For a heartbeat, the world froze into a perfect, silent tableau. Then, like a crack spreading through ice, the realization shattered the moment—an intruder had not just challenged but had successfully laid hands on their invincible crown prince. A silence, cold and sharp as the steel now gleaming in the sun, fell over the courtyard. In a single, fluid motion that was more instinct than thought, a ring of blades was bared, a deadly constellation of points all aimed at the heart of one man. The air, once warm, grew frigid with promised violence.
The intruder stood motionless at the center, a dark rock in a swirling river of hostility. The only sound was the soft, menacing whisper of polished steel sliding from scabbards. Commander Valerius stepped forward, his own ornate longsword unwavering. The tip came to rest not merely near, but against the intruder's throat, a frozen kiss of death. A single droplet of blood welled up and traced a thin path down the man's neck, a stark crimson line against his pale skin.
"You dare?" Valerius's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, like distant thunder before a storm. It carried not the heat of anger, but the absolute zero of contempt. "
You blind, blithering fool. Did your wretched life flash before your eyes before you committed this final, unforgivable sin? Do you have any conception of the sun upon which you have dared to cast your shadow?"
He leaned in closer, his eyes burning with cold fire. "The man you touched is not a man. He is the Crown Prince of the Drakon Empire. He is the heir to a throne that has stood for a thousand years. He is the future we are all sworn to die for."
The silence from the intruder was deafening. He didn't flinch. His eyes, shadowed by a hood or perhaps just by an unnerving calm, didn't even blink. It was as if the commander's words, and the sword at his neck, were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. From the ranks, a young soldier, his face flushed with a mixture of terror and outrage, could bear it no longer. The insult to his commander, the sheer, impossible disrespect shown to the Crown Prince, was a physical pain.
"Answer Him!" the soldier screamed, his voice cracking with emotion, his knuckles white on the hilt of his own trembling sword. "You filthy, nameless dog! Why do you stand there in silence? Are you so hollow that you feel no fear? Does the sight of your own impending death not even quicken your pulse? Speak, or by the gods, I will carve the apology from your worthless flesh myself!"
Yet, the intruder remained a statue. His silence was no longer just insolence; it had become a weapon, more unnerving than any blade. It was a void that swallowed their threats and their pride, and in that void, a seed of dread began to sprout in every soldier's heart. Who, or what, was this man who did not fear the edge of a sword or the weight of an empire? But by each word of anyone, intruder's grip on the prince tightens and this can be easily judged by the look on the prince's face. But this time, intruder's eyes also intensified.
For a single, suspended moment, the world held its breath. Commander Valerius's sword was a promise of death against the intruder's throat, its steel glinting with the certainty of empire.
Then, time shattered.
It was not a movement that could be tracked by the eye. It was a blur, a whisper of displaced air. One second, the Commander's blade was firm in his grasp; in the next, it was simply... gone. A phantom chill was all that remained in his clenched fist.
A collective gasp, sharp and involuntary, ripped through the soldiers. But their horror had only just begun.
As their stunned eyes refocused, they saw it. The very same sword was now in the intruder's hand, but its aim had shifted with cataclysmic finality. The lethal point was no longer at the intruder's own neck, but was now pressed against the pale, vulnerable throat of the Crown Prince. The intruder stood behind the prince, a specter of death using the heir to the throne as a living shield.
Astonishment turned their blood to ice. When? How? The questions screamed silently in their minds. It was an impossibility, a feat that defied the very laws of combat.
And then, a low buzz began to ripple through the ranks—not of voices, but of pure, undiluted panic. It was the sound of shifting armor, of shaky breaths, of a hundred men realizing their absolute power had just been inverted in the blink of an eye. It was the hum of a wasp's nest, stirred and deadly, but terrified of striking lest it kill the very thing it sought to protect.
The intruder's eyes, now visible and gleaming with an otherworldly calm, scanned the frozen crowd. His silence was louder than any battle cry, and in it, they heard the crumbling of their invincibility., 'this is insane.... he is not a human...', '...can it be The Legendary Fighter...???' Now each soldier was petrified to attack that intruder. If we talk about the legendary fighter, no one has ever seen this fighter. But there is a rumor that this fighter is that much skilled that he can snatch the sword from your own hands with less than a second in front of your eyes.
The panicked buzz of the soldiers was cut through by a voice as sharp and dismissive as a shattering crystal.
