Chapter 823: Girl from the past
'Jesse Burns...'
Lucavion's gaze fixed on her the moment the name was spoken, but it was not recognition that struck him first—it was dissonance. The syllables carried no immediate weight, not at first. Just another name in a long procession of military ghosts he had long since buried beneath logic and necessity. But then—
He saw her.
And the noise in the hall vanished.
Her stride was cleaner now. Her poise sharpened with the polish of courts and hardened by the brutality of campaigns. But beneath the tailored lines of her uniform, beneath the distant clatter of noble expectation and performance, he saw it.
The same hair.
The same eyes.
That infernal, storm-scarred resilience.
'So it is her…'
And with that, the name struck home.
Jesse Burns. That girl from the ashfields. The one who had collapsed into his shadow like a broken blade, too proud to beg and too tired to flee. She had come to the front lines like someone already dead, hollowed by betrayal and starved of warmth. And yet… she had lived.
Because she chose to.
Because she listened.
He remembered her not because she was loud, or brilliant, or strategic.
But because when the world had tried to swallow her whole, she looked lost….
At that time…..Jesse remined him of himself from the past.
Lucavion's expression barely shifted. Not in ways most could read. His mouth remained its usual line, his posture unfaltering. But his eyes?
They flickered.
Just briefly. Like a candle catching wind.
And in that flicker—there was a ripple. Not nostalgia. Not affection.
But curiosity.
'How long has it been…?'
Years, at least. Long enough for the battlefield to become story. Long enough for scars to fade, and names to slip through the sieve of time.
And yet she stood there now—polished, formidable, and unmistakably Jesse.=
'Jesse Burns…'
Lucavion blinked once, and the weight of it—truly seeing her—landed with more force than he anticipated.
'No… That's…'
He hadn't expected this. Not here. Not now. Not across a gilded hall soaked in politics and veiled blades. Jesse Burns was supposed to be a memory—filed away in the category of "those who survived." She was part of the old script, one of the forgotten lines in the war chronicle he had already rewritten.
So how was she here?
How did she come to the academy? Was this supposed to happen? Was this yet another ripple caused by his interference? Another fracture in the narrative he thought he still had some grasp on?
His jaw tensed, not visibly, but inwardly—coiling against the spike of unpredictability. He'd changed too much already. Threads were unraveling in places he hadn't yet looked. And now, Jesse—Jesse, of all people—stood before him not as a ghost, but as a contender.
But…
Was it even important?
That fire in her eyes said otherwise.
It wasn't resentment. It wasn't even longing. It was something else. Something more primal.
And—he felt it. A strange, electric shiver slithering down his spine.
That look…
He tried to break it down, to decode it. But it wasn't calculation that answered him—it was instinct. The same instinct that had warned him once, in the trenches, when a beast of a man had lunged from the fog with a halberd and murder in his heart.
Only now… the danger didn't come with steel.
It came with silence.
And pride.
Her pride.
She had grown. Not just stronger—but solid, poised. Beautiful, in a way that was far removed from ornament or design. Her brown hair was longer now, tied back with that same utilitarian disregard—but it shimmered under the torchlight, catching stray glints like a weapon half-drawn. And those eyes… orange, like smoldering embers, locking with his like a challenge unspoken.
To think… that girl from the barracks managed to come here…
Lucavion's gaze lingered, not on Jesse's uniform or her poise, but on something deeper—on the remnants of someone he remembered beneath all that strength. The contrast was jarring.
She had been so small back then.
Not physically—but spiritually. A thing barely stitched together, hiding the seams behind stubborn silence. He remembered the first day she stumbled into camp—mud-streaked, eyes hollow, shoulders too straight for someone so clearly on the verge of breaking. The Awakened spark in her hadn't meant much then. Power didn't translate into survival. Not when you didn't believe you were meant to survive.
She had sat on the edge of her cot that first night, knees drawn up, staring at the floor like it might open and drag her down.
No fear. Just emptiness.
Lucavion had seen that look before.
In the mirror. Years ago.
'She looked like she'd already buried herself.'
He hadn't planned to get involved. He never did. That was the rule. After the squad—his squad—was wiped out in one glorious display of tactical arrogance that wasn't his fault but still ended with blood on his hands… Lucavion stopped belonging to anyone. He drifted from unit to unit, never staying long enough to let names stick.
And then Jesse arrived.
Timid. Lost. Wrong, in all the same ways he had been.
'She reminded me of me.'
He wasn't kind out of some noble instinct. It wasn't pity either. He was lonely. The kind of loneliness that creeps beneath armor and settles behind the eyes. So he offered her something quiet. Words that weren't warm, but real. Directions. Warnings. Hard truths. The things he had needed once, and never gotten.
And Jesse? She listened. Not because she trusted him—no, not at first—but because she had nothing else to hold on to.
So he gave her something. Grit. Resolve. The spine to endure the war, not to win it. To live.
But he couldn't stay.
He never could.
Not after what happened. Not when the war started burning through units like dry paper and the higher-ups began reshuffling soldiers like pawns. Lucavion had his own threads to chase, and a mission far beyond the trenches. So one day—he left.
'She must be quite angry.'
He would be. She deserved to be. He hadn't warned her. He hadn't said goodbye.
He'd just vanished—like every other thing in her life had.
And now… here she was.
Standing tall.
Standing proud.
A fire in her eyes where once there had been ashes.
Lucavion didn't smile, but his chest shifted slightly with something unspoken. Was it guilt? Regret? No… something more honest.
'Maybe she didn't need me as long as I thought.'
He inhaled once, slow. The duel was about to begin. Eyes were on them. The court bristled with polished anticipation.
Lucavion's lips curled—just faintly. A twitch at the corner. Not enough to be called a smile by courtly standards. But for him?
It was thunder.
This feeling…
It had been so long since something breached the polished armor of his detachment, since someone had. The hall around him was still gilded with expectation, brimming with noble curiosity and veiled calculation, but for a flicker of time—
It all felt… distant.
'I guess a part of me was quite selfish, wasn't it?'
The thought surfaced uninvited, stripped of bitterness. Honest. Unapologetic. To think, he of all people—crafted from ash and pragmatism, stitched together with strategy and silence—had yearned, in some part of himself, to be needed.
How embarrassingly childish.
Chapter 824: Facepalmed
His gaze lingered on Jesse as she stood in the center of that polished theatre, no longer the broken girl clutching her stomach under a blood-soaked moon. No longer trailing behind others. She stood at the forefront now, a weapon honed by fire and time.
And it didn't hurt to admit… she looked good there.
Proud. Composed. Dangerous.
'So, she didn't just survive.'
'She became something.'
He exhaled softly, not out of tension, but release. As if letting go of some story he hadn't realized he'd been telling himself all this time.
And perhaps that was why this reunion stung a little sweeter than expected. It wasn't fate or sentiment.
It was curiosity.
Genuine interest.
The duel hadn't begun yet, but already Lucavion's mind was spinning—not in anticipation of the clash, but in the puzzle that Jesse had become.
What had she done to get here?
Who had she become without him?
And… why did it matter?
He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable to those around him—but the glint in his eye, that spark of something playful and dangerous, had returned.
'Well then, Jesse.'
'Let's see what you've come to show me.'
The hall may have been watching. But for Lucavion?
Now, he quite wanted a lot of different things after all.
****
The ring of laughter, the shimmer of silk, the polite clinks of crystal and silver—Valeria moved through it all like water through reeds. Graceful. Unbothered. Composed.
The group she found herself among now was more subdued than the earlier crowd. Viscounts mostly. A couple of minor Counts. Their coats bore newer embroideries, their rings thinner, their smiles just a touch too wide. But Valeria didn't mind. In truth, she found these sorts more tolerable.
