Captain Valen.
Their eyes locked for a moment longer, and Morro saw something in the captain's gaze—curiosity, assessment, the look of someone evaluating what stood before him. Captain Valen stood near the podium, his presence commanding even in stillness. He was about the same height as Morro, well-built, with an air of authority that came from genuine strength, not just rank.
Morro held the gaze for a heartbeat, then looked away, continuing toward his designated area. But he'd felt it—the weight of that attention. Captain Valen had noticed him.
He found his place among the other recruits, positioning himself where he could see everything. The first slot was crowded, filled with volunteers from outside the clan, all waiting, all nervous. Most looked tense, some trying to hide their fear with false bravado. Outsiders, like him. People who had something to prove.
Then Captain Valen stepped forward, moving to the center of the podium. The chatter died down instantly. All eyes turned to him.
"Welcome," Captain Valen's voice carried across the slot, clear and authoritative. "You're here because you want to join the Fourth Division. You want knowledge. You want to understand swordsmanship at its core—not just how to swing a blade, but why it works, how to improve, how to master the art itself."
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the gathered recruits. "But wanting isn't enough. Knowledge requires dedication. It requires the ability to learn, to adapt, to push beyond your limits. The Fourth Division doesn't accept those who can't keep up. We don't accept those who break under pressure."
His voice hardened slightly. "Today, you'll be tested. Physically. Mentally. You'll face challenges that will push you to your limits. Some of you will fail. That's expected. But those who pass—those who prove they have what it takes—will gain access to knowledge that most swordsmen never see."
Captain Valen's gaze settled on the crowd, and Morro felt the weight of those words. This wasn't just a tryout. This was a selection process. Only the capable would survive.
The tryouts began. Jumping jacks. Health checks. Obstacle training—three different obstacle courses designed to test agility, endurance, and problem-solving. Hand-to-hand combat training. Swordsman training. Test after test, each designed to push the recruits to their limits.
Morro passed them all. He moved through each challenge with calculated efficiency, never showing more than necessary, never revealing his true capabilities. The tests were routine. Predictable. Nothing he hadn't faced before.
Then came the knowledge test. Theory. Swordsmanship principles. The true nature of the art.
This was where Morro excelled. Not because he'd been formally trained—he hadn't—but because he understood concepts. When asked about force distribution, about shockwave techniques, about the relationship between body mechanics and sword work, Morro's answers were precise. Analytical. Insightful.
Captain Valen noticed. He watched from the podium as Morro answered questions, his expression shifting from casual observation to genuine interest. This recruit understood things. Not just memorized answers, but actual understanding. The way he explained techniques, the way he analyzed problems—it showed a mind that worked differently.
Hours passed. The number of recruits dwindled. Some failed the physical tests. Others couldn't keep up with the training. Some broke under pressure. The weak were eliminated, one by one.
Then came the final test. Combat. Tournament elimination.
The remaining recruits fought each other, and one by one, they fell. Until only two remained.
Morro stepped into the center of the special fighting area, his sword drawn. The white blade with black stripes gleamed in the light. He stood at one hundred eighty-two centimeters, lean but well-built, his black hair with a slight brown tint falling across his forehead. His expression was neutral, calculating. On his left forearm, a scar was visible—a reminder of his past.
Across from him stood his opponent. Akaza. A clan member, tall at one hundred ninety centimeters, confident and aggressive. He came from a respected branch of the family, and it showed in his bearing, in the way he carried himself. The quality of his uniform, the precision of his movements, the focused intensity in his stance. He'd been given the best training, the best resources, the best opportunities. And he'd used them well. He'd defeated everyone else who'd faced him, his sword work brutal and efficient. Now he stood before Morro, his expression serious, already confident of victory.
"You're the last outsider," Akaza said, his voice carrying a note of respect despite the challenge. "I've defeated everyone else. You're next."
Morro didn't respond. He simply adjusted his grip on his sword.
*Akaza is strong. He completely dominated all his opponents. Extremely powerful in hand-to-hand combat—he broke one opponent's nose and arm. He received the best training in the clan for years. Resources, proper instruction. Everything I didn't have.*
Morro's eyes scanned Akaza's sword. It looked aggressive, more like a butcher's cleaver than a traditional blade. Heavy. Designed for striking. When attacking, it would destroy defense by transferring powerful shockwaves through the block. Not a finesse weapon—a brute force tool.
