The Royal Knights Headquarters stood at the heart of the capital, a fortress of stone and gold, its towers piercing the sky like unyielding lances. Within its walls, the most disciplined warriors of the kingdom were trained and forged. Its training grounds were vast—cobblestone courtyards surrounded by colonnades, sparring arenas lined with banners bearing the royal insignia, and a grand hall for duels that mattered. It was here that the difference between a knight and a legend was often decided.
This morning, the atmosphere inside the Training Hall was different. Knights stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a ring around the central dueling floor. Even seasoned veterans, men and women who had survived a dozen campaigns, held their breath with a sense of anticipation. The hall was filled with murmurs, whispers about the upcoming duel between two extraordinary individuals.
On one side stood Sir Lancelot, the old knight commander. His hair was silver, his beard neatly trimmed, and his bearing straight and regal despite his age. His armor, though scarred by years of battle, shone brightly, reflecting the golden morning light that streamed through the arched windows above. Lancelot's reputation was legendary—his holy light power and swordsmanship had carved his name deep into the annals of history.
Opposite him was Ragnar. His stance was relaxed, almost casual, but the air around him pulsed faintly with a contained, violent energy. His crimson eyes were calm, focused, and unwavering. He wore the simple training attire given to knight candidates, yet nothing about him seemed ordinary. The sword in his hand was a practice blade, dull-edged, but held as if it were an extension of his own body.
For Ragnar, this was not just a test. This was the next step on the path he had chosen since arriving in this world—the path that would eventually lead him to reshape it. His name was no longer Thunderstorm; that identity belonged to a past era, tied to a unified existence and to Boboiboy. Now, as Ragnar, Voltra incarnate, he stood on his own.
The knight overseeing the duel stepped forward, raised a hand, and spoke loudly so that everyone could hear. "This match will determine Ragnar's status. If he proves himself, he will be recognized as a full-fledged knight. If not, he will begin as a trainee. Both combatants are aware of the rules. Begin on my signal."
He stepped back. The hall grew silent.
"—Begin!"
The sound of steel meeting steel exploded through the hall like thunder. Ragnar and Lancelot moved at blinding speed. Their first clash sent a shockwave rippling outward, forcing nearby knights to brace themselves. Sparks flew from their blades, scattering like fireflies in the air.
Ragnar pressed forward aggressively, his strikes precise, heavy, and flowing in a rhythm that spoke of both power and grace. He pivoted, twisted, and attacked with an unpredictable tempo that forced even Lancelot to stay on the defensive at first. Every swing carried the dormant pulse of Voltra's crimson lightning, restrained but potent, like a storm held behind closed gates.
Lancelot, however, was not commander of the Royal Knights by chance. His years of combat experience were like a sea—deep and vast. He parried Ragnar's attacks with impeccable timing, his footwork flawless, his counters sharp. His blade glowed faintly with holy light, each motion clean and deliberate.
Around them, the spectators were mesmerized. Even seasoned knights struggled to follow the blinding speed of their exchanges. The younger knight candidates could only stare, their eyes wide, jaws slack. This was no simple test between a newcomer and a master. This was a duel between two forces honed by war and destiny.
The clash continued, relentless. Ragnar ducked under a sweeping arc, stepped in close, and delivered a strike aimed at Lancelot's side. The old knight twisted, his blade intercepting the attack with a burst of holy light that forced Ragnar to retreat three steps. The floor beneath them cracked slightly from the force.
Lancelot's eyes narrowed. His opponent was young, yet his movements were terrifyingly sharp, as if forged in battles far greater than anything seen here. He parried another strike and, in the brief moment when their blades locked, he spoke.
"Who are you, boy?"
Ragnar didn't answer. His expression remained unreadable.
Lancelot's gaze sharpened. "Your sword… It speaks of storms and wars. You've seen things no ordinary knight candidate could have. You carry power within you—dark, wild, yet… elegant."
Ragnar broke the lock and spun away, his crimson energy flaring faintly around his form like wisps of a raging tempest barely restrained. "Old man," he said coldly, "if you're holding back, then let go of all your strength. Otherwise, this duel will be boring."
For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then Lancelot laughed softly—not mockingly, but with a thrill he hadn't felt in years. "Very well," he said. "I accept your challenge."
He stepped back, adjusted his stance, and pointed his sword behind him. His aura shifted. The calm, controlled knight commander suddenly radiated overwhelming power. Holy light gathered at the tip of his blade, swirling into a brilliant cross-shaped halo. The air hummed.
Around them, several knights gasped. "That stance—!" one of them whispered. "He's going to use that move!"
"The Cross Liner…" another knight murmured, awestruck. "The technique that made him a legend!"
This was no ordinary sword technique. It was a high-level manifestation of his holy light power, a strike capable of cutting through even the strongest defenses. It was the move that had once ended a war and carved Lancelot's name into history.
Ragnar's eyes narrowed as he watched the glow intensify. He could feel it instinctively—this was not something he could block with the dull practice sword in his hand. If he tried, it would shatter, and he might lose much more than the match.
In that critical moment, something stirred within him.
A pulse.
Like lightning splitting the sky, memories surged up from the depths of his mind.
He saw flashes—the day when he, as Thunderstorm, had been awakened by Boboiboy, alongside Cyclone and Earthquake. The moment when the elemental power had roared into existence, when three beings had stood side by side, gazing upon a world they had yet to understand.
The sensation was overwhelming. The sound of rain, the crash of thunder, the swirling winds—it all came flooding back, wrapping around his consciousness like a storm refusing to be forgotten.
His grip on the sword tightened involuntarily. For the first time during the duel, his breathing hitched slightly.
The world around him momentarily blurred, the Training Hall fading into the background as the memory's intensity grew.
He remembered…
Not yet the full past, not yet the faces, but the feeling.
The storm.
It was as if the walls between who he was and who he had become were trembling. The crimson power of Voltra intertwined with the old, fierce energy of Thunderstorm, threatening to erupt.
Sir Lancelot's blade glowed brighter, the final moment before the legendary strike approached. And Ragnar stood there, caught between the present duel and the tempest of his own awakening memories.
The air crackled with tension. The knights watching held their breath, sensing that something extraordinary was about to happen—something far beyond an ordinary knight's trial.
And Ragnar… remembered.