Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The pre-dawn mist clung to the Red Keep's secluded training yard like ghostly fingers, muffling sound and concealing movement. Arthur Snow arrived first, the Reaper hanging at his side, its dark blade seeming to drink in what little light filtered through the fog. The ancient weapon felt heavier today, as though it sensed what was to come.
Arthur Dayne emerged from the mist like a specter, Dawn's pale blade catching even the faintest glimmer of approaching sunrise. The legendary sword hummed with that familiar resonance, stronger now, as if anticipating its reunion with kindred metal.
"No witnesses," Dayne said simply, his dark eyes scanning the empty yard. "Whatever happens here stays between us."
"Agreed," Arthur replied, drawing the Reaper with fluid grace. The black blade sang as it left its sheath, and Dawn answered with its own ethereal note. For a moment, the two weapons seemed to harmonize, creating an eerie melody that made both men's skin prickle.
They faced each other across the mist-shrouded stones, legends both—one forged by reputation, the other carrying secrets older than kingdoms.
"Last chance to withdraw your wager," Dayne offered, though his stance suggested he hoped Arthur would refuse.
Arthur Snow smiled. "The same courtesy to you, Ser Arthur. Dawn has been your companion for years. I would not take her lightly."
"Then let us begin."
They moved as one.
Dawn swept forward in a gleaming arc, its star-forged steel seeking Arthur's throat with deadly precision. The Reaper rose to meet it, black metal clashing against white in a shower of sparks that seemed to burn brighter than they should.
Arthur Dayne was everything the songs claimed and more. His blade work was poetry in motion, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. But as Arthur Snow parried and countered, something stirred in the depths of his memory. The forms, the footwork, the precise angles of attack—they were hauntingly familiar.
The Crescent Moon Strike.
Dayne's blade traced a perfect arc aimed at Arthur's left shoulder, and suddenly he was twenty years younger, standing in a mountain monastery as Master Chen demonstrated the same technique. The angle was identical, the timing precise, even the subtle shift of weight that preceded the attack.
Arthur's blood chilled as recognition dawned.
The Falling Star Defense.
Arthur parried with a technique from his previous life, and watched as Dayne seamlessly flowed into a counter—one that perfectly matched what Brother Liu had taught him in the halls of the Celestial Sword Sect. The connection was unmistakable now.
They broke apart, circling each other warily. Dawn's humming had grown stronger, and the Reaper seemed to pulse in Arthur's grip like a living heart.
"Where did you learn those forms?" Arthur asked quietly, his grey eyes never leaving Dayne's.
"They came with Dawn," Dayne replied, confusion flickering across his features. "Dreams, visions... the blade teaches those it deems worthy. But you—you know them too."
Arthur said nothing, but his mind raced. The sword forms of his previous life, techniques passed down through generations of martial artists in a world that existed only in memory, were somehow embedded in Dawn. How was that possible?
They engaged again, more cautiously now. Dayne unleashed the Piercing Wind combination, a series of thrusts that had been the signature of the White Crane School. Arthur responded with Flowing Water parries, techniques that had made him legendary among the righteous sects of Murim.
It was like fighting a younger version of himself—if that younger self had been raised in Westeros and trained with a star-forged blade instead of cultivating internal energy. The similarity was uncanny, unsettling, and strangely nostalgic.
Why? Arthur wondered as he deflected a strike that mirrored his own favorite opening gambit. Why do these fragments of sky metal carry the martial knowledge of my previous world?
The answer came to him in a flash of terrible clarity. The meteors, the shards scattered across the world, the way both blades seemed to recognize each other—they weren't just random fragments of star metal. They were pieces of something greater, something connected to his transmigration itself.
Perhaps they were anchors, meant to guide him, to prepare him for whatever purpose had brought him to this world of ice and fire. Or perhaps they were remnants of the very force that had torn his soul from one reality and cast it into another.
The revelation gave him clarity, and with clarity came victory.
Arthur began to fight not against Dayne's techniques, but alongside them, predicting each move because he had once mastered these very forms himself. When Dayne attempted the Mountain Splitting strike, Arthur was already in position for the counter. When the knight flowed into Dancing Shadows, Arthur moved with him like a mirror image.
Dawn was magnificent in Dayne's hands, but the Reaper had been forged for Arthur's previous incarnation, designed to complement techniques that were now being echoed by his opponent. Every parry felt natural, every counter-attack perfectly timed.
The end came suddenly.
Dayne attempted the Phoenix Rising finale, a complex combination that had once been the ultimate technique of his old sect. But Arthur knew this sequence intimately—he had perfected it decades ago in another life. As Dawn swept upward in the legendary pattern, the Reaper was already there, intercepting the strike at its weakest point.
The star-forged blade flew from Dayne's grasp, clattering across the stones to rest against the far wall.
Arthur Dayne stood breathing heavily in the dissipating mist, while Arthur Snow remained composed, barely winded despite the intensity of their duel. The implications of what had just occurred hung between them like a physical weight—a legendary knight defeated by a boy of barely sixteen years, one who had fought as if he possessed decades of experience.
"I have never been defeated," Dayne said quietly, staring at his empty hands. "Not once. Not even by knights twice my size or masters with decades more experience."
"You fought well," Arthur replied, sheathing the Reaper. "Better than well. In another circumstance, with different weapons, the outcome might have been different."
But they both knew that wasn't true. Arthur had recognized every technique, anticipated every combination, because he had lived this fight before—just with different names, different faces, in a world that existed now only in memory and dreams.
Dayne retrieved Dawn, his movements heavy with defeat and confusion. "The sword is yours," he said formally. "I gave my word."
Arthur studied the defeated knight, then glanced around the empty yard. Already, servants would be stirring in the Red Keep. Soon, courtiers would arrive for their morning routines, and word would spread.
"I'll collect it another day," Arthur said finally. "If I take Dawn now, the entire capital will know by midday. Questions will be asked, theories formed, and I have no desire to become the center of even more speculation than I already am."
Dayne's eyes flickered with surprise and perhaps a hint of relief. "You would trust me to honor our bargain?"
"You're Arthur Dayne," Arthur replied simply. "Your word is worth more than any oath or contract. Besides," he smiled slightly, "I suspect we'll have cause to speak again soon. There are questions that need answering, and I believe we both share the same curiosities now."
As Arthur walked away, leaving the Sword of the Morning alone in the mist-shrouded yard, his mind churned with new understanding. The shards weren't just weapons—they were keys, pieces of a larger puzzle that stretched across worlds and lives.
And somewhere in their star-forged metal lay the truth of why the Heavenly Demon had been reborn as Arthur Snow in a world of dragons and winters.
The game was becoming clearer, even if the players remained hidden in shadow.