The gate rolled shut behind him with a sound like thunder swallowed by stone. Fenrir the Conqueror stood for a long breath at the base of the great stair boots planted, chest rising and falling under tempered armor. The iron-bars of the gate threw long, serrated shadows across the lowest steps; above them the staircase climbed, austere and endless, toward a lighter square of sky.
At the very top, framed in the doorway of an inner hall, stood a single figure. A man in his forties, broad-shouldered and contained, wore a black keikogi that absorbed the afternoon light instead of reflecting it. He looked like someone grown from discipline, every line of him taut with control. He was not flanked by guards; he did not need them.
"Why are you here?" the man called down, voice carrying the distance easily. "This ground is forbidden to you."
Fenrir's jaw tightened. He was not a man to plead for passage. He lifted his chin and answered with measured calm. "I am not here for you. I am here to meet Master."
A flicker, maybe annoyance, maybe something darker crossed the man's face. He leaned on the railing as if the stone itself could hold him upright. "He has no business with you," he said. "For your information: your father retired months ago. You should turn back."
Fenrir's eyes did not leave the man's. "This matter is above your petty protocol. Try to understand. Otherwise I will use force."
The man's mouth bent into something like a smile, but his tone was colder than the stone around them. "I wasn't asking."
Silence settled like a thrown cloak between them. The stairway seemed suddenly narrower, the air thinner - charged. Fenrir heard the small sounds of the compound: distant voices, the soft scrape of sandal on stone, the faint, regular breathing of the place. None of it changed the line between them.
"Then you leave me no choice," Fenrir said. He took a step forward, the heavy sword at his back shifting like a promise. He did not draw it yet but the motion made the man at the top shift as well, a tautness moving through his shoulders.
The keikogi-clad sentinel didn't reach for a weapon. Instead he bowed his head once, a tiny, formal movement. "Very well," he said. "If you insist on forcing your way, remember this: you do so against more than a gate. You would be forcing the peace of masters who have kept this place sealed for decades."
Fenrir's laugh was soft, but there was iron in it. "Then tell them the Conqueror came and knocked."
The man's eyes hardened. "So this is how you treat your past."
Fenrir paused, and for the first time a trace of something personal slipped through his formality. "Listen, even if your father retired, that doesn't affect my cause with him. Please, we don't have to do this."
At that, the man in the black keikogi slowly raised his arm. His sleeve shifted just slightly and a metallic whisper sliced through the still air. A gleam of steel flickered beneath the fabric as twin fan-like blades unfolded from his wrists, each rib honed to a razor edge. With a swift flick of his hands, the weapons fully bloomed like dark flowers, reflecting the cold light that fell through the courtyard.
Fenrir's eyes narrowed. "Still using those toys?" he said, voice edged with mockery.
The man did not say anything. He twirled one fan effortlessly, the air hissing as it sliced through the silence. The delicate metal shimmered, but its motion was anything but graceful it was precise, controlled, deadly.
Fenrir's hand moved toward his sword hilt. "Then let's see if they can stand against me."
The man's smile faded. "Draw it, Conqueror," he said softly. "Let me see if the stories about you hold true."
The tension tightened like a bowstring. The fans locked open with a sharp snap, their curved ribs catching the light like fangs. Fenrir's blade began to hum as his fingers brushed the hilt, a low growl rising from the steel. The stairway between them became a crucible discipline against defiance, tradition against rebellion.
And in that quiet moment, the wind carried the faint sound of metal sighing against metal, the first note of a battle that would not end easily. For a heartbeat neither man moved. Then the keikogi man exhaled, and the air around him seemed to stiffen discipline made visible. He dropped into a stance that was less of a pose and more of a promise. Fenrir answered by setting his feet, the muscles in his shoulders tightening like drawn ropes.
The clash erupted like thunder. Steel rang against steel, sparks spilling down the stone steps as Fenrir's blade met the keikogi man's twin fans. Each swing, each parry was fast, fluid—years of mastery condensed into moments.
