Lythrien's swordsmanship was unlike anything Jargien had ever witnessed. It was a dance of light and shadow, a seamless blend of grace and lethality. She called it the Moonshade of Crimson Dawn, an ancient technique passed down through her elven lineage, practiced by her family for millennia.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the forest was bathed in hues of gold and amber, Lythrien led Jargien to a secluded glade. This place was sacred to her, a hollow where moonlight pierced through the dense canopy, creating an otherworldly stage of silver and shadow.
"Tonight," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "I will teach you the Moonshade of Crimson Dawn. It is not merely a style of swordsmanship. It is an art, a philosophy. It embodies the quiet stillness of the moon and the fiery resolve of the rising sun. Are you ready?"
Jargien nodded, his determination clear.
Lythrien drew her blade—a slender, curved sword that seemed to drink in the moonlight. She held it with both hands, her posture fluid yet unyielding.
"The Moonshade begins with understanding your environment," she said. "Every leaf, every gust of wind, every shadow—they are not obstacles but allies. Feel them, let them guide your blade."
She moved then, her steps silent, her blade a blur as it cut through the air. Each strike was precise, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. It was as if she were painting a picture, her sword the brush and the glade her canvas.
Jargien watched in awe, his eyes tracking every movement.
"Now, you try," Lythrien said, stepping back.
He mimicked her stance, gripping his blade tightly.
"Too stiff," she said, tapping his shoulders. "Relax. Let the blade become an extension of your body."
Jargien adjusted his stance, loosening his grip. He began to move, mimicking her fluid steps. At first, his movements were clumsy, his strikes awkward. But Lythrien was patient. She corrected him with gentle nudges, guiding his hands, adjusting his posture.
"Good," she said after a while. "Now, feel the rhythm. The Moonshade is not about brute force. It is about timing, precision, and harmony."
Over the weeks, Lythrien introduced him to the second half of the technique—the Crimson Dawn.
"If the Moonshade is the stillness of night, the Crimson Dawn is its awakening," she explained. "It is the moment when calm transforms into fury, when light pierces the darkness. It is the culmination of everything you've learned."
The Crimson Dawn was a series of rapid, devastating strikes, each one more powerful than the last. It required perfect control and an unyielding will.
"Channel your aura and mana into your blade," Lythrien instructed. "Let them flow together, fueling your strikes. This is where your Primal Chaos will shine."
Jargien took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He could feel the energies within him, the swirling chaos that had become his greatest strength. He let it flow into his sword, the blade glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.
When he opened his eyes, he moved.
His strikes were faster, more precise, each one leaving a faint trail of energy in its wake. He spun and struck, his blade singing through the air. By the time he stopped, the glade was filled with faint cuts on the ground and the lingering hum of power.
Lythrien smiled, a rare expression of pride crossing her face. "You're beginning to understand," she said.
For months, they trained under the moonlight. Lythrien would demonstrate a sequence, her movements flawless, and Jargien would imitate her. Slowly but surely, his skills improved. His strikes became faster, his movements more fluid.
But Lythrien didn't stop at the physical.
"The Moonshade of Crimson Dawn is also a mindset," she said one evening. "You must learn to control your emotions, to remain calm even in the face of chaos. A true master of this art is as unyielding as the moon and as unstoppable as the dawn."
To teach him this, she put him through grueling tests. She would blindfold him, forcing him to rely on his other senses. She would attack him from all angles, pushing him to react without hesitation. She would have him meditate for hours, teaching him to quiet his mind.
It was a moonless night, the forest shrouded in darkness. Lythrien led Jargien to the glade, where a dozen training dummies stood in a circle. Each one was enchanted to move and strike like a real opponent.
"You must defeat them using everything you've learned," she said. "The Moonshade, the Crimson Dawn, your Primal Chaos. Show me that you are ready."
Jargien stepped into the center of the glade, his blade drawn. The dummies sprang to life, their wooden limbs swinging with surprising speed and force.
He moved like a shadow, his blade cutting through the air. Each strike was calculated, each movement precise. He dodged and parried, his Primal Chaos surging through him, enhancing his speed and strength.