"Shut up, all of you! You're a pack of bleating sheep!"
All eyes snapped to a young woman standing atop a low wall, a crossbow held with casual expertise, its bolt aimed unwaveringly at the intruder's head. Miya, the Prince's childhood friend and third princess of Valerium Empire, glared at the stunned soldiers with pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"Use your eyes, you idiots! What is wrong with this man? Why is he not using his powers?" she snarled, her voice dripping with contempt. From beside her, a calm voice answered, "Don't be so stressed out, Miya my love."
Aster, whose presence had been so still he'd seemed part of the scenery, finally moved. He didn't adopt a fighting stance. He merely smiled, a faint, almost bored curve of his lips. "Let me do something. Just wait and watch."
What happened next was not a blur. It was an erasure. There was no movement to follow. There was only a before and an after.
Before: The intruder stood triumphant, the Commander's sword at the Prince's throat, a smirk of victory playing on his lips.
After: A sound like a thunderclap echoed through the courtyard. The Prince was suddenly ten feet away, stumbling into the arms of his guards, gasping for air, the ghost of the blade's cold kiss still on his skin.
And the intruder... the invincible intruder... was now on his knees. A single, precise blow to the back of his legs had buckled them. The sword clattered to the stones, its ring a symbol of shattered dominance. Aster stood over him, one hand resting lightly on the man's shoulder, a gesture that looked almost gentle but held the force of a mountain. The smirk was gone from the intruder's face, replaced by a dawning, horrifying realization that he had been playing with forces far beyond his understanding.
Miya stepped forward, her boots echoing on the cobblestones like a funeral drum. The air, still vibrating from Aster's impossible feat, now crackled with her personal fury. She kicked the fallen sword away, the steel skittering into the darkness, and placed the razor-edge of her own blade against the intruder's throat.
"So," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper that carried to every ear, "let me see what the hell kind of attitude gives you the right to threaten a prince." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Hmmm... Let's see the face of the fool who believes in such arrogance."
She didn't merely remove the hood; she seized it with a brutal, unforgiving yank, tearing the coarse fabric away but still remaining loyal and protecting the identity of its master. Her hair comes undone wavering around her like a rebellious flag on a battlefield, defiant even in its disarray.
The reveal was met not with silence, but with a collective, sharp intake of breath that hissed through the courtyard like a serpent. Then, the whispers erupted, a wildfire of disbelief.
"Oh my god...!" a soldier stammered, his voice breaking. "It's... a girl?" another whispered, the words laden with shock and a reluctant, horrified respect. "By the gods, she has the guts of a demon..." "...damn b*tch..." spat another, the curse meant to diminish her, yet it only underscored their stunned humiliation.
A girl. How could a girl possess such terrifying power? Who is she? The question burned in every heart, a mystery wrapped in shame.
Commander Valerius, his pride a bleeding wound, found his voice first. "You," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Girl! Remove that mask. Bow your head. Show contrition for your crimes. Acknowledge the grace you are about to be shown."
Miya leaned closer, her sword pressing just enough to draw a bead of blood. "Our Crown Prince has a heart as vast as the empire. Grovel, and he might yet show you mercy you do not deserve."
But the girl—Eso—remained a statue. Her face, now illuminated in the torchlight, was a mask of perfect, impenetrable stillness. No fear. No regret. Not even defiance. It was a void, a calm sea that reflected their own raging storm, and it was infinitely more terrifying than any scream. You could not plead with a stone. You could not reason with a cliff face.
"I said, BOW DOWN!" Miya shrieked, her composure shattering against the girl's unbreakable silence.
The crowd's murmurs turned ugly. "...How arrogant!" "...Such a shameless, poor excuse for a woman!" "Disgusting!"
The insults flew, but they fell upon Eso like rain on granite. It was this absolute disregard, this final, utter disgrace in the face of their prince's potential mercy, that snapped the last thread of the Commander's control. His face, a mask of royal fury, turned a deep, dangerous purple. The line had been crossed.
"You will repay your disrespect with BLOOD!" he roared, and with a guttural cry—"HAYAH!"—his sword became a silver arc of vengeance, slicing through the air with the full force of his rage, aimed to sever the girl's head from her shoulders in one clean, final stroke.
But the blow never landed.
A voice, sharp as a diamond and commanding as a thunderclap, cut through the courtyard, freezing the blade in mid-air.
"STOP!!!"