The Bronze Halls of Krampbat were alive with chatter.For once, not about drills, not about hunts — but about a boy.
Einar Frostval.
His eyes.Azure. Bright as shards of glacier under sunlight, and just as cutting.
Blue eyes were nothing new here. Some storm-grey, some pale as mist, some deep as fjords. But this? This particular blaze of color belonged to him alone. And like moths to fire, whispers followed.
Girls pressed near him in classes, teasing softly, brushing his hair as though the secret of the shimmer hid underneath. At first, he laughed with them, bold and bright. But slowly, the weight pressed down. His laughter became glances, his replies became stammers, until silence was safer than attention.
And yet… something else stirred.
One lecture cut sharper than all others. The tutor demonstrated a move — a way of fusing all of one's energy into a single strike. Risky. Dangerous. But devastating.
The lesson struck Einar deeper than any taunt or tease.If I can do that… if I can carry enough energy, I won't be just another boy fumbling in bronze. I'll be a FORCE.
From then on, his world narrowed into discipline. Breathing exercises while others rested. Meditations until his body shook. He chased one thing only: capacity. The ability to store, endure, and release power until the strike could be called his own KITSATSUWAZA.
The Silver Halls told another story.
Harald Frostval entered them bright-eyed. The silver banners hung high, the teachers spoke with weight, and for a time, the halls felt like a promise kept.
Until the beast.
A frost-born dire bear, its breath curling into smoke that froze in midair. Harald faced it in his third month. The fight lasted SECONDS. One swipe broke his stance, one roar shattered his courage. When the instructors dragged him out bleeding, his sword still lay in the snow — unblooded, untouched.
Shame burned hotter than the wounds.
The whispers started before he healed."Pathetic.""Blue-eyed fraud.""Silver Halls? He belongs gutting fish, not wielding blades."
Even instructors joined the chorus. One, after a botched drill, said it plainly:"Maybe we admitted the WRONG Frostval."
For weeks, Harald broke quietly. But he refused to stay broken. Slowly, stubbornly, he clawed back. Sword drills at dawn, bruised knuckles against frozen dummies, memorizing stances until he corrected seniors mid-form.
That was when the tone shifted.Mockery became envy.
Some couldn't bear it. A dull-eyed boy, a peasant by blood, standing taller than them in lessons? It was an INSULT to their pride. So they set a trap.
The night was cruel.
Drugged wine slipped into his cup. A shove into the cold corridors. His clothes torn away until he lay half-naked across the stone. When Harald woke, laughter filled the halls. Boys and girls pointing, jeering, spitting names that cut deeper than any blade.
And then—Astrid.
Her hair wild from running, her eyes aflame with betrayal. She had heard the rumors. She had doubted them. But the sight before her — bruised, shirt torn, sprawled on the stone — broke something inside her.
"Tell me," she said, her voice trembling, loud enough for all to hear. "Tell me I haven't been a fool, Harald. Tell me this isn't what it looks like."
Every part of him screamed to reach out, to beg her to listen. But his throat burned raw, his pride bled into shame, and the stares crushed him. All that came out was fury.
"You think I'd crawl to someone else? That I'd drag myself this low for pleasure? You think so little of me, Astrid?"
Her lip curled, tears cutting down her face."All I see is a boy who fails beasts, fails himself, and now fails ME. You've become exactly what they whisper."
The words sliced him clean through. Something inside cracked — something he wasn't sure could mend.
"Then LEAVE. If their lies mean more to you than I do, then I was a fool to think you ever stood beside me."
Her silence cut sharper than any sword. When she turned away, her voice was ice."No, Harald. The fool was me."
The torches flickered. The jeers hushed. And in that silence, Harald Frostval stood more ALONE than ever.
Far away, in the Bronze Halls, Einar trained.
He forced his breath into rhythm, body trembling as he repeated the cycle for the hundredth time. The strain pulled his bones taut, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Then—
A gust tore through the clearing, the trees bowing as though in reverence.
From between them stepped a figure. A young man, or perhaps something more. Long black hair spilled past his waist, his features sharp enough to be mistaken for divine. For a heartbeat, Einar thought it a goddess who had descended from the mountain's crown.
His face warmed, his body stiffened, words tangled. Only when the stranger spoke did the illusion break.
"You've been pushing hard for someone so young."
Embarrassment turned into awkward laughter, then eased into conversation. Names exchanged, glances softened.
The man's gaze cut sharp, seeing more than Einar said."You weren't just drilling. You're expanding your reserves. Trying to shape something greater. A Kitsatsuwaza, yes?"
Einar froze."Well… yeah. But truth is, I'm not getting much out of it."
The man's lips curved into a knowing smile. The wind rose again, branches dancing."There is another way."
The forest hushed. Even the birds stilled. But before more could be said—
"HEY EINAR! WAKE UP, WAKE UP!"
The vision shattered.
Xitij's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him like a fisherman rattling a slippery catch.
Einar blinked, dazed. "Huh? What? Where—"
Rosé crouched beside him, smirk tugging at her lips."Looks like you fell asleep after sniffing that pretty little red flower."
Xitij groaned."For REAL, man? You've got to rack up at least THIRTY points today, and I haven't even taught you how to hunt yet! Please, tell me you've got at least ONE decent technique?"
Einar grinned, puffing his chest."Oh, I've got a technique alright. The BEST one."
The woods went silent. Rosé tilted her head. Xitij's jaw hung loose. Both shared the same thought, unspoken but sharp:
…That has to be an exaggeration. But look at those eyes. If we crush him now, he'll never forgive us.
Narrator: Ah, Einar. Your gleaming-eyed confidence may yet prove fatal. Not to monsters, no. But to Rosé, who wields sarcasm sharper than steel.
Writer: But let us not spoil the stage just yet. Your "ultimate move" waits for another dawn, young Frostval. For now… AU REVOIR.