Alaric sat on the balcony wall, his legs swinging lazily over the edge. His eyes were immediately felt on the combat ring, where the last duel of the day is about to start.
One of the opponents is none other than the knights' combat trainer—a walking fortress of muscle. In his grip rested a wide giant sword. One swing from that monstrous blade, and most fighters wouldn't just be defeated—they'd be shattered, if not worse.
And on the other side?
The figure looked absurdly small in comparison—half his opponent size, with the build of a young man. No, a teenager. The kind of opponent who would be sent flying the moment steel met steel.
But something gnawed at Alaric's mind.
'That back. That posture.'
His stomach twisted as realization struck.
'Nyx.'
Alaric's mind screamed.
'What the hell is that kid thinking, standing in front of that giant?'
[Participating in a life expectancy reduction program, clearly.]
Alaric rolled his eyes.
'Hilarious. Truly. I should frame that and hang it on my wall.'
[I'd suggest a gravestone instead. More fitting for the situation.]
Alaric would have fired back, but his attention snapped back.
The duel had begun.
[Oh, this is going to be a massacre. Any last words for your reckless shadow?]
'Shut up and watch.'
Nyx wasted no time. He lunged forward, closing the distance between them.
Alaric tensed as the trainer's great sword came swinging down—a monstrous arc of steel aimed straight at Nyx.
'That's going to break some of his bones.'
Alaric half-closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable crash of Nyx against the ground.
Clang!
The sharp ring of metal against metal sliced through the air.
Alaric's eyes snapped open.
'He blocked that giant.'
The moment Nyx blocked the strike, he moved.
He didn't hesitate, didn't even allow a breath of space—his sword flashed forward in a seamless arc, cutting through the air like flowing water. The trainer adjusted his stance before Nyx's next strike came, then another, and another.
Each step Nyx took was measured, each strike balanced, his movements weaving together like a dance. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation—only precise, relentless attacks.
Alaric leaned forward, his brows furrowing.
'Fluid. Balanced. Every step was placed perfectly. Every attack is flowing into the next.'
[Like someone who trains daily.]
Aster observed, dry amusement laced in its tone.
Alaric's fingers tightened around the balcony railing. But that doesn't make sense. Nyx has been at my side almost every day.
'When the hell did, he has time to train like this?'
Nyx's strikes turned sharper, more aggressive. His speed didn't falter, and his precision only seemed to sharpen with each passing second. Yet—
Something was off.
Alaric's gaze snapped to the trainer.
The trainer hadn't moved.
Nyx was fast, his attacks relentless—yet the trainer didn't take a single step back. He wasn't dodging. He wasn't countering. He simply stood there, blocking every single strike like they were nothing more than an inconvenience.
Alaric frowned.
'Wait—why isn't he moving?'
Aster let out a dramatic sigh.
[You finally noticed, you turtle. That guy's been holding back from the start.]
And then suddenly everything changed.
The trainer moved.
A blur—too fast for the eye to follow.
Nyx reacted instantly, his instincts screaming. His sword shot up to block—
Clang!
Metal met metal, the impact rattling through his arms. But something felt… off.
The strike wasn't as strong as he expected. It had force, but not enough to break his guard.
Alaric frowned.
'He missed? No—'
The trainer's sword was still moving.
Nyx's eyes darted up, widening in realization.
'He had blocked a ghost.'
The sword he deflected was nothing more than an afterimage—a flicker of steel left behind by sheer speed. A trick. A feint. The real strike was still coming.
[Oh, that's just cruel.]
Aster mused, almost admiringly.
[The old man swung fast enough to leave a fake image behind. A delayed ghost attack.]
Nyx blocked a shadow… but the real blade never stopped.
Alaric barely breathed.
'Which means—'
The real strike arrived an instant later.
A blur of silver. A flash of steel.
Nyx had no time to react.
A sickening crack rang through the arena as the trainer's sword smashed against his weapon. His fingers went numb. His grip failed.
Nyx's sword flew from his hands, spinning through the air.
It clattered meters away, the sharp ring of metal hitting stone echoing in the stunned silence.
Nyx stood frozen, his empty hands trembling.
Alaric's breath hitched.
"What… was that?"
Alaric had always thought swords were boring.
Just a chunk of steel.
Swing. Strike. Clash. Repeat.
Nothing special.
Until now.
His heart pounded as he recalled the duel—the way Nyx moved, the way his sword danced like an extension of himself. Every step was fluid, every strike precise. And then that ghost attack—the afterimage, the illusion of steel, the perfect deception.
