Morning came quietly, the pale sunlight filtering through the curtains of the manor. The garden outside stirred with life—birds calling from the trees, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Yet it was not nature's melody that dominated the morning air, but the harsh rhythm of wood striking wood.
Yamori stood there, chest heaving, sweat running in small rivulets down his brow. His hands tightened around the wooden sword, though his grip trembled from the strain of countless failed exchanges. His silver hair clung to his forehead, his breath heavy, but his eyes—sharp and restless—never wavered from the woman before him.
Aurora stood opposite him, her posture calm, almost elegant, as though this sparring match was no more taxing than sipping tea in the garden. Her wooden sword rested lightly in one hand, angled casually downward, her expression untouched by effort. She regarded her son with an amused smile, her tone playful, but edged with something sterner beneath.
"Oh dear," she said, her voice like a chime carried on the morning wind. "For someone who played prince charming so gallantly for a lady, I don't quite see this so-called 'Silver Ghost' everyone whispers about."
Yamori exhaled sharply, a short sigh that betrayed both irritation and determination. His legs bent slightly, his stance firming as if he were rooting himself to the earth itself. Then, with a swift kick off the ground, he launched forward, closing the distance with a burst of energy. His wooden blade arced in a clean strike toward Aurora's chest.
She did not move until the very last instant. With effortless grace, Aurora flicked her wrist, redirecting his blade with a casual parry. In the same motion, her own sword slid upward, resting against the side of his neck.
"Still a long way to go," she murmured, her green and ruby eyes glinting. "Before you can say those words again: 'It had to be done.' Do you remember, Yamori?"
The boy clicked his tongue in frustration, heat rising to his face. Of course he remembered—those words he had spoken so stubbornly the other day. He had meant them then, yet hearing them reflected back in her calm, teasing voice made his chest tighten.
Aurora laughed, not cruelly but with a sweet, melodic tone, as if she relished these little battles more than any victory. She looked at her son not with disappointment, but with quiet joy. For her, this was not merely training—it was sharing a piece of herself with the boy who had inherited her blood.
Yamori, however, looked at her differently now. Each exchange reminded him that she was no ordinary mother. There was strength hidden in her relaxed stance, precision in every slight movement. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was his own skill that had dulled, or if Aurora had simply never revealed her full self until now.
Slowly, he straightened his back and reclaimed his footing, wooden sword once again gripped tightly in both hands. His eyes burned with stubborn fire as he spoke.
"Let's keep going… please."
Aurora tilted her head, pausing. She saw not a child stubbornly refusing to yield, but a reflection of herself in days long past—a younger Aurora who had once fought without rest, never backing down even when defeat was certain. Her lips curved into a faint smile, and she gave a single nod.
"Very well," she whispered.
And so the garden echoed again with the clashing of wood, their duel stretching into the growing warmth of the day.
---
Far below the streets of Eizo, in the foul stench of the underground sewers, a different scene unfolded.
Several men huddled beneath a cracked archway where thin shafts of light cut through from above. Their clothes were torn, their bodies battered, blood caked on their skin. Groans filled the damp air. One man, his right eye missing and bandaged in a crude cloth, spat bitterly onto the wet stone.
"This is bad," he muttered hoarsely. "We lost our target, half the crew's been captured… and no one's seen Lenny either. Damn bastard still owes me five silvers."
The others grumbled weakly in agreement, but their words died away at the sound of footsteps echoing through the tunnel. Heavy, deliberate steps. Each one drew closer, reverberating against the stone walls until the shadows themselves seemed to recoil.
From the darkness emerged a figure clad in black armor, his presence swallowing the light around him. The men froze, their blood running cold.
"B-Boss…" the one-eyed man stammered, scrambling to his knees. "We didn't expect you back so quickly. H-how was the tr—"
He never finished the sentence.
With a flash of steel, the armored man drew his sword, and in one clean stroke, the one-eyed man's head was severed from his shoulders. It struck the stone floor with a wet thud, rolling to a stop as silence engulfed the chamber.
The man in black sheathed his blade without wiping away the blood. His voice, when he spoke, was low and unyielding, the kind that left no room for mercy.
"You fools have exactly ten minutes," he said coldly, his eyes burning from within the helm. "Tell me everything. Or I will cut you all down."
The bandits dared not breathe too loudly, their fear choking them as the weight of death itself settled upon them.