If I get hit with full force in the body, I'm done. Can't take a direct hit. Need to avoid, deflect, redirect. Not block head-on.
Akaza moved.
Extremely fast. An attack that came without warning, targeting the area slightly above Morro's hands. The cleaver-like sword cut through the air with brutal force, aiming to disable Morro's grip, to break his defense before the real fight even began.
The only thing I can do is take it across my whole body. I learned this technique long ago. Instead of taking the whole force in one place—my hands—I'll transfer it through my whole body. This should still let me fight and not lose my grip.
Morro's body shifted, his stance adjusting almost imperceptibly. As Akaza's blade struck, Morro didn't try to block it head-on. Instead, he met it at an angle, letting the force flow through his arms, into his shoulders, down through his torso, distributing the impact across his entire frame.
It hurt, but it worked. His grip held. His sword remained in his hands.
In the same motion, Morro changed the angle of his blade, redirecting Akaza's momentum downward. He pushed, using Akaza's own force against him, forcing the clan member to stumble forward, off-balance.
Now.
Morro's Negacion energy surged. Not the defensive technique he'd just used—the opposite. Shockwave Negacion. A technique that used Negacion to create powerful shockwaves. It could be channeled through the body, through the hand, through anything. Through the sword.
He struck, his blade connecting with Akaza's guard. The shockwave transferred through the contact point, a wave of force that should have shattered defense, broken grip, sent the opponent reeling.
But Akaza was extremely physically strong. He'd trained every day, been forced to, given the best training plan possible. His body was a weapon, hardened through years of brutal conditioning. He felt the shockwave—Morro saw it in the way his muscles tensed, the way his stance shifted—but it wasn't deadly. It didn't destroy his grip. It didn't break him.
Instead, Akaza launched a powerful kick, his leg snapping forward with devastating force, targeting Morro's midsection.
Morro had to evade. He twisted his body, the kick grazing past him, close enough that he could feel the wind of it. But the evasion cost him positioning, and Akaza was already moving.
The clan member's sword came down in an overhead strike, right side, powerful and brutal. Morro had no time to counter. He forced himself backwards, moving fast, his feet pushing off the ground. The cleaver-like blade slammed into the earth where he'd just been standing, the impact sending dirt and debris flying.
Morro landed, his stance low, his sword ready. Akaza pulled his blade from the ground, dirt clinging to the edge, and smiled.
Another attack came.
Akaza dashed forward, closing the distance in an instant, then executed an extremely powerful snapback kick. His leg snapped back with devastating force, and Morro saw it—Shockwave Negacion. Akaza was using it too, channeling the technique through his kick, amplifying the impact.
Morro had to evade. He twisted his body, the kick passing close enough that the shockwave grazed him, sending vibrations through his frame. But he was already moving, already countering.
He launched himself through mid-air, his sword extended, targeting Akaza's head. A lethal strike—if this were a real fight, Morro would be the winner. But this was a tryout. He couldn't kill him. The blade stopped just short, but the intent was clear.
Akaza's hand shot up, grabbing Morro's blade. The clan member's grip was strong, his fingers wrapping around the white steel with black stripes.
Morro activated Shockwave Negacion instantly, channeling it through his sword. The shockwave transferred through the blade, directly into Akaza's hand. Akaza's grip faltered, his hand jerking back, pain flashing across his face.
In that moment, Morro lowered himself, dropping his center of gravity. From slightly left side, he launched forward, his sword cutting through the air, targeting Akaza's mid body—his belly.
The blade connected. A good cut. Not deadly—too shallow—but it drew blood. Morro felt the resistance, the way the blade sliced through fabric and skin.
Akaza instantly reacted. A leg kick, followed by an elbow strike. Both attacks came in rapid succession, brutal and precise.
Morro was already moving. He passed close to Akaza, through his left side, evading everything. His body flowed around the attacks, his movements fluid, calculated.
Morro landed several steps away, his sword still in hand, his breathing controlled. Akaza looked at him, then put his hand on his wound. Blood stained his uniform. He looked at his hand, at the blood, then back at Morro.
He could still fight. More. No problem.
Akaza's expression changed. The confidence was still there, but now there was something harder. More serious. "You're strong," he said, his voice carrying new respect. "I won't hold back."
The attacks came in a series. Fast. Brutal. Relentless.