They asked questions with genuine curiosity rather than veiled jabs. One spoke of a daughter who had begun knight training—another of grain disputes in the riverlands. Simple, domestic concerns. Manageable.
She spoke when needed. Smiled when expected. Nodded at the right moments. Her posture perfect, her tone pleasant. The Olarion heir in full display.
And yet—
From the corner of her eye, a familiar silhouette cut into her vision.
Lucavion.
She didn't see him at first—just the movement that caught her trained instincts. The way a space shifted when someone like him stepped into it.
He was speaking to Thalor.
Her heart gave a familiar thud.
'Of course it's him again.'
For a moment, she kept her attention on the noble before her—a viscount asking for her opinion on border patrols. She gave a practiced, reasonable answer.
But her focus was already slipping.
Something about their stances. Thalor's open posture. Lucavion's casual lean. Two men speaking with words—but fencing with something far sharper beneath.
'No…'
She'd just left him. Just walked away to resume her place in the courtly tide.
And already, he was being pulled into another ripple. Or maybe—maybe he was the one pulling it.
Her fingers tightened subtly around her glass.
And then—Thalor stepped forward.
The space parted around him like a bow to inevitability. His presence filled the room not by force, but by gravity.
He lifted his glass.
"I'm glad," he began, his voice calm and resonant, "to see I've earned everyone's attention tonight."
The room quieted.
"For those who may not know me," he continued smoothly, "I am Thalor Draycott. Of House Draycott."
Valeria barely heard the murmurs around her. She watched, felt, the shift in mood.
Thalor turned slightly, his smile softening as his eyes returned to Lucavion.
"As both a mage of the Tower and a noble of this Empire, I feel it is only right that I begin with an apology."
He spoke to the hall—refined, rehearsed.
"There was a disturbance earlier. One I regret occurred within the bounds of this celebration. Unsightly. A lapse in what should have been an evening of grace."
"Mister Lucavion, rightfully defended himself. A virtue. Courage in the face of confrontation."
And then the twist:
"But it is also true that Mister Lucavion has brought an artifact into this banquet, despite being informed of the restriction."
Valeria's heart sank.
Not from fear.
But inevitability.
Lucavion's smile didn't change.
Of course it didn't.
And it appeared that Thalor knew it wouldn't.
"But rest assured, you are always safe here. Arcanis does not forget our laws. Or our standards."
And then he pivoted, sliding the knife deeper—but with such elegance it barely felt like a cut.
"A small event," he said. "A display. Not formal. Just spirited enough to acquaint us all better."
The setup was clear. Lucavion, singled out.
And then—
"Prince Adrian," Thalor said, nodding to the Lorian envoy, "it would only be fitting that your students—guests as they are—select a representative as well."
Prince Adrian did not flinch. His silence, poised and deliberate, was its own kind of declaration.
"And we," Thalor said, turning to the Arcanis side, "shall send our own. One from the Tower. A noble house. A name that honors both our discipline and our swordplay."
Then the shift.
"That… is a great idea."
Rowen Drayke.
Of course she knows him. How could she not? After all, Drayke family was the ones that had taken the position of the Olarion family of the past.
He stepped forward—not with pomp, but precision. Each stride deliberate, grounded. A son of the Knight Commander needed no introduction.
He positioned himself slightly behind Thalor, creating an invisible triangle of weight and expectation.
"I shall represent Arcanis," he said flatly. Calmly.
Not boastful.
But resolute.
And with that declaration—the room exhaled.
Some smiled.
Some whispered.
Others looked at Lucavion.
Valeria?
She just sighed and closed her eyes—lifting a hand, pressing her palm lightly to her face.
'Again.'
Of course it was him. Of course it was now.
Lucavion. The gravitational pull of chaos disguised as elegance.
And once again, he was at the center.
Valeria's fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass as the weight of the moment settled like frost over the ballroom. The ease of her earlier conversations dissolved, replaced by the same kind of quiet tension that coiled through the courts whenever something important was about to snap.
This wasn't an accident. That much was clear.
Thalor Draycott had orchestrated this with unnerving finesse. From the tone of his apology to the carefully measured timing of the challenge, he had composed a spectacle with all the grace of a trained noble—and all the calculation of a predator.
Valeria didn't know Thalor personally. She had never exchanged more than a passing glance or title-bound greeting with him. But she knew enough.
Cunning. Unpredictable. Too polished to be sincere, too quick to be entirely trusted. Some called him charming. Others called him dangerous. And watching him now, guiding the room like a conductor before the first note, she understood why.
In another life, she thought, he could have been carved from the same chaos as Lucavion.
"Quite the performance, wasn't it?" a young count beside her murmured, nudging her gently with a wine-gloved elbow.
She didn't answer.
Another leaned in, voice just low enough to feign discretion. "So this is his punishment, then. Thalor's not going to humiliate him directly—he's letting Rowen do it."
Valeria's eyes narrowed.
And then, worse—pity.
She felt it before she saw it. The subtle shift in how the nobles looked at her. Not hostile. Not mocking. Just… sorry.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, voice steady.
A moment passed. Then a viscountess answered, her smile tight with sympathy.
"Well… if Lucavion loses, and loses badly, it could reflect on those close to him. You stood by him tonight. People noticed."
Valeria didn't answer at first.
She just looked at them.
Then, with a soft exhale and the smallest shake of her head, she returned her gaze to the center of the hall—where Lucavion stood, smiling faintly as though nothing in the world could touch him.
Fools, she thought.
They didn't know.
They didn't see it.
But she did.
Because when it came to pure swordsmanship… when it came to what lived in Lucavion's hands the moment he drew steel—
She had never seen anything like him.
Not in all the Empire. Not even among the Olarions of old.
He wasn't reckless. He wasn't just bold.
He was monstrous.
And if they thought this game would humiliate him—
They were in for a very different show.
Chapter 825: Son of the Commander
The atrium had been cleared with swift efficiency.
Lanterns now floated in elegant alignment, casting soft gold across the polished stone floor. The hedges lining the perimeter gave the space a coliseum-like intimacy, and while the entire court couldn't spill outside, enough had gathered along the open arches and upper terraces to form an eager, whispering audience. Velvet-robed nobles leaned forward beside wine-bearing courtiers. Even a few of the imperial guards had subtly turned their gaze, just enough to watch without breaking protocol.
A stage had been built—not with marble and curtains, but by silence, by tension, by the slow pulse of something real.
Thalor stepped just near the edge of the gathering, hands folded lightly before him. His gaze passed over the lanternlit floor, then lifted toward the stars above.
A clean field. Open air. Framed in decorum.
Fitting, he mused. No more shadows. No more subtext. Just action. That's what they wanted, isn't it?
His eyes drifted—inevitably—back to Lucavion.
Still standing by the ballroom's stone edge, framed in silverlight and distance, Lucavion hadn't moved much. No pacing. No stretching. No show.
Just quiet poise.
A lesser man would have mistaken it for stillness. But Thalor saw the edges—the way Lucavion's weight shifted subtly into one foot, the way his gaze had already calculated the perimeter, the way his hand had brushed once—not nervously, but deliberately—along the cuff of his coat.
'What are you going to do now?' Thalor wondered.
You're the enigma they can't measure. The one who skipped the steps. The one no one saw coming.
Rowen stood in the center of the courtyard now, his sword still sheathed but his posture unmistakably that of readiness. His presence alone bent the air toward gravity.
And yet Lucavion still hadn't drawn a weapon.
Thalor tilted his head slightly.
You're not stalling. You're not afraid. So what is it?
A game? A test? A distraction?
Is he really that confident in his strength?