When the last dummy fell, Lythrien stepped forward.
"You have done well, Jargien," she said, her voice filled with pride. "You are now a true master of the Moonshade of Crimson Dawn."
Jargien sheathed his blade, his chest heaving, a small smile on his lips. He knew that this was only the beginning, but for the first time, he felt truly ready for the challenges ahead.
The empire had changed drastically in the years since the war against the Demon King. Tobien, the once-revered hero and savior, had transcended mortality, ascending to godhood. His presence loomed over the empire, worshipped as a deity by many. Stories of his heroics, both real and exaggerated, were now the foundation of myths and songs. Yet for those who truly knew him, the memory of his darker nature lingered—a silent truth buried beneath layers of reverence.
The prince, who had once been just a shadow in the court, now sat on the throne as the Emperor. Under his rule, the empire expanded its influence, but whispers of his harsh policies and ambition marred the golden image projected to the people.
Meanwhile, the other heroes of that fateful party—Evelyn, Roalet, and others—chose a quieter path. They retreated from the spotlight, their roles in the war now distant memories. Together, they settled in Lurvian, a massive trade city that stood as a beacon of unity for all races. Lurvian was larger than any other city in the world, its sprawling districts blending cultures and traditions. Here, humans, elves, dwarves, and even beastkin coexisted, their lives interwoven in trade, art, and magic.
Evelyn's daughter, Celestine, had inherited her mother's sharp features and keen intellect. With golden hair that shimmered in the sunlight and piercing green eyes, she carried an aura of quiet confidence. At twenty-three, she was ready to carve her own path, away from the shadow of her lineage.
On this particular day, Celestine was on her way to the Adventurers' Guild to register. Her heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This was the first step toward independence, the first step toward making her own name in the world.
As she walked through Lurvian's bustling streets, she passed through the central square. The square was a vibrant hub of activity, filled with merchants hawking their wares, performers entertaining crowds, and people from all walks of life.
Her eyes drifted to a statue in the center of the square—a memorial to the heroes of the war against the Demon King. The figures of Tobien, Evelyn, Roalet, and Martha stood tall, their likenesses carved with intricate detail.
Celestine paused, her gaze lingering on the statue of her mother. Evelyn's stone figure radiated wisdom and strength, her expression one of calm resolve. Standing beside her was Martha, her face etched with kindness and determination.
Celestine's thoughts wandered to Jargien, Martha's son. She remembered him as a quiet, solemn boy, always observing, always thoughtful. She hadn't seen him in years, not since the tragic events that had driven Martha away.
For a moment, a pang of sadness gripped her heart. Where was Jargien now? Was he safe? Was he even alive?
Shaking her head, she pushed the thoughts aside. This was not the time for nostalgia. She had a task to complete.
The Adventurers' Guild was a grand structure, its towering spires visible from almost anywhere in the city. Built from polished stone and reinforced with enchanted wood, the guild hall was both a fortress and a sanctuary for those who sought to challenge the unknown.
Celestine entered through the massive double doors, stepping into a hall buzzing with activity. Adventurers of all races filled the space, discussing quests, trading goods, and sharing stories of their exploits.
The scent of leather, steel, and parchment filled the air, mingling with the aroma of spiced meat and ale from the nearby tavern.
Approaching the registration counter, Celestine handed over the necessary documents.
"First time registering?" the receptionist asked, a middle-aged elf with sharp features and a warm smile.
"Yes," Celestine replied.
The elf nodded. "Any prior experience?"
"My mother was part of the Hero Party that defeated the Demon King," Celestine said simply.
The receptionist's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pry further. "Understood. You'll need to complete an evaluation—physical combat and magical aptitude. Please wait by the training grounds."
As Celestine made her way to the training grounds, she couldn't help but glance at the adventurers around her. Some were seasoned veterans, their armor battered but sturdy. Others were newcomers like herself, their excitement palpable.
Her thoughts briefly returned to the statue in the square, to the image of her mother and Martha. She wondered if Martha would be proud of Jargien if he were here now.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the thoughts aside. This was her moment. Whatever the future held, she was determined to face it head-on.