The sun had just begun its descent, casting long shadows across the training ground as Sam stood across from John. The intensity of the past few days weighed heavily on him, but he knew this moment was critical. John's expression was unreadable, a mixture of stern focus and something else—anticipation.
"Today, Sam," John began, his voice calm yet filled with an edge of seriousness that Sam hadn't heard before, "you're going to fight me. And you're going to defeat me."
Sam blinked in surprise. "Fight you? But I'm not ready. I still haven't—"
John cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "No more excuses. You've come far in your training, but now it's time to see if you can truly apply what you've learned. There's no more time, Sam. You must defeat me, or everything we've worked for will be in vain."
Sam swallowed hard, gripping his sword tighter. The thought of going up against John, who had taught him everything he knew, was daunting. But there was no choice; he had to try.
John moved first, faster than Sam had ever seen. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between them and struck with his sword. Sam barely managed to block the attack, the force of it sending vibrations through his arms.
"Focus, Sam!" John shouted, his attacks relentless. Sam tried to counter, swinging his sword with all his might, but John deflected every blow with ease. It was like trying to fight a hurricane—every move he made was anticipated and countered.
Minutes passed, and Sam found himself increasingly on the defensive, struggling just to keep up. Sweat poured down his face, his muscles screaming in protest as he desperately tried to land a single hit on John. But it was no use—John was too fast, too skilled. Every strike Sam attempted was met with effortless parries and devastating counterattacks.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sam was driven to his knees, panting heavily, his sword nearly slipping from his grasp. John stood over him, his face a mask of calm determination.
"Is this all you have, Sam?" John asked, his voice cold. "If so, then you're not worthy of continuing. You'll never be able to protect anyone."
Sam's vision blurred with fatigue and frustration. He was about to collapse when John's voice cut through the haze.
"Rise, Smither."
The words were like a command to the very air around them. Suddenly, John's aura exploded with power. Two massive, ethereal purple wings sprouted from his back, shimmering with energy. His eyes turned a deep, glowing purple, and his sword was engulfed in the same intense light. The energy radiating from him was overwhelming, suffocating, as if the entire world had been bathed in a purple haze.
Sam's heart sank. "That's not fair, John! I don't have an Arcon—how am I supposed to fight you like this?"
John's gaze bore into him, fierce and unyielding. "You have one, Sam. You just need to feel it. And you don't have any other option—you have to finish your training today, or I will kill you."
There was no warning. John attacked again, but this time his speed and power were beyond anything Sam had ever experienced. Sam could barely see him, let alone react. Each swing of John's sword sent shockwaves through the ground, and Sam was thrown back again and again, his body battered and bruised.
The world around Sam seemed to slow down, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He knew he was on the verge of losing—of failing. But then, in the depths of his despair, a voice echoed within him, calm and powerful.
"Call my name, Sam. Call 'Valkor.'"
Without thinking, Sam drew on the last of his strength and shouted, "Rise, Valkor!"
The air around him exploded with energy. A brilliant flash of light engulfed him, and when it cleared, Sam was transformed. His sword had turned into a menacing katana, its dark blade surrounded by an aura of crimson flames that crackled and hissed, as if the weapon itself was alive with power. The hilt was wrapped in red and black cloth, and the guard bore the design of a snarling dragon, its eyes glowing with the same fiery energy that now surrounded the blade.
But it wasn't just the sword that had changed. Sam's clothes had transformed into a flowing black robe with intricate red patterns, a hood casting a shadow over his face. His eyes glowed a fierce crimson, the same color as the flames that danced along his blade. He felt the power coursing through him, raw and unrestrained, like nothing he had ever experienced before.
John took a step back, his expression shifting from sternness to surprise, and then to something that almost looked like pride. "So, this is Valkor," he murmured, more to himself than to Sam. "Impressive."
From a distance, hidden in the shadows of the palace, Sam's father watched the scene unfold. His eyes widened as he saw the transformation, a mixture of fear and pride battling within him.
Sam, feeling the surge of power, gripped his katana tightly. For the first time, he felt truly in control, truly ready. The exhaustion that had plagued him moments before was gone, replaced by an overwhelming determination. This was his Arcon, his true strength. And he was ready to face John again.
With a fierce battle cry, Sam charged at John, his new power igniting the air around him as their swords clashed with a force that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The battle had truly begun.