Thalor studied the man across the stone court, the way Lucavion stood just slightly off-center, still half-immersed in the social glow of the ballroom. That calm wasn't the stillness of arrogance—Thalor had seen that plenty, and it always cracked.
This was something else.
Not bluster. Not even certainty.
Stillness like a held breath… or a fuse.
He couldn't be sure.
But he would see.
Thalor raised his hand.
"Contestants," he said, voice smooth, effortless, echoing with natural command, "please come forward."
The attention of the gathered nobles, the foreign envoys, and the cloaked guards turned instantly as the words settled. Even the air seemed to pause.
"Lucavion Vale. Rowen Drayke."
A stir swept the courtyard—anticipation, curiosity, quiet hunger.
"You will be the first."
He didn't need to explain why. Everyone here knew. From the moment Rowen stepped into the light and Lucavion refused to blink, this pairing had already been sealed.
"A simple contest," Thalor continued, his tone now laced with the grace of authority. "No mana. No enchantments. No augments. This is a contest of pure swordsmanship."
He gave it a breath, letting the weight of that rule settle in the air like a drawn curtain.
Thalor let his eyes pass over the two figures now facing one another.
Rowen Drayke stood like the sculpted embodiment of tradition—feet planted, back straight, hand resting on the hilt of a blade that had likely seen more polishing than use this month, but no less lethal for it. His uniform wasn't ostentatious, but it bore its heraldry with pride. He was the Empire's sword, through and through.
Lucavion Vale, by contrast, looked like someone who had wandered into a story mid-chapter and decided to write his own lines. No armor. No formal combat garb. Just his coat, his gloves, and a look in his eye that could cut glass before steel ever had to.
And no sword.
Yet.
Thalor's lips curved—just slightly.
"Of course," he said, his voice like silk being folded into parchment. "It's a sword duel."
He made no effort to over-explain, no lengthy sermon. He didn't need to.
"Everyone," he said, "knows the rules."
His gaze lingered on both combatants, giving the sentence a finality that resonated deeper than mere instruction.
The gathered crowd drew tighter in their silence.
A murmur of cloth shifting. The soft clink of goblets lowered to marble banisters. The rustle of expectation in the cool evening air.
Thalor raised one hand.
Then brought it down.
"Begin."
****
—The signal fell like a gavel.
Steel whispered.
Rowen's sword flashed into the air in one smooth, elegant arc, the tip catching the lanternlight like a promise.
Lucavion mirrored him—almost. The sound of his coat shifting was the only warning before the estoc, black as voidglass, sang into the open.
No ceremony. No theatrics.
Just that subtle, gleaming menace.
Rowen's eyes narrowed, and beneath his breath, like a sentence handed down by bloodline and duty, he muttered:
"Your insolence… it shall be repaid here now."
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if savoring the weight of those words. Then he smiled. A quiet, almost tired smile—wry, amused, and maddening.
"You guys really love the same script. Someone needs to freshen the repertoire."
With a single flick, he raised his estoc—not as a challenge, but as an answer.
Rowen, prideful heir of a legacy that had never known true desperation, did what many of his kind would: he waited.
Letting Lucavion have the first move.
A gift.
A courtesy.
A mistake.
Lucavion clicked his tongue, low and sharp, shaking his head once as he stepped forward, boots brushing the edge of the dueling circle.
"This," he said, voice quiet and cutting through the hushed crowd like a blade through silk, "is the behavior of someone who's never stood at the line between life and death."
He didn't pace.
He didn't posture.
He simply walked.
Each step forward was deliberate, as if memory itself weighed down his boots. As if some ghost still watched from the edge of this court—blood-soaked, forgotten, waiting.
"Looking down at soldiers from your horse doesn't make you a warrior," he continued, his tone deceptively gentle. "It makes you the one who never got off to bleed with the rest of others."
Lucavion's eyes locked onto Rowen's.
Not his sword.
Not his stance.
Just his eyes.
There was no hatred there—no envy, no fury.
Just something sharper.
Pity.
"Only those who've felt the true edge of death," he said, low and unwavering, "would understand the stupidity behind what you're doing."
He tilted his head slightly, gaze unwavering.
"And this alone… shows me everything I need to know."
His smirk was faint. Almost kind. The way a wolf might look at a hound still wagging its tail, unaware that the world had teeth sharper than its own.
He shifted his weight, drawing his blade to the side—not as a flourish, but a breath, a gathering of motion yet to be seen. His right arm lifted slowly, angled, as if aligning the very air to his will.
"Let me show you why."
And then—
He moved.
The duel had started.
Chapter 826: Son of the Commander (2)
Lucavion moved.
—FWOOOSH!
A blur. A breath.
And then—
—CLANG!
Steel rang as Lucavion's estoc collided with Rowen's blade, not in testing jabs or measured exchanges, but in a ruthless, full-committed thrust angled high toward the shoulder joint—an opening most would never think to exploit so early.
Rowen stumbled half a step, his sword sliding back just in time to parry, sparks spraying in a sharp arc across the marble. His heels scraped as he righted himself, muscles tensing, face contorting—not in panic, but in surprise.
The crowd flinched.
Lucavion didn't let up.
He spun low, the estoc curving around as he twisted on his heel—
—SHHHK!
—a horizontal slash aimed to disarm, not kill, but it came with enough force to rattle Rowen's wrist and send vibrations up his arm.
Rowen's eyes sharpened.
"—Tch!"
He dropped his stance instantly, weight sliding into his back leg, sword drawing a tight crescent through the air.
—CLANG!
This time, the blades locked.
Rowen's technique flared to life like a second heartbeat—disciplined, efficient, no excess. The Drayke footwork: small steps, sharp angles, his body never out of alignment, his blade always ready to flow into the next parry or riposte.
Lucavion's eyes flicked down, reading it. Measuring.
Then he smiled.
'There it is. Now we're speaking honestly.'
Rowen shoved forward, breaking the bind.
—THRUST!
His blade shot toward Lucavion's midsection like a drawn line of silver fire—fast, clean, practiced.
Lucavion twisted—
—FWIP!
—his coat tearing as the edge grazed along the fabric but not flesh.
And then—Lucavion stepped inside.
"Too clean," he muttered.
—CLANK!
Elbow to wrist. The maneuver struck Rowen's dominant hand just as he reset his stance, forcing a minor delay—a stutter.
It was all Lucavion needed.
He pivoted.
—SWOOSH!
The estoc came upward in a reverse arc—toward Rowen's neck.
—CLANG!
Blocked. Barely.
Rowen's breathing grew sharper. But his eyes didn't waver.
In that next second, something shifted.
Rowen exhaled. One breath. One pivot. His form compressed—centered.
And then—
He moved.
—CLANG—CLANG—SWISH—CLANG!
A storm of technique. Form Three of the Drayke Flow: four rapid, low-power strikes chained together, each feeding into the next. Lucavion deflected the first three, but the fourth—
—CHHK!
Scraped the outer line of his arm. Not deep. But enough to draw blood.
Lucavion blinked once. Then grinned.
"Now you're taking this seriously."
Rowen didn't answer.
He stepped in again, this time rotating on the ball of his foot, shoulder leading—bringing his blade down in a signature vertical cut honed by generations.
Lucavion's estoc met it head-on.
—BOOOM!
The force cracked through the tension like thunder.
Their swords locked again—face to face now. Eyes narrowed. Breaths uneven.
And yet—neither gave ground.
From the terrace above, whispers raced like wildfire.
"…He stopped that?"
"Drayke Form Seven—did you see?"
"But Lucavion's speed—"
They weren't wrong.
In this clash of rhythm and instincts, Rowen was no fraud.
He was clean. Controlled. Deadly.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion was alive.
