The arena was silent—so silent that one could almost hear the collective heartbeat of the spectators.
Leonel Graythorn stood in the center of the ring, his sword resting loosely at his side, as though defeating his opponent had been no more than an afterthought. A faint, almost mischievous smile played across his lips.
To most, that smile was unnerving.
How can an eight-year-old smile like that? the crowd whispered.
But Leonel's smile was not born of malice. Across the stands, his little sister, Lyra Graythorn, bounced up and down like an excited hare, her silver hair catching the sunlight.
"Beat him again, brother! No one can touch you!" she cheered, her tiny voice ringing through the stunned silence. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd at her antics.
Leonel's smile widened as he glanced at her. How can I lose with a sister like that cheering me on?
To the onlookers, however, his calm demeanor paired with such brutal efficiency painted a far darker picture. "He looks like a tiny psychopath," someone muttered nervously.
Among the participants, murmurs broke out like a storm.
Leonel had defeated a mid-ranked Sword Initiate with a single technique, barely breaking a sweat. The implications were clear, and the unease spread like wildfire among those who had underestimated him.
"So he's been hiding it," Thaddeus Graythorn murmured, arms crossed and a smirk on his lips. "I wonder how much more he's got up his sleeve."
Beside him, Liora Moonshadow regarded Leonel with sharp, thoughtful eyes. She brushed a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "He's hiding far more than we realize," she said quietly. "His swordsmanship… there's a deliberate rhythm to it."
Roland Stormbreaker, the dual-wielding powerhouse, cracked his knuckles, his grin widening. "Now that's someone worth fighting. I can't wait to see how far he goes."
The Bullies' Growing Unease
Not everyone shared their excitement.
On the other side of the arena, Felric Ironfist's scowl deepened, his massive arms bulging with tension. "Tch. So what? He's just lucky," he spat, pounding a fist into his open palm. "I'll crush him like I do everyone else."
Kiera Shadowthorn, his gaunt face pale with discomfort, was less convinced. "Lucky?" he hissed. "You saw it… He cut through that initiate like butter. That's not luck." He paused, eyes darting nervously. "He's hiding his true strength."
Garic Stormblade, their leader and ranked third overall, said nothing at first. His sharp, predatory gaze locked onto Leonel, dark with hostility. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword.
"That brat," Garic muttered finally, voice cold as steel. "He's nothing but a spoiled son of House Graythorn—pampered, praised, and given everything on a silver platter. What about us?" His lips curled into a bitter sneer. "When I face him, I'll make sure he never smiles again."
Leonel, standing across the field, felt it—that ripple of hostility lashing toward him like an unseen blade.
Garic Stormblade.
Leonel's eyes narrowed slightly, committing the older boy's face to memory. I'll deal with you soon enough.
The Semi-Finals Begin
The announcer stepped forward, his voice booming through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, we now move to the semi-finals! First match: Kiera Shadowthorn versus Liora Moonshadow!"
The crowd erupted into cheers as the two opponents stepped into the arena.
Kiera grinned, a sharp and unnerving smile that failed to reach his eyes. He ran a finger along the edge of his blade. "Hope you're ready to lose, Moonshadow." His voice dripped with arrogance. "I don't go easy on pretty faces."
Liora remained unfazed. Her silver hair shimmered like liquid light, and her calm expression seemed to drain the venom from Kiera's words. "I'm ready," she replied softly, leveling her blade with measured grace.
"Don't pretend to be calm," Kiera sneered, his eyes narrowing. "You'll be begging for mercy soon enough."
Liora said nothing.
"Begin!"Kiera launched forward like a shadow untethered, his blade flashing. "Shadow Dance: First Step!"
His strikes came fast and chaotic, each swing unpredictable and vicious. To the crowd, it seemed as though Kiera had become a blur—a shadow attacking from all directions.
But Liora remained still.
"Moonlit Elegance: First Form—Gentle Snowfall."
Her sword moved with an almost lazy grace, a gentle arc meeting Kiera's strikes with pinpoint precision. The impact of each deflection echoed through the arena, but Liora never lost her poise.
"What?!" Kiera spat, his frustration mounting. He pushed harder. "Shadow Dance: Second Step!"
He vanished, reappearing behind her with a lunge aimed at her back.
Liora sidestepped, so effortlessly it was as though she'd read his mind.
"You…!" Kiera snarled. "Stop running!"
"I'm not running," Liora said evenly, her blade gleaming. "I'm simply watching."
Her words stoked Kiera's fury. "Don't mock me!" His aura flared darkly, and his strikes turned wild, erratic—desperate.
"Shadow Dance: Third Step—Eclipse Frenzy!"
Six shadows split from Kiera's form, all striking at once.
Liora closed her eyes, taking a calm breath.
"Moonlit Elegance: Second Form—Crescent Veil."
Her sword swept outward in a flawless arc, a wave of silver light scattering the shadows. The real Kiera appeared mid-air, his blade descending for a final blow.
Clang!
The sound of impact rang out as Liora's sword intercepted his. A heartbeat later, Kiera's sword shattered, fragments raining to the ground.
Kiera landed hard, gasping for breath, his wide eyes fixed on Liora in disbelief.
Victory and Aftermath
The crowd erupted into cheers, stunned by the display of mastery.
Liora lowered her blade, her voice soft but clear. "Chaos without control is just noise. Strength comes from balance."
Kiera glared at her, fury and shame warring in his expression. But he had no response.
"Winner: Liora Moonshadow!" the announcer called, his voice shaking with excitement.
From the participants' area, Leonel watched with quiet interest. She's strong. Controlled. Impressive.
His gaze shifted to Garic Stormblade, whose face was twisted in disdain. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air crackled with tension.
"I'll crush you," Garic muttered darkly, his killing intent palpable. "You're nothing."
Leonel smiled faintly, his calm expression never wavering. Talk all you want, he thought.
*My sword will give you all the answers you seek.*
Garic's glare deepened, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade as though imagining Leonel's defeat already. It didn't bother Leonel. If anything, it amused him—how desperately Garic needed to prove something.
From beside him, Thaddeus Graythorn chuckled lightly. "You're making enemies without even trying," he teased, his tone edged with humor.
Leonel shrugged, his faint smile returning. "They're making themselves enemies. I'm just here to fight."
Thaddeus raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing. "Humble as always. You better win, little cousin. Otherwise, I'll never let you live it down."
Leonel shot him a look, his lips curving into a mischievous grin. "When have I ever let you down?"
Across the arena, Garic Stormblade continued to fume, his hostility simmering like an unchecked fire. Yet in Leonel's calm demeanor, there was an unspoken promise—a quiet assurance that when the time came, the storm Garic sought to unleash would meet an unshakable wall.
The semifinals would begin soon, and the crowd's anticipation crackled in the air like a rising storm. But Leonel remained seated, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his breathing slow and measured.
For now, words were meaningless. The arena would decide everything.