The First Elder watched from the high podium, his face a craggy mask of contemplation. The deep-set frown hadn't left him since the matches began. While the other elders buzzed with commentary, he remained a silent, brooding presence, his gnarled fingers slowly stroking his long, white beard.
His gaze was fixed, not on the current spectacle, but on the space where Liora Moonshadow had stood moments before. An old memory, brittle and yellowed at the edges, stirred in the depths of his mind. That swordsmanship… he thought, the words a silent rumble in his chest. Not the flashy forms, but the essence of it. The way she moves with the steel, not against it. I've seen that before. A long time ago. A shadow of that same grace.
He gave a barely perceptible nod. To perceive the flow of the sword so instinctively at her age… it wasn't just skill. It was a kind of hearing. "A rare talent," he murmured, the sound lost in the crowd's din. "That girl… she might just become someone who changes things."
The elder to his right, a stern man named Vorlan, leaned in. "Her control is remarkable, First Elder. But the next match… the Stormblade boy. His intensity borders on savagery. We must be prepared to intervene if it goes too far. Safety above all else."
The First Elder didn't turn his head. His eyes, like chips of flint, remained on the arena floor. "Youths must be tempered in fire, Vorlan," he replied, his voice low and steady. "But you are right. We will not let them be broken. We shall see what this fire reveals."
And then the fire arrived.
The announcer's voice boomed. "Garic Stormblade versus Ronald Stormbreaker!"
The air in the arena didn't just change; it curdled. This wasn't the technical display of Liora or the unnerving calm of Leonel. This was something primal.
Garic strode into the ring like he owned the very dust under his feet. His crimson blade was slung casually over his shoulder, a butcher's tool waiting for work. A smirk was carved into his face, a look of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Well, well. Look what the dragontails dragged in," he said, his voice carrying a mocking lilt. "Ronald Stormbreaker. They sent you to slow me down? I gotta be honest, I'm a little offended."
Ronald took his position, his knuckles white on the grips of his twin swords. He settled into a low, solid stance, every muscle taut. "You always did talk too much, Garic. Maybe save your breath. You'll need it."
Garic barked a laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. "Need it? For you? Don't make me laugh. This'll be over before you can blink." His eyes, bright with malice, scanned Ronald up and down. "I'll even make it quick. A mercy."
He didn't wait for a signal. He just moved.
It wasn't a charge; it was an avalanche. The massive blade whistled as he brought it around in a horizontal sweep meant to cut Ronald in half.
Ronald's eyes went wide. He threw himself backward, the wind of the passing steel whipping his hair and stinging his face. Gods, he's faster than last time.
Before he could find his footing, Garic was on him again, the crimson sword now descending from high above in a brutal overhead chop.
There was no time to dodge. Ronald crossed his blades above his head in a desperate X.
CLANG!
The sound wasn't clean. It was a shriek of metal and a dull, sickening thud. The impact didn't just ring up Ronald's arms; it jolted his teeth, rattled his spine. His boots skidded backward, carving twin furrows in the hard-packed earth. The bones in his arms screamed in protest.
Garic straightened up, not even winded. He looked bored. "That's it? That's the famous Stormbreaker spirit? I've seen kittens put up more of a fight."
Ronald gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood. With a raw shout, he pushed forward, his twin swords becoming a blur of silver.
"Dual Blade Art—Razor Gale!"
He came in low and fast, a whirlwind of strikes aimed at Garic's legs, torso, and sword arm—any opening he could find.
Garic didn't even bother with a proper stance. He just… swatted. With casual, almost lazy flicks of his wrist, his heavier blade met Ronald's assaults, sending sparks flying each time steel kissed steel. The parries were so effortless it was humiliating.
"Pathetic," Garic sighed.
As Ronald recovered from a high slash, Garic simply stepped inside his guard and drove the weighted hilt of his sword into Ronald's ribs.
It wasn't a technique. It was a street brawl move. A brutal, efficient punch with a metal handle.
THUD.
The air left Ronald's lungs in a pained gasp. He stumbled back, doubling over, vision swimming with black spots. The crowd's murmur was a wave of pity and alarm.
Garic just twirled his sword, the point tracing lazy circles in the dirt. "Come on, Stormbreaker. This is just sad. Entertain me. Show me something worth my time."
Ronald forced himself upright, his breath hitching. He could feel a hot, sharp pain with every inhalation. A cracked rib, probably. But his hands found the grips of his swords again. "I'm… not done yet."