Fenrir's strength was overwhelming, every strike a quake that sent ripples through the stone floor. But the man at the top was no ordinary opponent, his fans weaved through the air in blurs of silver, deflecting the great sword's blows with impossible precision. Their movements became a storm as Fenrir advanced, the man countering, the air between them screaming under the weight of their skill.
Finally, Fenrir twisted his wrist, locking one of the fans against his sword and forcing the man back a few steps. Both paused, breathing hard, eyes locked.
The man spat to the side. "If this is how you came to speak with father, you've made a poor choice."
Fenrir's gaze softened slightly. His voice dropped. "You think I came here to fight you, huh?"
"Then why are you here?" the man barked, fans poised again.
Fenrir hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, with a sigh heavy enough to still the air, he said, "I didn't want to tell you like this… but Yuhan is dead."
The words landed like a blade through the chest. The man froze mid-stance. His fans lowered, their edges trembling slightly as his grip loosened. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
"…What did you just say?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Fenrir looked down. "This is not known to the public. I don't know why but the academy is trying to hide it. I'm sorry."
The man's fans clattered softly against the stone as his arms fell limp at his sides. His expression emptied no fury, no disbelief, just the hollow shock of a world suddenly shifted off its axis. The wind moved between them, quiet, cold.
For the first time since Fenrir had arrived, neither spoke. The silence between brothers and warriors was heavier than any sword.
The man finally broke the silence. His voice, though steady, carried a quiet fracture. "…Come inside."
He turned and began climbing the staircase. Fenrir followed behind, his heavy steps echoing off the ancient stone walls. The gate creaked shut behind them, sealing the two within the quiet sanctum.
Inside, the air was still thick with incense and the faint metallic tang of old weapons. The hallways were as Fenrir remembered: unadorned stone, calligraphy scrolls aged to a pale brown, the faint creak of wooden floors that had witnessed countless lessons. Nothing had changed. Every corner still whispered of discipline, pain, and patience, the very place where Fenrir had once stood trembling as a boy before his teachers.
The man led him down a long corridor until they reached the library. The air grew colder there, dense with the weight of parchment and time. Rows upon rows of shelves loomed like silent sentinels, each heavy with scrolls, cracked leather tomes, and relics of forgotten wars.
At the far end, under the dim golden light of a hanging lamp, sat the previous master of this school, king of karabela, Bellman Ford .
He was in his sixties now, but the years had carved into him not frailty only gravity. His hair, once black as ink, had turned the shade of moonlight, bound in a simple knot behind his head. His back was straight, his shoulders broad, the posture of a man who had never truly aged in spirit. Before him lay open scrolls and thick manuscripts, some ink still wet with his notes. His long fingers traced the text like one tracing an old scar methodical, reverent. The faint light reflected in his calm gray eyes, eyes that had once seen empires rise and disciples fall. His presence filled the room not through sound, but through the quiet certainty of power long mastered.
Without looking up, he spoke his voice low, carrying effortlessly through the silence:
"…Fenrir. So you finally decided to show your face."
He finally raised his gaze. The years had not dimmed it; those eyes still held the same sharpness, the same piercing depth that once stripped every student of their falsehoods.
"It has been a long time," he said, closing the book before him with deliberate calm. "And yet… you bring with you the air of death."
The man hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "Father… Yuhan is dead."
The words fell into the still air like stones into deep water. For a moment, nothing moved, not even the flame of the hanging lamp. The Master's hand froze halfway through closing a scroll. His eyes, once so composed, flickered, not with disbelief, but with a depth of sorrow that few would ever see. He inhaled slowly, deeply, and when he exhaled, the tremor in his breath was gone.
He set the scroll aside and folded his hands before him. "I see…" he said softly, voice calm but distant, the voice of a man who had outlived too many of his students already.
After a few heartbeats of silence, his gaze shifted toward Fenrir sharp again, as if he had buried his grief beneath the weight of command. "I think," he said, tone now steady as stone, "you have some things to tell me."
Fenrir met his eyes. The flicker of guilt and exhaustion behind his calm face said enough this would not be an easy story to tell. The Master gestured toward the low table beside him, where two unlit candles stood waiting. "Sit," he said. "And speak."