Their blades stayed locked, caught in a tension that rippled through the marble beneath them.
Lucavion leaned in, voice low enough for only Rowen to hear.
"You've held that sword for years, haven't you?"
His gaze flicked down, assessing the blade—not the metal, but the wear on the hilt, the precise marks of repetition, the polish of diligence.
"Trained hands. Disciplined grip. But..."
Lucavion's smirk widened.
"...it lacks the scent of battle."
Rowen's eyes narrowed—but he said nothing.
Lucavion tilted his head, the glint in his eye sharpening.
"I'll get serious now."
His estoc shifted, barely a twitch—but the pressure snapped like a bowstring.
"If you want to hold… give your all."
—FWOOOSH!
He vanished again.
No warning. No mercy.
Lucavion struck with terrifying precision—his estoc weaving between defensive lines like a predator's fangs in open flesh.
—CLANG! CLANG! SHNK! FWIP!
The blade came low—Rowen parried.
Then high—Rowen blocked.
A feint right—Lucavion's elbow crashed into his guard—THUD!
And then came the twist.
The estoc stabbed, not with elegance but intent. No flourish. Just death.
Rowen stumbled back, teeth clenched, forced onto his heel—
—CLAAANG!
Their blades collided again, but this time, Rowen felt it.
His forearms burned from the impact. His breath caught in his chest.
What in—
'His physical strength…!'
Lucavion pressed in, driving his weight down the locked blades. The sneering smirk still curved on his face.
"You're a five-star, aren't you?" Lucavion asked casually, his tone conversational even as his sword carved arcs meant to kill. "You were supposed to end me with strength alone."
—SWISH—THRUST—SLICE!
Another barrage.
Rowen barely ducked, parried, turned his hip to avoid the last one.
But his lungs burned.
He hated it—
—but he was being cornered.
This speed. This pressure.
It made no sense.
Lucavion's strength wasn't supposed to reach this level. In the exams, he had registered as a peak four-star. A tier lower. Measurably weaker.
And yet—
He parried again.
—CLANG!
Their blades locked—but his footing faltered.
Lucavion didn't back off. Didn't give him room. He stepped into the bind, shoulder against Rowen's chest, pushing him off balance again.
"You're hesitating," Lucavion murmured.
"You thought this was a duel."
His estoc slid off the lock, twisted sideways—aimed straight for Rowen's ribs.
Rowen blocked—barely. But even that deflection scraped steel across his vambrace with a teeth-grinding shriek.
—SKREEE—CHNK!
Rowen slid back two paces, panting now.
He gripped his sword tighter.
But inside, something twisted.
'This guy's sword...'
It didn't move like the techniques Rowen knew. It didn't align with any school or form taught in the Empire.
It was fast.
Unorthodox.
Savage.
There was no flourish. No signature stance. No regard for elegance or honor.
It was an ugly, overwhelming flood—crafted not in gardens of prestige, but in the filth of necessity.
Fitting of a man like Lucavion.
A dog, Rowen thought bitterly. A mongrel pretending to stand among knights.
But that didn't change the truth.
He was being pushed.
Rowen's grip tightened. His fingers dug into the leather wrap of the hilt as if trying to choke the truth out of it.
He hated it.
Hated him.
This mongrel with a grin like a blade, this bastard who didn't follow the rules. Who didn't honor the craft. Who didn't earn his place by walking the centuries-worn stones that Rowen had bled across since childhood.
He had thought—no, assumed—that this would be enough. That his technique, his rank, his name, would be enough to put Lucavion back in the gutter where he belonged.
But the pressure… the weight of Lucavion's strikes… the truth in them—
It was unbearable.
'He's forcing me to draw it out.'
Lucavion lunged again, estoc coming in with a slicing arc to the flank—measured to cripple, not to tease.
Rowen didn't dodge.
His eyes narrowed.
—CLAAANG!
Their swords collided again—but this time, Rowen didn't yield.
The force rebounded, and then—
—WHUUUMMMMM—
A deep, resonant hum rippled out from the clash.
Chapter 827: What then ?
Valeria stood near the edge of the banquet hall, her form composed, her breath steady—but her eyes never left the dueling floor. The nobles around her whispered, gasped, drew sharp breaths with every clash of steel, but she remained unmoving. Still. Watching.
Because this…
This was Lucavion.
Exactly as she had expected.
The instant he had drawn that blade, she'd known the tone of the room would shift. Not because of flair. Not because of status.
But because when Lucavion held a sword, something inside him changed.
No—awakened.
She had seen it before. She had faced it before. The way he moved, the way he thought, it was nothing like the swordsmanship taught in towers and courts. Nothing like the flowing patterns of the noble styles. It was too real. Too brutal. Too fast. It wasn't elegance—it was efficiency honed to a blade's edge.
A monstrous kind of beauty.
That's what made him terrifying.
And now, Rowen was feeling it.
She could see the tension in his stance—his blade no longer striking with the ease of demonstration, but with the pressure of necessity. His form, trained and proud, was beginning to stutter. Not because it was weak, but because it was being cornered.
Lucavion's footwork was messy—but deliberate.
His angles strange—but fatal.
He danced like someone who learned to survive, not impress.
And Valeria could feel it from here. That rising, suffocating weight. The kind of pressure that could bend even pride.
'They don't understand it,' she thought, eyes scanning the stunned faces around her. 'They never did.'
These nobles had spent years mastering forms. Practicing their arcs and parries. Reciting footwork like scripture.
But Lucavion fought like war itself.
She knew—no matter how strong they were—most of them would lose to him in pure swordsmanship. Because they hadn't bled in the kind of silence Lucavion had. They hadn't learned their blade in shadows. In alleys. On killing fields and burnt soil.
'He's different.'
And then—
—WHUUUMMMMM—
The sound rang out. Low. Dense. A wave that vibrated through the floor beneath her boots.
Valeria's eyes sharpened instantly.
'That sound…'
Sword resonance.
The vibration that hummed through the metal, through the mana-infused steel, and into the bones of everyone watching.
Rowen had drawn it out.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
'So he's finally stopped holding back.'
Sword Resonance.
A technique reserved for the elite few—those who didn't just wield a blade, but synchronized with it. The signature of the Drayke lineage. It was said that the rise of the Drayke family was built on that technique. That resonance alone had shattered the defenses of the northern rebellion decades ago. It had been one of the reasons they had eclipsed the Olarion name at court.
She had never seen it in person.
The resonance vibrated in her chest, soft but undeniable, like an old memory she couldn't place. And for a brief moment, Valeria stood completely still—not because she didn't understand what she was witnessing, but because she did.
Sword Resonance.
It was a technique that once belonged to her bloodline as well.
A whisper of her family's past—now long gone.
She should have seen it before. Should have grown up with it etched into her bones like heritage, trained to it like breath. But she hadn't. Because two hundred and fifty years ago… everything changed.
When the Olarion family failed.
When a faction among her ancestors, proud and furious, had turned their blades not outward but inward—challenging the very throne they were sworn to protect.
Treason.
That word had followed her name for centuries, carved into every scroll, every hallway, every polite smile that masked suspicion. It didn't matter that it was generations ago. It didn't matter that her branch had not been part of it. The Empire remembered.
And the punishment?
Swift. Unforgiving.
The Olarion name, once the right hand of the Crown, was stripped of its sacred duty—relieved of their post as the Empire's official Sword and Shield. That responsibility, that honor, passed to another house.
The Draykes.
And with it, so too did the secrets.
The teachings.
The legacy.
Sword Resonance.
Once, the Olarion family had knights who could wield it. Once, the halls of her house had sung with the hum of blades vibrating in perfect harmony with the user's spirit. It had been more than a technique. It had been a symbol—of loyalty, of strength, of a pact bound by iron and soul.
