Soft murmurs drifted through the Blackthorne Sword Hall like a quiet breeze.
"…Is that really the young master?"
"He's even more handsome up close."
"No wonder the maids talk about him."
A small group of female soldiers stood near the outer edge of the training grounds, pretending to stretch while their eyes repeatedly drifted toward the young boy standing calmly near the center. Aurelian von Blackthorne paid them no attention. His focus was inward, measured, disciplined. The Sword Hall was not a place where distractions survived long.
The atmosphere subtly shifted.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
A man stepped forward.
He was tall, broad, and solid like a fortress carved from flesh. His presence alone silenced idle thoughts. Old scars crossed his arms and face, not hidden, not glorified—simply existing as proof that he had survived places others hadn't.
Mark Maxwell.
A six-star swordsman.
A battlefield veteran who had faced demon commanders and returned alive.
One of the Blackthorne Sword Hall's greatest instructors.
Conversations died instantly.
Mark stopped a few steps away from Aurelian and looked down at him with sharp, experienced eyes. Not mocking. Not gentle. Evaluating.
"So you're the heir," Mark said.
"Yes," Aurelian replied calmly.
No pride. No hesitation.
Mark's lips twitched faintly—not a smile, but interest.
"I'm here to test your potential," he said plainly. "A spar."
The word alone caused a ripple among the soldiers.
Mark Valerian did not spar for entertainment.
Aurelian met his gaze without flinching. "I accept."
A few brows rose.
Mark gestured. "Circle."
Soldiers moved instantly, forming a wide ring at the center of the hall. The stone beneath was worn smooth by decades of battle practice, countless clashes engraved into its memory.
Mark stepped into the circle.
Aurelian followed.
Mark drew his sword in one smooth motion. The blade was dull, but heavy—balanced for real combat, not training children.
Aurelian tightened his grip on his own sword.
"Begin," Mark said.
Mark did not move.
He waited.
Aurelian inhaled slowly—and moved first.
His step was precise. His stance clean. No wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. His blade moved in a controlled horizontal slash, aimed not to overpower, but to test distance.
Mark shifted effortlessly.
The slash missed by a hair.
Mark countered with a light tap of his blade—so controlled it barely carried force, yet perfectly placed. Aurelian retreated instinctively, adjusting his stance.
Mark's eyes sharpened.
Again.
Mark advanced, slow and steady. His attacks were simple—almost lazy—but each carried perfect timing. Aurelian blocked, parried, redirected. His movements were sharp, efficient, and eerily calm.
There was no panic.
No childish hesitation.
He moved like someone who understood combat.
Mark noticed.
Something about the boy's swordplay felt… wrong.
Not sloppy.
Not immature.
Unfamiliar.
Aurelian didn't swing like someone learning.
He swung like someone remembering.
Whispers spread quietly among the soldiers.
"The young master doesn't fight like a child…"
"He's not guessing."
"He's calculating…"
Mark increased the pressure slightly.
A feint. A thrust. A sudden change in rhythm.
Aurelian reacted instantly—sometimes too instantly—moving before Mark fully committed. His blade intercepted paths that had not yet fully formed.
That unsettled Mark.
This kid… reads intent.
Mark exhaled slowly.
Let's see how deep it goes.
His presence shifted.
Killing intent—tempered through years of blood-soaked battle—rolled outward like an invisible wave. The air seemed to thicken. Several soldiers stiffened. A few felt their chests tighten. Even veteran soldiers felt a faint chill.
Mark focused it entirely on Aurelian.
A child should freeze.
A prodigy should hesitate.
Aurelian did neither.
His expression remained unchanged.
His breathing steady.
His eyes emotionless.
Mark's gaze hardened.
No reaction…?
Some soldiers swallowed.
"He's not affected…"
"That's impossible…"
Mark stepped in.
This time, his attacks were faster—but still restrained. He cut off angles, forced Aurelian backward, dictated the pace entirely.
Aurelian fought back with everything he had.
He calculated.
Adjusted.
Refined.
His body adapted rapidly—footwork improving, balance stabilizing, reactions sharpening.
Veterans noticed.
"He's growing… during the spar."
"Every exchange, he's correcting mistakes."
Mark noticed too.
But it didn't matter.
Experience was an absolute wall.
Mark parried Aurelian's blade aside and tapped his shoulder.
Then his wrist.
Then his thigh.
Controlled strikes.
Warnings.
Lessons.
No wounds.
No effort.
Mark's breathing never changed.
No sweat touched his brow.
Half an hour passed.
Aurelian's arms trembled. His lungs burned. Sweat soaked his clothes. His movements slowed—but his eyes never dulled.
He gave everything.
Every ounce of focus.
Every calculation.
Every instinct.
Mark remained unchanged.
At the final exchange, Mark stepped in close, disarmed Aurelian with a precise twist, and placed the tip of his blade against the boy's throat—light as a whisper.
The spar ended.
Aurelian dropped to one knee, exhausted, breathing hard.
Silence dominated the hall.
Mark withdrew his sword and sheathed it calmly.
He looked down at Aurelian.
"You lost," he said plainly.
No mockery.
No disappointment.
Then he continued.
"But you forced me to pay attention."
That alone shook the soldiers.
Mark turned to the onlookers. "Remember this. What you saw today was not skill."
He looked back at Aurelian.
"It was potential."
Encouraging voices rose from the crowd.
"Well done, young master!"
"That was incredible!"
"Future Duke!"
Aurelian slowly stood, gripping his sword again despite the tremor in his arms.
Mark studied him one last time.
If he survives…
He'll be terrifying.
From the upper platform, the Sword Hall Master— a seven-star swordsman—had watched everything in silence.
He turned to a messenger.
"Inform the Duke," he said.
The message was short.
Cold.
Unequivocal.
"The heir is not normal."
And far away, beyond the Blackthorne lands, unseen forces shifted—
Because even restrained, even defeated, the presence of a Calamity had been felt.