The Training Field – Dusk
Crimson light spilled over the field like blood on silk. Dust rose in shimmering veils with every step, every clash-every fall.
Ten men already lay strewn across the packed dirt, groaning or unconscious, their swords clattering uselessly beside them. The air was thick with sweat, the metallic tang of fear, and the heavy thrum of an unrelenting will.
And at the eye of the storm—The Crown Prince.
A strip of black cloth was tied snug across his eyes, concealing them completely, His robe was loosened at the collar, sleeves tied back at the elbows, revealing the taut flex of muscle and the sheen of sweat running down his arms. Strands of damp, jet-black hair clung to his cheek as he turned his head slightly. His blade gleamed—a blur with every movement.
"Next," he said, voice low, dangerous.
The remaining ten hesitated. Hands trembled on hilts. No one stepped forward.
Then he moved.
In a heartbeat, two men lunged—foolish, desperate. His footwork spun between them like smoke caught in a gale. One sword deflected with a ringing clash, the other struck empty air. Akira twisted, drove an elbow into one's gut, disarmed the other with a flourish that sent the sword flying.
The blade landed point-first into the ground.
Another man fell back. "G-Gods…"
From the shadows, behind a wooden support beam, three figures crouched—nearly hidden in the creeping twilight.
"Why is His Highness so furious today?" whispered the youngest, eyes wide with awe. "He's fighting like he wants to cut through a mountain."
"Or the throne," muttered the second, a man with a faint scar running down his temple. "Look at those men—he hasn't taken a single hit. Not even a graze."
The old man with the thick mustache narrowed his eyes, watching Akira drive another soldier to the ground with a sharp crack of his blade's flat edge. "I've never seen His Highness waste energy on those who can't withstand even a tenth of his speed," he murmured. "He usually avoids sparring with anyone weaker than him… afraid he'll hurt them by mistake."
"Then why's he doing this now?" the younger man asked, sweat forming on his brow from the tension in the air.
Akira's voice cracked across the field like thunder.
"You're too slow! Step in or step out!"
Another soldier went flying across the dust, weapon clattering beside him.
The youngest crouched lower, eyes darting nervously. "The 4th Prince… Grandpa, didn't you say His Highness only sparred with him when he actually wanted to train? Was he strong enough to match him?"
The old man's eyes glinted with something between memory and melancholy. "He could never match him. Not in strength. But the Crown Prince always lost to him in the end."
"Wait… what?" the boy blinked, confused.
The man with the scar scoffed quietly. "That's because the Crown Prince always broke the 4th Prince's sword in the middle of their duels—every single time. Then he'd apologize for ruining it and declare the 4th the winner… to make things fair."
"…That's ridiculous," the boy muttered, though something in his tone suggested admiration. "So there's no one who could truly rival him?"
The old man sighed, gaze returning to the blindfolded figure who stood in the fading light like a storm held by thread. "He is the one chosen by the heavens—the one and only bearer of the Supreme God's blessing. You think anyone else could match him?"
"Not even the Third Princess?" the boy asked, breath catching.
"She's the most skilled warrior in the inner palace," the scarred man replied. "But even she couldn't suppress him. At best, she slowed him down."
The three fell silent, watching the lone figure on the battlefield, surrounded by fallen bodies and broken blades.
"This isn't training," the youngest whispered, barely breathing. "This is something else. And it's not fair…"
"What's unfair in this?" the scarred man murmured, frowning.
"I don't know—but he should stop. They'll die from exhaustion before they can even land a single strike!"
The old man didn't answer with words. Instead, he smacked the backs of both their heads with a sharp whack of his hand.
"Idiots," he hissed. "Keep your tongues in your mouths—or he'll have them cut out for sneaking on him again."
They fell quiet. But not for long.
Because just then steel met steel with a deafening clang. A thunderclap that seemed to crack the air in two. One opponent, forced back by sheer force, lost his grip and his blade went flying—not forward, not to the ground…It spun deadly, sharp and flew straight toward the wooden beam behind which they crouched.
The sword sliced through the air, passing inches from the old man's face, and slammed into the beam behind them with a final, shuddering thunk.
None of them moved.
Three pale faces. Three pairs of wide, terrified eyes.
"…RUN," the youngest squeaked.
Chaos followed.
They scrambled back into the shadows like startled rats—tripping over roots, stepping on each other's feet.
"Move, old man—my leg!"
"Your leg?! My back's broken, you brat—"
"Shut up and run—he heard us!"
Back on the field, Akira stood alone.
His chest rose and fell steadily, sweat glistening on his skin, blade catching the last gold of the dying light. Across from him, the last opponent swayed on his feet—then collapsed with a dull thud, unconscious before his body hit the ground.
Akira stepped forward, stopped, and exhaled sharply. He threw his sword down with a sharp clang, the metal ringing across the field.
"Useless," he muttered. "Everyone is useless."
A slow clap echoed through the quiet.
Akira's head turned, blindfold shifting slightly with the motion.
"Daita?" he asked, voice edged with recognition.
From the shade of the colonnade, Daita emerged with his usual easy gait, a half-eaten apple in hand and a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Your senses never lie. It's me."
Akira didn't reply immediately, his breath still heavy from the bout. Daita's eyes scanned the field of scattered men, groaning or knocked out cold.
"Impressive," Daita said, biting into the apple again. "Brutal, but impressive. They'll be walking with limps for weeks."
Akira didn't answer.
Daita tilted his head, examining him. "You don't usually spar with those who can't hold their stance longer than three steps. So tell me… why the fury?"
Akira's silence was its own response.
"Hmm…" Daita narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me it's distraction. Is that it? You're distracted. And furious."
Still no answer.
Daita sighed, turning slightly, raising the apple in farewell. "Well, I didn't come just to watch your glorious rampage." He glanced over his shoulder. "The quadruplets return tomorrow at dawn," Daita said, his voice light but edged with purpose. "I came to remind you. In case you forgot—since something's clearly gnawing at your temper."
With that, he turned on his heel and casually tossed the apple over his shoulder—straight at Akira, and with far more force than necessary.
In a blink, his blade flashed and the apple split mid-air into four neat slices, each piece falling in a soft arc to the earth.
Akira muttered, low but clear,
"…I never forgot."
"Didn't think so." Daita paused, then added dryly, "I see… you've changed your way of welcoming them? All this rage, maybe you're just preparing for your four headaches to return to the palace."
Daita smirked to himself, clearly satisfied, and walked off without another word, his boots crunching against the gravel.
Behind him, Akira stood still for a long moment, the sliced apple pieces at his feet.
something under his breath quiet, sharp, and entirely unexpected.
And yet… whatever it was, it lingered in the air like a shadow refusing to lift.