Now?
Now it was a relic of someone else's name.
No knight of House Olarion had awakened Sword Resonance since the day of their disgrace.
She clenched her jaw slightly.
'How could they not see it?' she thought. 'How could they not understand what it meant to lose that? What it meant to be forgotten?'
The nobles whispered around her still—awed by the display, by Rowen's lineage, by the technique that had now become a standard of prestige.
But to her…
To her, it was a reminder.
Not of Rowen's strength.
But of everything her family had lost.
Her eyes flicked back to Lucavion, watching as he weathered the wave of resonance bearing down on him. His posture didn't falter. His presence didn't shrink. He stood in the path of a legacy forged to crush men like him, and he smiled.
And in that moment—
Despite the difference in bloodline…
Despite the centuries of shame…
—Valeria felt a strange flicker in her chest.
Not hope. Not pride.
But a question:
What makes him different?
The question surfaced unbidden—sharp, cutting through the reverberations still humming in her chest.
What made Rowen Drayke—of all people—able to awaken that?
What was it that allowed his blade to sing while hers stayed silent?
Valeria's fingers curled lightly, not into fists, but into stillness. A quiet rigidity. She kept her face neutral, eyes composed, posture perfect—because that was what was expected. That was what the Olarion heir had to be. Flawless in form, untouchable in grace.
But inside?
Something twisted.
Rowen's sword shone with inherited brilliance, yes. But was that all it was? Inheritance? A technique passed down like a family crest?
And if so…
Why had her family failed to carry it forward?
Why had she?
She had trained harder than most. Pushed her body past exhaustion. Fought in conditions designed to strip away nobility and pride, just to find something—anything—that might stir that resonance within her.
But there had never been a hum.
Never even a flicker.
And for years, she had told herself it was time. That she simply needed more practice. More pressure. A worthy cause.
But now, watching Rowen summon it with a breath—with a name behind him that the Empire hadn't doubted in centuries—those old excuses began to fray.
'What am I missing?'
Was it the technique? The blood? The trust of the Empire?
Or was it something crueler?
Something inherent?
Was there simply nothing left in her bloodline worth awakening?
The thought made her chest tighten. Not with shame—but with something far worse.
Emptiness.
Because there was no answer.
None she had ever been able to find.
The records in her family's vaults were fractured. The sword manuals weathered. The rites once sacred had turned into ceremony without soul. And even when she had tried to rediscover the old ways, she had been met with silence. With quiet apologies. With eyes that said, "It's gone now."
But then—why him?
Why Rowen?
Why now?
What did he have that she didn't?
That her father didn't?
That generations of knights with Olarion blood had lacked?
She couldn't say.
And that was what haunted her most.
Because for all her pride, for all her strength, she still didn't know the answer.
Still couldn't understand what had broken so completely that not a single knight in two hundred and fifty years could do what the Draykes now did with ease.
Her eyes stayed fixed on Lucavion.
Because at least he wasn't born with it.
At least he had no legacy, no inherited brilliance.
Only steel.
Only will.
And in that moment, she almost preferred it.
Because if you fall short with nothing, you can rise.
But if you fall short with everything—with history and name and duty behind you—
What then?
Chapter 828: Resonance
Their swords collided again—but this time, Rowen didn't yield.
The force rebounded, and then—
—WHUUUMMMMM—
A deep, resonant hum rippled out from the clash.
Lucavion's brows twitched—only slightly. He felt it more than heard it.
A vibration. Not of metal—but of will.
Rowen's blade shone faintly—not with mana, but something far older.
The dueling ground hushed.
Not in fear.
But reverence.
From the terrace above, whispers broke loose again—this time shaken, unsure.
"...That sound…"
"That's not mana—what is that?"
"No… it can't be—"
And then it was spoken.
"This is…"
"…the Drayke Family's…"
"…Sword Resonance."
The words struck the air like a bell tolling war.
A phenomenon so rare even among elite swordsmen that it bordered on myth. Not magic. Not technique. It was something deeper—alignment. When blade, breath, and intent moved as one. When the sword didn't just obey the wielder—it answered them.
Lucavion's fingers adjusted slightly on the hilt of his estoc, a familiar looseness in his stance despite the shift in air. The hum of the resonance still echoed faintly between them, like the war-drum of something ancient.
He tilted his head.
"Finally," he said, voice low. Calm. Too calm. "You're showing it."
His eyes flicked to Rowen's sword again, then back up—studying, not impressed, but… appreciative.
"And here I thought I'd have to keep dragging it out of you."
That ease—that expression—the slight curl of his mouth, the glint of sharp amusement buried in his black eyes—
It burned.
Rowen's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on the hilt until the leather creaked beneath the pressure.
Lucavion wasn't posturing.
He meant it.
Even now, even after he had activated Sword Resonance, Lucavion didn't look threatened.
He looked engaged.
And that…
That infuriated him.
Because Rowen knew exactly what Sword Resonance cost. What it demanded. Years—decades for most. Even for him, hailed as a genius of the Drayke bloodline, it had taken everything. Countless nights with callused hands and bloodied wrists, every motion drilled until his body moved before thought. The moment he awakened Resonance had been a revelation, a sanctification. A mark of someone chosen.
And yet now—
Lucavion smirked in the face of it.
As if it were merely… expected.
Rowen exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. His blade dipped, just slightly, preparing again—his muscles now more coiled than before, his stance sharpened to a perfect Drayke form. His eyes never left Lucavion's.
"You're stronger than I thought," Rowen said coldly. "You weren't all talk."
A grudging admission. But even that tasted sour.
He stepped forward, the resonance echoing louder now with his movement—like the blade itself was singing.
"But this is where it ends."
Because even if Lucavion's sword was fast. Unorthodox. Merciless.
It wasn't Resonance.
It wasn't forged from honor. From lineage. From the will of a House built over centuries.
—CLANG!
The moment Rowen moved, the tone shifted. It wasn't just pressure now—it was intention. Not brute force. Not technique alone. But something deeper.
The sword sang.
Lucavion's estoc met Rowen's blade again, and this time the clash wasn't just steel—it was voice. The hum of Sword Resonance thrummed along Lucavion's bones like a low chant beneath the skin.
And then Rowen struck.
—SWISH—SWOOSH—CLANG!
His blade arced with fluid precision, each motion tighter, more refined. Not a single ounce of energy wasted.
"Drayke Form IX: Crescent Walk."
A half-lunge to the right, foot sliding in perfect tempo, blade swinging in a graceful curve aimed for Lucavion's flank—designed not only to cut, but to reshape his opponent's positioning.
Lucavion stepped back just in time—
—but Rowen followed, already sliding across the marble—
"Form VI: Horizon Severance."
A low sweep—impossibly quick. Meant to catch retreating legs and force a dodge upward.
Lucavion jumped—flipping once mid-air—
But even as his coat fluttered, Rowen was already moving.
Sword flashing up with the same hum.
"Form III: Twin Bloom."
Two thrusts—one high, one low. Feints and real strikes folded into a rhythm only those trained in Resonance could maintain.
Lucavion twisted, his estoc parrying both in one fluid motion—barely.
He landed hard, skidding across the court, boot scraping sharp across the stone.
For the first time since the match had started—
He didn't counter.
'He's reading me now…'
Lucavion's eyes narrowed.
Rowen advanced—not rushed, but exact. His movements had changed. The stiffness from earlier, the hesitation—it was gone. His blade now moved like an extension of thought, striking in patterns that bent around openings like water through cracks.
Lucavion dashed in—
—CLANG!
But his blow was redirected, not blocked.
A slight pivot of Rowen's wrist turned the estoc's power into nothing.