Akaza used his speed and strength perfectly, each strike building on the last, each attack designed to overwhelm, to break through defense. His cleaver-like sword cut through the air, targeting Morro from multiple angles—high, low, sides, overhead strikes that came one after another.
Morro had to counter them. Very well. With angle. With the body anti-shockwave technique.
He met each strike at the right angle, his blade positioned to redirect force rather than absorb it head-on. But Akaza's power was immense. Even with perfect angles, the impact was devastating. Morro started taking strike after strike into his blade, each one sending shockwaves through his arms, his shoulders, his entire frame.
The force distribution technique worked, but it had limits. Morro felt the strain building. His muscles burned. His grip remained firm, but every impact took its toll. Akaza wasn't just strong—he was fast, and he used both attributes in perfect combination. Speed to create openings. Strength to exploit them.
Strike. Counter. Angle. Distribute.
Strike. Counter. Angle. Distribute.
Morro's defense held, but he was being pushed back, step by step, forced to give ground under the relentless assault.
Will I still pass if he defeats me? The six clan members that took part in this tournament will pass anyway. But me? The clan doesn't need external swordsmen that don't produce value. Even with Aidan's recommendation, I need to prove myself.
Morro rotated backwards, his body spinning, his grip shifting. His sword flipped into reverse grip, the blade now pointing downward, held like a dagger. In the same motion, he targeted Akaza's eyes—a threat that couldn't be ignored.
Akaza had to stop attacking. He saw the blade coming for his face, and his hands came up, both of them, using his anti-shockwave technique. The well-known defensive technique. Force distribution across his entire body, both hands positioned to absorb and redirect the impact.
But Morro's attack was a feint. A distraction. As Akaza defended, Morro now had time to move. He pushed off, creating distance, his sword returning to normal grip as he landed several steps away, his breathing controlled.
Time to use Observation Negacion. Fully.
Morro activated his Observation Negacion. Fully. He flooded it with his Negacion energy, expanding his awareness, sharpening his perception. The world around him became clearer. He could sense Akaza's movements, his intentions, the subtle shifts in his stance that predicted his next attack.
Akaza took a stance. Morro had heard of it—an extremely aggressive stance used in low-rank swordsmanship combat. It allowed him to attack with elbows, kicks, fast and strong, while maintaining good defense and mobility. It let him perform fast stabbings and strikes with his blade. A well-rounded offensive stance.
Akaza attacked, and Morro let him approach aggressively. He didn't retreat. He didn't panic. Instead, he used his Observation Negacion, reading every movement, every shift, every intention.
Morro struck. Once more, targeting the belly. Akaza was too big for this technique—he couldn't fully hide his torso. This strike was more powerful, more precise. The blade cut deeper, slicing through fabric and skin, leaving a significant gash across Akaza's midsection. Not lethal, but serious. Deep enough to bleed, to hurt, to affect movement.
Akaza coughed blood, his body staggering. He started falling forward, his balance lost, his hand instinctively moving to the wound.
Morro moved. From backwards, he circled, his sword still in hand. He gripped Akaza's right hand, controlling it, then stabbed his forearm. The blade pierced through muscle and tissue, a clean strike that severed tendons. Akaza's grip on his sword faltered, his fingers going numb.
Akaza staggered, his face contorting with pain. He'd been trained hard, pushed to his limits, but this was different. The tendons in his forearm were severed. His hand wouldn't respond. The training had taught him to fight through exhaustion, through bruises, through broken bones even. But a severed tendon was different—the connection between mind and muscle was gone. His body wouldn't obey.
Akaza tried to attack again, his left hand moving, but his balance was off. His right arm hung useless. He couldn't maintain his stance. His sword fell from his grip, clattering to the ground.
The fight was over.
Captain Valen watched from the podium, his expression thoughtful. He hadn't expected Morro to use Observation Negacion on that good a scale. Most beginners just used it to sense strikes, like instinct. But Morro had used it strategically. He'd known how to attack. He'd known how Akaza would react. He'd found the perfect openings, exploited weaknesses, controlled the flow of the fight.
That was impressive. For his age, for someone who claimed to be just an orphan from a small settlement.
Morro stood over his defeated opponent, his sword still in hand, his breathing steady. He'd won. He'd proven himself.
I passed. I'm in. One step closer to what I need.