When executed correctly, it summoned a twisting veil of shadow-touched wind that disoriented an opponent before the blade ever reached them. It wasn't merely an attack; it was domination of the battlefield itself.
He was close.So close he could feel the last barrier in his mind quivering like thin ice.
And yet, no one here knew any of that.
He hid it on purpose.
Only a week ago, he had broken through to Sword Adept. The breakthrough had come quietly—late at night, with the moon casting pale light across his floor. He had felt his Essence core solidify, deepen, and expand until his body thrummed with potential.
But thanks to a concealment technique he had found hidden in the depths of the Graythorne library, no one knew. Not his instructors. Not his relatives. Not even his mother.
To everyone watching today, he was still a Sword Initiate, early stage. A talented child, yes, but nothing extraordinary.
Good.Let them believe that.
When the time came, he would show them something unforgettable.
The seats were nearly full now. Conversations buzzed. Swords gleamed in the sun. Young family members warmed up on the sidelines, blades striking against practice dummies in rhythmic clacks. Everything felt alive.
Leonel walked toward the center of the arena, feeling the familiar crunch of sand beneath his boots. His heart beat steadily—not with fear, not with nerves, but with focus.
Today wasn't about impressing anyone.Today was for him.
A hush fell over the arena as Lady Seraphina Graythorne stepped forward. Leonel's mother was always a commanding figure, her platinum hair tied elegantly behind her, her attire a blend of noble silk and practical leather. She stood at the podium overlooking the arena, her eyes sharp, voice carrying effortlessly.
"Family of Graythorne," she began, "welcome to this year's Blade's Ascent."
Her voice echoed through the coliseum, smooth and unwavering.
"As tradition dictates, this tournament serves as a testament to the growth, wisdom, and discipline of our younger generation. Strength alone does not define a Graythorne. True mastery lies in the union of mind and blade."
Leonel felt a rush of warmth at her words. His mother believed deeply in philosophy—a warrior's strength meant nothing without wisdom behind it.
"As always," she continued, "today's event will consist of a first round, quarter-finals, semi-finals, and the final match. But hear me clearly—winning is meaningless if you fail to learn. Every strike teaches something. Every opponent reflects something within yourself."
The crowd listened in respectful silence.
"Let us begin," Lady Seraphina finished, raising her hand. "May those who enter this arena fight with honor—and leave it with clarity."
The arena exploded into applause.
Leonel stepped into line with the other competitors. Some he recognized—cousins, distant relatives, older youths who had trained far longer than he had. A few glanced at him with curiosity, some with skepticism. A child competing? An initiate barely tall enough to reach their shoulders?
Let them underestimate him.It would make victory all the sweeter.
The announcer called the first pair of names. The first match began quickly—a flurry of basic strikes, an overeager lunge, and an inevitable defeat. Leonel barely paid attention. His mind was already in the arena floor, feeling the weight of his sword at his side.
Then—
"Leonel Graythorne."
His turn.
He walked calmly into the center, his small frame dwarfed by the towering stone walls. Across from him stood his opponent—another boy around his age, though slightly taller and stockier. The boy's hands twitched nervously around the hilt of his sword.
Leonel studied him briefly.Tense shoulders.Uneven breathing.Impatience.Fear.
This would be swift.
The referee raised his arm. "Ready your blades!"
Leonel inhaled slowly, feeling his Essence stir inside him. He didn't need much—just a whisper of it was enough.
"Begin!"
The boy rushed forward immediately, sword raised high and mouth open in a panicked shout. His footsteps were loud, unrefined, kicking up sand with every heavy stride.
Leonel's world slowed.
Impatience. Predictable. Too much strength. Weak foundation.
He stepped lightly to the side, pivoting on the balls of his feet. The boy's sword cut through empty air.
Leonel didn't counter yet. He let the boy stumble, regain footing, and swing again—wildly, desperately. He blocked with a soft deflection, feeling almost pity at how telegraphed the strike was.
Time to end it.
Leonel shifted his grip.
He unleashed Skyfall.
His blade cut downward in a clean, effortless arc, the force controlled but unmistakably powerful. The blow didn't strike the boy directly—it collided with his sword, sending a shockwave of impact that rattled the boy's arms and forced him to drop the weapon.
The crowd gasped.
But Leonel wasn't done.
Before the boy could recover, Leonel stepped forward and released the Gale Shadow Strike. His figure blurred, his sword whispering past the boy's shoulder. A gust of wind swept the sand at their feet, shadows blending with the motion.
The boy froze, wide-eyed, as the strike stopped just an inch from his neck.
Silence.Then murmurs.Then thunderous applause.
Leonel lowered his sword and stepped back, expression calm. The boy collapsed to his knees, defeated and trembling.
"Winner—Leonel Graythorne!"
He bowed respectfully, then left the arena as whispers trailed behind him.
"Did he really just—?""That speed—how old is he?""Was that the Gale Shadow Strike?""Impossible. He's only an Initiate."
Leonel ignored them. Their recognition didn't matter. What mattered was the feel of the strike, the flow of Essence, the calm in his mind.
As he returned to the waiting area, he exhaled slowly.One round down.Three to go.