And then—
"Form XIII: Falling Bell."
A descending arc. Vertical. Meant to collapse pressure onto the opponent's core.
Lucavion barely ducked under it, the edge of the blade slicing through air inches above his head.
He clicked his tongue.
"Now that's a sword," he muttered.
But Rowen didn't smirk.
He was past emotion now. Resonance drowned all but the rhythm.
The duel continued.
—CLANG! CLASH! SHNK!
Lucavion's footwork remained erratic—elusive, wild. But Rowen was adapting. Every unpredictable lunge met a quiet counter. Every sharp reversal faced smooth flow.
Lucavion attempted to break tempo—
But Rowen stepped into it.
"Form X: Sky Weaving Coil."
A spiral strike, built from diagonal slashes that wrapped around Lucavion's guard like vines.
Lucavion grunted, forced into a backward roll.
The court gasped.
The tide had shifted.
The monster that overwhelmed Rowen before—was now on the defensive.
From the sidelines, nobles leaned forward, murmuring in awe.
"So this is… the Sword of the Draykes…"
"His stance is seamless."
"He's controlling the entire fight."
Yet to Rowen….
Yet to Rowen…
Even with the tide shifting, even as the crowd whispered of his brilliance, even as his blade carved circles around Lucavion's unpredictable rhythm—
Something felt… off.
His breathing was controlled. His stance? Perfect. Resonance pulsed steady along his blade, singing to every motion like a duet long-practiced.
And still…
It didn't feel right.
In his past duels—when Sword Resonance awakened—none could stand before him. They cracked. They flinched. They broke.
Not because they were weak. But because they felt it. The weight of legacy. The pressure of technique so precise it left no room for error. In those battles, the outcome was certain.
Measured.
Absolute.
They were dismantled before they even realized it.
But Lucavion…?
Lucavion was still here.
Pushed back, yes. Forced to roll, to slide, to shift—yes.
But not breaking.
Not unraveling like the others.
Rowen felt it in his gut—that annoying whisper of instinct, the one that dug its nails into reason and said something's wrong.
Why doesn't he look cornered?
Why does he move like that?
Why—
"Interesting…"
Rowen's eyes widened.
The word hadn't come from the terrace.
It came from right in front of him.
Lucavion's voice.
Quiet. Curious. Almost pleased.
As if the last three minutes of being shoved backward by technique worthy of an imperial heir—
—was just… a study.
And then Rowen saw it.
The glint.
That maddening glint in Lucavion's eye.
Chapter 829: Resonance (2)
Sword Resonance…
A name that sounds simple—yet carries the weight of blood, will, and generations of failure. It wasn't just a technique. Not to those who understood it. It was alignment. A phenomenon that occurred when the blade, the body, and the soul moved as one—no, became one.
Lucavion's eyes followed the shimmer of Rowen's blade, the low hum still vibrating faintly in the air between them like a heartbeat only trained swordsmen could hear. Resonance wasn't something one learned. It wasn't something one unlocked through effort alone.
He'd known about it long before this match. Not through scrolls. Not through noble tradition. But through a conversation buried in memory—etched into him on the blood-soaked frontlines of a war no noble ever remembered.
Gerald had spoken of it once.
"Sword Resonance," his master had murmured, hands stained with the grime of a battlefield.
They'd been sitting behind the ruined shell of a stone parapet, with Lucavion catching breath after a three-day siege that had reduced half the unit that he belonged to names no one would bother to etch into a gravestone.
"I could never reach it," Gerald had said, voice steady, but distant. "No matter how much I refined my sword techniques… no matter how precisely I aligned my mana channels. It never answered me."
Lucavion had looked at him then—this man who had single-handedly created a mana accumulation technique from scratch. A genius among monsters. Someone who could silence an entire warpath with a single swing when enraged.
"But why?" Lucavion had asked, genuine curiosity peeking out beneath the soot that masked his face.
Gerald's eyes had drifted skyward, his tone unreadable.
Gerald's eyes had drifted skyward, his tone unreadable.
And then—
He said something Lucavion had rarely heard from those lips.
"I don't know."
Not I can't. Not perhaps. But those three words—quiet, bare, unshielded.
Lucavion had blinked once. Caught off guard not by the answer, but by the truth in it. The raw honesty that slipped through the cracks of a man who always seemed composed, sharp, invincible.
Gerald ran a hand through his blood-matted hair, the gesture slower than usual. "I've tried. Gods, if they exist, know I've tried. Spent more hours refining my blade forms than I did sleeping. Poured mana through every node until my veins blistered. I can calculate the flow of combat to a decimal. Break down strikes mid-execution. But it still never came."
Lucavion was silent. Still crouched beside the older man, his hands idly cleaning a blade that had already drawn more blood than it should have.
Gerald's voice dropped lower.
"Maybe… in the end, I wasn't a swordsman. Not in heart. My body remembered the motion. My mana could replicate the rhythm. But resonance… resonance doesn't answer calculation. It answers something else."
He chuckled once. Bitter. "I built techniques that manipulated the body's mana to its limits. Developed a core compression sequence that can elevate a two-star into a four-star in under five years. But that one thing—Sword Resonance—always stood just out of reach."
A long pause.
Then he glanced sideways at Lucavion.
"You're not there either."
A statement. Not judgment. Just… fact.
Lucavion hadn't flinched. "I know."
But something in him stirred.
Gerald's eyes lingered a moment longer before turning away again. "That might be a good thing. For you."
Lucavion had frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you don't look for permission." His master leaned back against the shattered stone, gaze resting on the distant battlefield. "You don't wait for your sword to sing. You just… make it scream."
Back then, Lucavion didn't fully understand what that meant. But even in his youth, he remembered the strange flicker that passed through him. The desire that twisted in his gut—hot and cold at once.
To surpass that damned old man.
Not out of hate.
Not even pride.
But because if he couldn't reach it—
If he, with all his genius, his mastery of mana, his tactical brilliance—if he still failed to touch the truth of the sword—
Then Lucavion wanted to….
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
To reach the place Gerald couldn't.
To set foot on the path his master had mapped but never walked.
To take the concept of [Sword Resonance]—that elusive bond between man and blade—and make it his.
Not by tradition.
Not through inherited forms and flowing robes.
But by carving it out through blood and defiance.
What would it feel like?
That question had haunted him ever since.
What would it feel like for the blade to stop being a tool?
To stop being an extension of the hand—and instead become the heart's voice?
Gerald once said resonance required something else. Something unnamed.
And Lucavion had thought on that for years.
Wondering if it was intent.
Conviction.
Love.
Loss.
Maybe all of it.
He didn't know.
But what he did know—was this:
That even in all his unpredictability, all his precision layered in chaos—his sword was still a lone voice. Clear. Sharp. But alone.
It didn't sing.
Not yet.
But now… facing Rowen…
Lucavion's eyes narrowed, the hum of [Resonance] pressing into his skin like a second heartbeat.
Rowen's sword wasn't just fast. It spoke.
It cut through the air not as steel, but as declaration.
There was something inside it—a weight, not of power, but of purpose.
Legacy.
Duty.
History.
A sword trained by hundreds of hands.
And yet… Lucavion could feel it.
Not just the danger.
But the pull.
His heart beat faster. Not in fear. Not in thrill.
In hunger.
'So this is it...'
Sword Resonance.
It wasn't just a power. It wasn't just a trick of mana.
It was an invitation.
Well… calling it an invitation might sound strange.
But Lucavion genuinely felt that way.
Each time their blades collided—
each ringing CLANG,
each rebounding strike,
each razor-thin gap where instinct and breath aligned—
He felt like he was on the verge.
Just there.
As if some thread inside him trembled, strained—ready to snap, or awaken, or sing.
