At age six, Raezion was already surpassing the demon squires in both swordplay and mental acuity. He moved like shadowfire, struck with surgical precision, and read intentions in the eyes of opponents long before a blade was drawn.
That was when Lord Vireon decided it was time.
> "From now on," Vireon said during a sparring review, "you will train under my heir. He has fought in bloodwars and survived curses meant to unmake the soul. You will listen. You will learn. You will not hold back."
Raezion bowed silently. "Yes, Lord Vireon."
The next morning, he met Kairon Val'Kareth.
A man of towering presence with raven-black hair swept back in streaks of silver and burning crimson eyes. Unlike his father's stoic calm, Kairon radiated quiet warmth—a tactician's grace with a warrior's gaze.
He wore crimson demonsteel armor engraved with infernal hymns and carried a curved blade infused with shadowflame.
> "So, you're the little storm that knocked sense into the dragon egg," Kairon said, smiling faintly. "I've read the reports. And I must say, you're terrible at meditation."
Raezion blinked. "I wasn't meditating."
"Exactly."
Thus began the first of Raezion's true lessons.
Kairon's methods were different—less about drilling form, more about understanding meaning.
Why does the blade swing left?
What emotion fuels that motion?
Where is your center?
Every session, Kairon pushed Raezion not just physically, but spiritually—forcing him to confront himself, not just his skills. He would blindfold Raezion and spar with him while chanting forbidden mantras to cloud the mind. He would toss him into dream-walk visions crafted from shards of Draemax's growing mindscape.
And yet, Raezion grew stronger. Calmer. Sharper.
Kairon smiled more often. "You're learning to think like a killer. Not just fight like one."
But what surprised Raezion most—was Kairon's family.