Aron gasped for breath, his chest heaving as if he had been drowning. Sweat rolled down his face, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his hands trembled as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. His eyes snapped open, wide and alert, and he found himself lying on the blanket in his room.
"What… was that?" he whispered to himself, still shaken.
His heart pounded like a drum, replaying the fragments of his dream—or perhaps it was something more. He remembered the sensation vividly: the cold embrace of death.
"He killed me," Aron muttered in disbelief, his voice quivering. "But… I didn't feel pain."
He sat upright, folding his wrist and staring at his hand as if the answer would reveal itself there. It was whole, unmarked, yet the memory of death lingered like smoke that refused to fade. He tried to shake it away, taking a deep breath. Slowly, he forced himself to stand, his body heavy but his mind restless.
Aron washed his face, freshened up, and clothed himself. Routine steadied him. He had plans today, after all—the city of training awaited, with its grand tournament of the elites.
He opened the door to step outside, and the world greeted him with warmth. Blessed rays of sunlight streamed down, brushing his skin with a gentle touch. The golden beams seemed almost heavenly, chasing away the shadows that haunted his thoughts. The breeze was swift yet comforting, tugging at his hair in playful whispers.
Aron walked towards the old well, a bucket dangling from his hand. His goat bleated nearby, waiting patiently. With practiced ease, Aron tied the rope to the bucket, lowered it into the well, and turned the handle. The creak of the mechanism filled the air until the bucket resurfaced, brimming with cool water. He poured it out for the goat, setting food beside it as well.
The goat munched happily, and Aron couldn't help but smile. He crouched down, gently patting the animal's head.
"I won't be around for quite a while," he said softly, as though the goat could understand. "So eat plenty, alright?"
The goat bleated again, as if in response, and Aron chuckled faintly.
Just then, a wooden cart rolled into view, pulled by a weary horse along the rocky road. The creak of wheels and the rhythmic clop of hooves drew Aron's attention. The cart slowed to a halt before him, and from it jumped a familiar figure.
Carlos.
"Aron!" Carlos called, grinning ear to ear. "I got the cart—and the thing is, I got it for free!" His excitement was impossible to miss.
Aron raised a brow. "Free? And how exactly did you manage that?"
Carlos puffed up his chest, proud. "Mr. Tobirama gave it to me. Said he was heading somewhere and told me to take care of it."
"Tobirama?" Aron repeated, curiosity piqued.
"Yeah," Carlos nodded. "He rents things out in the village. Real helpful man, honestly. Anyway, let's not waste time. Pack up—we shouldn't be late."
Aron was already prepared. His bag, filled with essentials, leaned against the door. He slung it over his shoulder, hopped onto the cart, and settled into place.
"Let's go," Carlos said, flicking the ropes. The horse snorted, hooves striking the dirt as the cart lurched forward. The sudden motion shook both boys, but they laughed it off as the journey began.
The cart creaked and rattled with every bump, its wooden frame groaning as it rolled over rocks and uneven ground. Dust kicked up behind them, and the vibrations made Aron grip the side of the cart.
"It's been a while," Aron said, half to himself. "I wonder if I'll see my friend again."
Carlos glanced at him. "Friend? You actually have friends there?"
Aron smirked faintly. "Yes. When I first traveled to Wingman City, I met a master. He took me in, sheltered me… even told me to learn blacksmithing."
Carlos frowned. "Blacksmithing? Why would he say that?"
Aron's gaze dropped, lost in thought. "I don't know," he admitted. "But maybe… it had to do with the blade. The Death Blade. It can only be fixed by the chosen one."
His mind flashed to the weapon he had left behind at home. A pang of regret stung him, but before the thought could linger, the cart hit a rock. The jolt shook him from his reflection, snapping him back to the present.
Carlos broke the silence. "You know who the best fighter this year is? The one everyone expects to win?"
Aron tilted his head. "Oh? Who's that?"
"I don't remember the name," Carlos admitted sheepishly. "But I heard he's got brownish hair and is about my height."
Aron smirked knowingly. "Lilith? He was shorter than me, with brownish hair. Maybe it's him. We'll see when we arrive."
The cart rumbled on, the horizon slowly shifting to reveal the outskirts of the city. The journey was short, filled with laughter, jokes, and the simple joy of companionship. The sun still shone brightly, illuminating the endless farmlands and painting the world in golden hues.
Elsewhere, a young man sat quietly on a wooden chair. His body was muscular, his height average, and his brown hair messy yet striking under the daylight. His eyes, however, were fixed not on the sky nor the world beyond, but on the ground—on ants scurrying below.
They carried crumbs larger than themselves, working together with tireless determination. Lilith Thom's gaze softened for a moment as he watched them. But then his thoughts returned, heavy and unrelenting.
Where could I even find the red blade? Where did he leave it?
The questions swirled endlessly in his mind.
Suddenly, a voice thundered across the grounds.
"Lilith Thoms! Son of Yade!"
Lilith's head snapped up. He rose from the chair, his sword glinting at his side. The aura that radiated from him was ferocious, heavy with intent. He walked towards the arena, dust swirling around his boots. It was time for a practice match.
"So this is the punk everyone's talking about?" a man sneered from across the field. "Doesn't look like much. Weakling, if you ask me."
Lilith smirked, stopping in place. His opponent's words didn't bother him—they amused him.
"Let's see what you're made of," Lilith said, his voice calm yet edged with fire.
The signal was given. Swords were permitted, but killing was forbidden. The rules were simple: first to knock the other down would win.
The man lunged first, throwing a flurry of punches instead of drawing his blade. Lilith dodged them effortlessly, his movements sharp and precise.
No sword? Lilith thought, amused. Underestimating me, huh?
With a grin, Lilith tossed his own sword aside. Gasps echoed through the crowd.
Then he vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he reappeared behind his opponent, delivering a single, bone-rattling side kick. The force sent the man flying across the arena, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.
Before he could recover, Lilith closed in, landing another devastating kick to his face. The man was sent sprawling into the wall, crumpling in defeat. The match was over almost as soon as it had begun.
The crowd roared, but Lilith paid them no mind. He picked up his sword calmly and walked towards the exit.
"The tournament," he muttered under his breath. "I wish Aron were here…"
The people had given him many names, whispered in admiration and awe. But the one that lingered, the one that echoed loudest, was a single title:
RedReign.