The chamber was still, as though the world itself dared not disturb Kiaria's breath. The boy had collapsed after his awakening, yet now his chest rose faintly, steady, and the white sparks that once filled the air had vanished into silence. Asaira cradled him, whispering his name as if sound alone might anchor him. Kiasin stood near, his hand tight on his sword, his eyes hard with knowledge deeper than steel: peace was never meant to last.
Then the ground trembled.
Boots thundered through the gates in unison, iron on stone, echoing like a war drum. Torches flared even in daylight, banners bearing the Emperor's sigil snapped in the morning wind. The inner court guards – hundreds strong – poured into the courtyard, their discipline sharp as blades.
Kiasin stepped out, his shadow stretching long across the stone. His eyes did not widen; his lips did not falter. He had expected this.
He passed Kiaria into Asaira's arms and pressed his lips to the child's brow. Then he straightened and faced the soldiers. "I have been waiting," he said quietly. "Now the time has come."
He turned, his voice cutting like iron. "Servants – leave. This fight is not yours. Go."
Asaira echoed him, steady though her hand shook. The servants fled, their eyes glistening, their footsteps vanishing into silence. Only soldiers, husband, wife, and child remained.
Soldier incharge stepped forward, his armor gleaming faintly. He bowed deep, voice thick with sorrow. "Commander Kiasin… you know the decree. The Emperor demands you, Lady Asaira, and the child. Please do not resist. Your loyalty, your victories, your name are carved into all hearts. Do not force us."
Behind him, the soldiers stood stiff. But their eyes betrayed them. They were not faceless guards – they were men Kiasin had once led through fire and ash, men who had seen him bleed beside them. Now their spears trembled, torn between oath and reverence.
Kiasin's voice rang heavy. "Brothers… I cannot surrender my child. If obedience demands betrayal, then strike me. But Kiaria will never be theirs."
The officer closed his eyes. "Then forgive us."
Steel hissed.
Kiasin's blade erupted in light. Phantom Sword Intent surged outward, a storm of steel and wind. His swing shattered shields, split spears, and hurled men back with precision. None died; all fell. His strikes bore discipline – enough to stop, not enough to kill.
The courtyard rang with steel on stone. Sparks lit the air. Then laughter fell, low and cruel.
From the gate walked a figure robed in midnight, embroidered with writhing runes. In his hand he carried a black staff taller than a man, crowned with a white stone that gleamed like winter frost. Ninth-tier inscriptions crawled along its length, glowing faintly, alive with power. The torches bent toward it as if compelled.
Walderin smiled, thin and sharp. "Ah, the eighth-ranked swordmaster. Idol of the empire. Look how easily you turn your blade against your own men."
Kiasin's gaze hardened. His voice was quiet but cutting. "Enough… Kiadin."
The name fell like a blade into the courtyard.
Walderin froze. His smile shattered. His face twisted, rage boiling from a place deeper than magic. "Do not call me that!" he roared, voice trembling with hate. "Kiadin died long ago. That name belongs to a shadow despised by his own family, pitied by servants, forgotten by parents. That child was spat upon because he could not lift a sword, because no bloodline answered his veins. You shone, Kiasin. You – the perfect heir. And I – I was the rot in the house."
Kiasin lowered his blade slightly, his voice soft with guilt. "Kiadin… I saw it. I saw how they turned their backs, how they denied you even respect. I should have stood in front of you. That failure is mine. But never once did I call you worthless. Never once did I see you as less than blood. You were my brother."
For a moment the courtyard stilled. The soldiers dared to hope.
But Walderin laughed, cracked and bitter. "Lies! All lies. Your pity is poison. Your love is a chain. You – the eighth-ranked, the favored, the blessed. And me? A shadow cursed to your light. Do not dress pity as brotherhood. I am Walderin, the Emperor's right hand, his chosen sorcerer. Kiadin is dead – buried beneath your glory!"
He slammed the staff down. Runes flared, power rippling outward. His body twisted – veins glowing, horns straining, eyes burning red. Half-man, half-demon, whole hatred.
The soldiers recoiled. Some bowed their heads, unable to watch.
Kiasin raised his sword. "Then prove it."
Walderin sneered. "Gladly."
The fight began.
Kiasin roared, Marrow Blizzard Strike bursting forth. A storm of icy blades howled across the courtyard, splitting stone. Soldiers staggered. Walderin only raised a hand, a lazy sweep. The storm collapsed against an unseen wall.
"Is this all?" Walderin mocked. "The great eighth-ranked swordmaster? Watch how little I need to break you."
He flicked his fingers. Vines of shadow burst from the ground, lashing toward Kiasin. The commander cut them down, sparks flying, but new ones sprouted faster than he could cleave. He slashed again, steel ringing, his Holy Armor flaring bright – but cracks spread deeper.
Walderin twirled his staff with casual grace. A small gesture – and a wave of black energy hurled Kiasin across the yard. He staggered up, blood at his lip, blade trembling.
"Pathetic," Walderin whispered, stepping closer. "Even your armor cannot hold. Did you not realize? That yellow staff I left – it was a gift. A wound for your precious Holy Armor. Without it, your shell might have reflected me. Now it crumbles."
Kiasin roared, charging again. His sword intent burst like thunder, splitting the air. Walderin met it with a gentle swipe of his staff, and Kiasin was thrown back, armor cracking.
"You see?" Walderin's laughter rang. "This is only a fraction of me. One-fourth. And yet you bleed."
Blood spattered stone as Kiasin forced himself upright. His blade shook but did not lower. His breath came ragged, yet his eyes blazed unbroken.
Walderin tilted his head, mocking. "Still standing? Still clinging to pride? Sword and bloodline – nothing but brittle glass before true power. Kneel, brother. Kneel, and I might let you live."
Kiasin swayed, body trembling, armor fractured. He dragged his blade against stone, sparks hissing. Yet his voice came low, steady. "I will not kneel. Even if you break every bone in my body. Even if the world itself turns against me. I will not kneel."
Walderin's smirk widened. He had not come to kill tonight. He had come to break. And in that, he had succeeded.
He raised two fingers. The air exploded against Kiasin's chest, ribs cracking. Kiasin flew back, struck the courtyard wall, and slumped – only to force himself up once more, dragging his sword as blood poured freely.
Another swipe – his shoulder dislocated, his arm hanging limp. Still he lifted his sword with the other hand.
A flick of the staff – bones in his leg cracked. Kiasin stumbled, almost fell, but drove his blade into the ground to keep upright.
The soldiers wept in silence, fists clenched, nails drawing blood in their palms. They could not move. They could only watch their commander broken again and again, but never bowing.
Walderin's laughter echoed like a dirge. "You are nothing before me, and yet you rise. Good. Rise again. Break again. Until nothing is left but dust."
The courtyard quaked with each strike. Blood painted the stone. And still Kiasin stood – swaying, shattered, but unbent.
The fight had not ended. It had only begun.