But never quite.
Never yet.
It was maddening.
Rowen's sword didn't just repel him—it welcomed him.
Not as a guest.
As a challenger.
A test.
And every time Lucavion met it, something in him clawed upward, as if his soul leaned closer, trying to hear a tune just out of reach.
Like the door to that resonance was cracked open.
But no one had told him how to step through.
Not the technique.
Not the stance.
Not even mana.
Just a sensation.
A… space.
'Where is it?' Lucavion thought as their blades locked again, force crackling between them.
'Where's the step I'm missing?'
He felt it—in his blood.
A tension beneath the skin.
Not fear.
Longing.
Because for the first time in his life, amidst the chaos and the flying sparks, Lucavion wasn't trying to break his opponent.
He wasn't trying to dominate, outwit, overwhelm.
He was trying to touch something.
Every strike he delivered—it wasn't just offense.
It was a question.
Is this it?
Is this enough?
Do I reach it now?
But the answer was always just one breath away.
Too far to grasp.
Too close to ignore.
A paradox of sensation.
Chapter 830: Breakpoint
A paradox of sensation.
Inviting… yet directionless.
As if the sword whispered:
"Come find me."
But gave him no map.
No guide.
Just the echo. The rhythm. The hum.
And he—he wanted it.
He wanted it like oxygen.
Not for glory.
Not to rival Rowen.
Not even to prove Gerald wrong.
But because somewhere, deep in that chaotic, sharpened mess he called a soul—
Lucavion wanted his sword to finally speak back.
To not just respond—
but to answer.
That feeling of breakthrough…
It had been a while since he'd felt it.
That thin, electric tension in the chest—right before a step forward is taken, not in body, but in understanding.
But right now—
Lucavion felt only the ache of proximity.
So close.
And still not enough.
Something was missing.
He didn't know what.
Couldn't name it.
Only feel it—like a pressure point he couldn't quite reach, a lock with no visible key.
The sword kept whispering.
Come find me.
But the path forward remained veiled.
And so—
He moved.
—CLANG!
Rowen's blade came down in a precise crescent arc—measured, honed, devastating.
Lucavion stepped inward, deflecting the curve just barely with a sharp flick of the wrist.
—SWISH!
He spun low, estoc dragging behind him like a silver fang seeking a soft gap beneath the ribs.
But Rowen adjusted.
—CLAAANG!
Their weapons collided again, sparks flashing between them.
Steel grinded.
Marble cracked beneath the slide of boots.
Lucavion was being pushed.
Each of Rowen's strikes came faster now, more complete.
The flow of [Sword Resonance] didn't just enhance him—it elevated him.
Every movement had intent.
Every strike had answer.
Lucavion parried, dodged, pivoted. His coat fluttered behind him as he twisted away from a vertical chop that would've split most men in half.
—THWACK!
The flat of Rowen's blade grazed Lucavion's shoulder, enough to force a slide backward. His boots skidded across the dueling court, leaving lines of friction in polished stone.
He exhaled sharply, flicking his wrist. His arm stung, but the cut hadn't landed.
'Still too shallow…' he thought, teeth clenched.
Not the blade.
Not the stance.
But the resonance.
It was like trying to hear a conversation happening underwater.
So close—so damned close—but still unintelligible.
—CLANG—CLANG—SWOOSH—SHNK!
Rowen pressed forward with relentless rhythm, each movement a masterclass in control.
Lucavion countered again, ducking a wide slash and launching a snap-thrust at Rowen's exposed thigh—
—but Rowen turned with it, twisting his blade in a flawless redirect, pushing Lucavion's estoc off-course with surgical efficiency.
Lucavion narrowed his eyes.
Rowen was preparing something.
The tempo changed.
His steps became tighter. His shoulder lowered. His wrist angled ever-so-slightly inward.
Lucavion saw it in the eyes first—
That sharpened gaze.
The kind one only held before executing a finishing technique.
'This one…'
Lucavion felt the weight of it before it landed.
—WHHHMM—!
The air trembled again.
Rowen's blade dipped and rose with that faint hum of resonance, his feet setting into a perfect stance. The onlookers might not see it yet—but Lucavion knew.
He was about to decide it.
And yet, in that moment…
Lucavion watched.
Not to react.
Not to panic.
But to see.
And in that moment—
He took something.
Not the form.
Not the mana signature.
But something subtler.
'The pivot. That shift in the inner hip. The angle of breath before the strike…'
He'd seen this before.
No—he understood it now.
That minute motion.
The moment where intent condensed before execution.
The tell.
Rowen moved—
—SWOOSH!
A diagonal cut that blended into a full circle. A spiraling finisher from Form Eleven—meant to collapse defenses with simultaneous inside pressure.
But this time—
Lucavion's eyes widened.
Not in shock.
In realization.
There.
He stepped into it—into the spiral.
—CLANG!!
Estoc met sword, not in deflection, but redirection. Lucavion's blade didn't contest the power. It slid along the arc and pivoted the force away, bypassing the collision point.
A crack of energy burst between them.
The pressure broke.
Rowen's eyes flashed.
He staggered—not by strength—
—but by timing.
Lucavion had slipped through the rhythm.
He didn't find resonance.
Not yet.
But in its absence—
He picked something else.
And with that—
He twisted behind Rowen, feet skating across marble—
—estoc drawn back low—
"Mine now."
—SHHHNK!
Rowen felt it—
A tremor, not of fear, but of danger.
Lucavion had slipped into the rhythm.
Not by matching it.
By threading through it. Like a crack forming in glass.
His pivot was too perfect.
Too exact.
Rowen knew in that instant—this wouldn't end as planned.
Not unless—
His fingers tightened. His shoulders rolled slightly back.
'Then I'll end it with the one I never meant to use…'
He shifted.
To anyone watching, it would seem like nothing—just another stance. Just another beautiful Drayke form poised for execution.
But to him—
This was his serenade.
The one he was forbidden to use in real combat.
The one that demanded everything and returned nothing—because no mana path aligned with its frame. Because no magic could assist its intricacy.
Too inefficient.
Too beautiful.
He had called it a mistake.
But tonight—
It was perfect.
Rowen stepped forward.
And the sword moved.
Not like a weapon.
But like a dancer's arm.
Each step rolled seamlessly into the next, foot crossing behind foot, shoulders swaying, blade weaving in and out in figure-eights and crescent swirls.
The marble glinted beneath his polished boots, and the air split with the whisper of silver steel. It wasn't meant to kill. It wasn't meant to intimidate.
It was meant to fold reality around the blade—meant to force Lucavion into his tempo.
The crowd watched in stunned silence.
"A dance…?"
"No… that's a technique—"
Valeria stood frozen at the terrace edge, breath held. Even she hadn't seen this one.
And still—Lucavion didn't falter.
Didn't run.
Didn't retreat.
Instead—
His eyes widened.
But not in panic.
In recognition.
"Hehe…"
The sound cut through the hush like a crack in ice.
Then—
Lucavion moved.
No elegance. No flourish.
He stepped into Rowen's spiral again—this time not around it, but through it.
And that motion—
It was wrong.
Not clumsy.
Not amateur.
Just—
Unthinkable.
Something no noble would ever do. Something no sword school would ever teach. Something no one raised in the tradition of steel and legacy would even consider.
Lucavion shattered the spiral.
Not with strength.
Not with speed.
But with angle—
With a cut so deliberately flawed, it slipped through the perfection of Rowen's pattern and jammed its rhythm like a stone in a music box.
Rowen saw the estoc flash.
But what chilled him was the voice that came with it.
"[Sword of Annihilation.]"
Lucavion's left hand opened.
"Shatterpoint."
—CRAAANG!