"Oh?" Garic's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. "Please, then. Enlighten me."
Ronald lunged again, his movements less refined now, fueled by pain and desperation. A low slash, a high feint, a quick jab.
Garic parried each one with the bored precision of a man swatting flies. "Is this it? All that legacy, all that talk… for this?" He stepped in again, this time slamming his shoulder into Ronald's already-injured side.
Ronald cried out, a short, choked sound, as he was thrown off balance and landed hard on one knee. The crowd gasped.
He pushed himself up, his whole body trembling. But he still stood.
Garic watched him, a predator toying with its food. Then his smirk shifted into something darker, more intimate. His voice dropped, low enough that only Ronald could hear, laced with a venom that was more personal than any sword strike.
"You know," Garic said, almost conversationally, "all this… effort. Is it for her?"
Ronald froze. The world seemed to shrink, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum. "What did you say?" he whispered.
"Her. Little Lena." Garic savored the name, letting it hang in the air between them. "Poor thing. Always so sickly. Always in that bed, looking so frail."
"Don't you say her name," Ronald growled, his voice trembling with a new, different kind of pain.
"Winter's coming, Ronnie," Garic continued, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "It's hard on the weak. The cold gets into your bones. Especially when you're already so… fragile. You sure you should be here, playing the hero? Shouldn't you be sitting by her bedside, holding her hand while she… fades?"
"SHUT UP!" The scream tore from Ronald's throat, raw and ragged, shredding the air.
Reason left him. Strategy evaporated. There was only white-hot, blinding rage.
He launched himself forward, his body moving on pure instinct and fury.
"Dual Blade Art—Second Form: Crescent Cascade!"
His swords became a spinning vortex of silver light, a desperate, wild storm of strikes. There was no finesse left, only power driven by a bottomless well of anger. He hacked and slashed, each blow carrying the weight of his fear for his sister.
CLANG! CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!
For the first time, Garic was forced back a step. Then another. His smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of concentration as he raised his blade to block the frenzied assault. Sparks flew in a continuous shower, the sound of clashing steel a frantic, deafening drumbeat.
But the gap was a chasm, and rage couldn't bridge it.
Garic found his footing, braced himself, and with a mighty heave, he parried the final, overhand strike.
The force sent Ronald stumbling backward, his arms numb, his chest heaving. He stood panting, sweat and tears mixing on his face, his eyes burning with a hatred so pure it was a physical force.
Garic straightened his tunic, a slow, deliberate motion. The cruel smile returned, wider than before.
"There it is," he purred. "That's the fire I wanted to see. But you know what?" He pointed his massive blade at Ronald's heart, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Fire without control just burns itself out. And I'm going to be the one to snuff yours out. I'm going to break you, Ronald. And when you're lying in the dirt, you'll understand what true helplessness feels like. Just like she will."
Ronald's grip on his swords was the only thing holding him upright. His shoulders shook with exhaustion, but his feet remained planted. His voice was a hoarse, broken thing, but the words were clear.
"You… will never… break me."
Garic's grin was a predator's final show of teeth before the kill. "We'll see."
He raised the crimson blade high, the sun glinting off the polished steel. There was no technique in this final motion, no named form. It was pure, unadulterated violence, a executioner's swing aimed to shatter Ronald's crossed blades and the boy behind them.
The crowd didn't gasp. They fell into a deathly silence, watching the inevitable descent.
But the blow never landed.
A figure moved faster than a thought, a blur that inserted itself between the rising blade and its target.
CLANG!
The sound was different this time—sharper, cleaner, a note of finality. Garic's sword stopped dead, arrested in its deadly arc by a single, upraised blade held in a rock-steady hand.
Garic staggered, the shock of the perfect block traveling up his arm. He blinked, confusion wiping the triumph from his face. His eyes focused on the person who now stood shielding Ronald.
It was Leonel Graythorn. The boy's practice sword was held in a deceptively simple guard stance. His face was calm, but his eyes held a cold, ancient darkness.
Garic's confusion twisted back into rage. "You?! What is this? Get out of my way, you little—"
Leonel's voice cut through the air, quiet, yet it carried to every corner of the silent arena. It was flat, devoid of anger, and all the more terrifying for it.
"Garic Stormblade," he said. "Take one more step, and I will show you what 'true helplessness' really means."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze utterly devoid of fear.
"Do you have a death wish?"