It was beautiful.
It was magic.
His breath hitched. His fingers twitched.
"Swords are beautiful," he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice.
For the first time, swords weren't just a means to survive.
They were calling.
[Oh great, now you're in love.]
Aster drawled.
[Should I start composing a poem? Ode to the Glorious Blade? Or maybe a ballad—The Boy Who Fell for a Chunk of Steel?]
Alaric exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
"Shut up."
His eyes flicked to Nyx.
For the first time, Alaric noticed something unfamiliar emotion flickering across Nyx's usually unreadable face.
Disappointment. Frustration.
A fleeting glimpse of anger, buried beneath layers of discipline.
His fingers twitched before he took slow, measured steps toward his blade.
He stood over it, his posture stiff, his expression dark.
[Ah, the agony of defeat.]
Aster mused.
Suddenly, a slow, deliberate clapping sound echoed through the training grounds.
Alaric's eyes flicked toward the source.
A boy, around his age, stepped into the ring. His attire was woven from the richest fabrics, embroidered with gold thread, and buttons that gleamed like suns—diamonds and rare gemstones embedded in each one.
Behind him, a man followed closely, his posture was rigid. A bodyguard, probably.
Alaric's gaze lingered on the boy's hair—ash-blond—and recognition hit him like a crashing wave.
'A member of House Drakonis.'
Alaric quickly ran through the family tree in his mind, and a name surfaced.
Vesper Kael Drakonis., his cousin and another successor candidate.
"Commander," Vesper said smoothly, his voice laced with amusement.
"As impressive as always."
The trainer immediately bowed, placing a fist over his chest in the customary gesture of respect.
"It is my greatest honor to serve you, Young Master Vesper."
Vesper's gaze flickered landing on Nyx and scanning him like one would assess a prized blade.
"I must say," he mused, "you truly have a keen eye for talent."
The commander hesitated, but before he could respond, Vesper had already stepped forward.
Nyx straightened and greeted him with a crisp, precise bow.
"This lowly one greets the Young Master." His tone was neutral, his expression unreadable.
Vesper tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening.
"You have some decent moves."
"With proper training, you could reach the pinnacle of swordsmanship."
Nyx did not so much as blink.
"I am flattered, Young Master."
Vesper extended a hand, palm up—an invitation wrapped in authority.
"Then serve me."
Silence.
Nyx remained motionless.
Vesper chuckled, as though amused by Nyx's hesitation. "I will provide you with the best personal trainers, highest-grade elixirs and potions. You will have status, wealth, power." His voice dropped, soft yet commanding. "All I ask is loyalty."
Nyx's voice cut through the charged air, steady as a steel blade.
"I belong to my master; no wealth or power will change that."
Vesper's bodyguard, Phillips, inhaled sharply. His expression twisted with disdain.
"How dare a mere commoner refuse my master's generosity?"
With a whisper of incantation, his hand moved.
A pulse of energy rippled through the air.
Dark, serpentine veins slithered out from Phillips' fingers, snapping around Nyx like coiling whips.
A heartbeat later, Nyx was on one knee, his body trembling against the unseen force, bound by writhing tendrils of magic.
Alaric's breath hitched.
'Magic.'
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palm. Anger twisted in his gut.
[Calm down, unless you want to announce yourself to your enemies.]
Vesper took another step forward, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"I will ask you one last time." He leaned in slightly. "Serve me."
Nyx lifted his chin, his voice unwavering despite the strain in his body.
"I have sworn my loyalty to my young master, and I shall serve none but him until my last breath."
Silence.
Then, laughter.
Low, amused, but laced with something darker.
"Haha…" Vesper exhaled, shaking his head.
"This is the first time I have been rejected."
"Not once. But twice."
His expression shifted.
The smile faded, replaced by something cold.
"If I can't have it, no one can."
"Crush his hand," he ordered, his voice void of emotion. "Make sure he never holds a sword again."
Alaric's mind blanked for a fraction of a second.
'What did he just say?'
Something inside him twisted, dark and possessive.
He didn't know why.
He barely knew Nyx.
But at this moment, something in him refused to stand by.
The bodyguard moved his hand again, and the veins coiled tighter around Nyx's arm.
Nyx clenched his fists, a pained growl escaping his lips before he bit down hard to stifle it. But Alaric saw it—the way his body trembled, the way his fingers twitched, straining against the force.
Phillips' voice was eerily calm. "I'll give you one last chance. Join my master, or—"
"Or else what?"
Alaric could not hold back any longer.