The sound of collision was unreal. Not sharp like blades—but deep. Hollow. Like the echo of something cracking beneath weight it wasn't meant to bear.
Rowen's technique unraveled mid-swing.
Lucavion's estoc, now sideways against his chest, halted an inch from Rowen's throat.
But Rowen's blade?
It was already angled above Lucavion's heart.
The two froze.
Neither moving.
Neither breathing.
And then—
The air collapsed.
The resonance fell silent.
One heartbeat passed.
Two.
Then the judge's voice rang out:
"…Draw."
Murmurs rippled.
Not outcry.
Not disappointment.
Just stunned awe.
Lucavion exhaled, lowering his blade. A half-smile tugged his mouth.
"Not bad."
Rowen stared back—expression unreadable, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling.
He hadn't lost.
But it didn't feel like victory.
Because in Lucavion's broken rhythm…
He had seen something terrifying.
A sword that obeyed nothing.
And answered only itself.
Chapter 831: Breakpoint (2)
Valeria stood at the edge of the terrace, unmoving.
Her breath had stopped somewhere in the middle of that final clash. Her fingers, pale against the marble railing, dug just slightly into the stone—pressing down to keep herself grounded in this moment that felt too vast, too charged, too alive to be real.
The draw was announced.
But her ears barely registered it.
Her eyes were wide. Unblinking.
Because what she had just witnessed wasn't a duel.
It was a revelation.
Not a show of strength. Not a contest of pride.
It was a conversation between souls. Between two blades.
And her own sword, resting at her side like ceremonial jewelry, felt suddenly loud in its silence.
No—it wasn't silent.
It was calling her.
A quiet tug in her chest. A pull that started as awe, bled into hunger, and settled deep into the marrow of something wordless.
For the first time in her life, Valeria wished she hadn't been born a noble.
Not because of shame.
But because the weight of her blood, her name, her posture—all of it—felt suddenly like a wall between her and the kind of freedom she'd just seen.
That fight—
It hadn't followed the rules.
It had dismantled them.
Rowen's sword had been breathtaking—resonant, regal, forged through legacy and discipline. And Lucavion's?
Lucavion's was chaos made art.
Wounds wrapped in rhythm. Defiance dressed in steel.
Together, they hadn't just fought—they had spoken in a language that no title, no lineage, no one had ever taught her.
She wanted to answer it.
She had never wanted to swing her sword more in her entire life.
Every part of her, from the knots of muscle in her shoulders to the stillness in her gut, buzzed with the urge to move.
To draw her blade and test something.
Not to fight.
To reach.
To stretch past the stagnation she hadn't wanted to admit, the dull edges that had begun to form on her instincts despite how hard she'd trained.
Because she had been training.
Endlessly.
She had been refining her footwork. Studying combat theory. Cultivating night after night until her core began to pulse with depth.
And still, her sword had felt like it was waiting for something.
Now, she knew what.
This.
This was the thing her blade had been missing.
Not power.
Not prestige.
But this.
That fight didn't unfold like a spar or a contest. It unfurled like a truth being cut open.
And it was that truth that stirred the hunger in her—burning now behind her ribs, climbing up her spine, tightening in her throat until it almost felt like tears.
'So that's it…'
Her eyes dropped briefly to her palm—one that had wielded countless forms, one that had parried hundreds of strikes.
And yet, it had never shaken like this.
She closed her hand slowly into a fist.
This was an eye-opener.
Not because she'd seen something greater than her.
But because she'd remembered the feeling when she picked up the sword in the first time.
It was not a feeling one felt when…
To prove oneself…
Or to restore their family….
It was a feeling that she was feeling right now.
To chase a horizon that could never be fully grasped.
To carve through silence and find herself in the echo.
Valeria breathed in deeply, her jaw clenched, eyes still locked on the field below.
At that time when she was watching….
Initially, she was watching just to see Lucavion's current prowess and Rowen as well.
…And then, it clicked.
Not in sound.
But in sense.
When Rowen had stepped into that final form—when his blade spiraled like a dancer's ribbon, each movement deliberate, breathless, beautiful—Valeria hadn't just admired it.
She recognized it.
Not as a technique she had studied. Not from the pages of Drayke forms or noble archives.
But in her body.
Her breath had matched his without realizing.
Her pulse had synchronized with that rhythm.
It wasn't Rowen she was mimicking.
It was something inside herself that stirred when she saw him move.
And then—Lucavion.
When he moved…
When his eyes locked onto Rowen's spiral, dissecting its elegance, analyzing its rhythm only to shatter it with a cut no form could contain—
Her hand had tingled.
Not from nerves.
From resonance.
A phantom twitch, just under the surface of her palm. A tremor that made her fingers itch for a hilt. Her mana pathways—normally slow to stir in calm—had flowed to her limbs like heat to metal, unbidden.
She hadn't seen that motion before.
But her body wanted to follow it.
Her bones responded not like a noble observing swordplay, but like a swordswoman hearing a song.
Her sword had never sung to her before.
But now?
Now it hummed.
A low note. An unfinished line of melody. Not quite resonance. But not silence either.
Something was opening.
For the first time in what felt like years, Valeria felt like she wasn't chasing echoes of other people's legacies. She wasn't trying to recover what was lost in the Olarion downfall. She wasn't trying to prove herself worthy of some inherited myth.
She was moving forward.
Not back.
Not up.
Forward.
Toward a path she couldn't name.
And somehow—somehow—it didn't matter that she hadn't touched [Sword Resonance] yet.
Because for the first time, she wasn't waiting for it to come from her family's blood.
Or a title.
Or permission.
It would come from her.
She didn't have to imitate Rowen.
She didn't have to rival Lucavion.
She just had to step in.
That feeling—when her fingers twitched in response to Lucavion's pivot, when her breath caught in rhythm with Rowen's flow—that was her sword reacting.
That was her answer.
The echo had reached her.
And now—she would answer back.
Valeria's grip loosened slowly from the railing.
Her gaze lifted, no longer stunned, no longer wide with awe—but sharp with focus.
Determined.
That alone was enough.
****
Lucavion's intervention didn't just catch Priscilla off guard.
It unsettled her.
She had been bracing herself—not for help, but for isolation. For the shame that would settle in quietly like fog, for the slow stitching of composure after another scene she couldn't control. And yet, when Thalor's spell wrapped around her throat like a collar of silence, it hadn't been the guards who moved. Not Rowen. Not the courtiers.
It had been Lucavion.
And not just sensing it—that would've been impressive enough. Thalor's spells were refined, cloaked, nearly imperceptible. Most mages wouldn't have picked it up unless they were targeted themselves.
But Lucavion had.
He'd sensed it.
And then he acted.
That was the part she couldn't explain. Why?
Because he had no reason to. No political alignment with her. No social favor to gain. If anything, defending her now was risky—publicly and privately. Lucien would take it as rebellion. Thalor had already twisted it as provocation.
She should have been angry.
Should have been humiliated all over again.
And yet—
There had been something terrifyingly precise in how Lucavion diffused it. No flourish. No declarations. Just… presence. A smile. A flick of his mana. A single well-timed line:
| "I suppose I've become a little sensitive to mana." |
It was surgical.
Calculated.
But underneath it all, she couldn't shake the knot forming in her stomach. Because if he really was as calculated as he appeared, then that means he intervened for a reason.
And that reason—it couldn't be pity. Not from Lucavion.
Not from him.
So what, then?
'Did I cause this? Again?'
It was a quiet thought. A guilty one. One that clawed against the edges of her pride.
She didn't want to be the reason someone else got hurt.
She didn't want to owe anything. Not to him. Not after everything.
Yet, it had happened, but this scene….
She really was not expecting that.