Arvel's gaze was sharp, weighing every flicker of my expression as though peeling back the layers of my soul.
"Tell me, Kael… do you want to survive?"
The words hung in the air like a blade pressed against my throat.
For a moment, I hesitated. Images flooded my mind—darkness, the tearing jaws of the hounds, the suffocating cold as life slipped away. And then, brighter ones: Liana's tears soaking into my shoulder, her trembling arms holding me as if she could anchor me to this world, the warmth of her light chasing away the void.
I clenched my fists. My voice came out rough, but steady.
"Yes."
Arvel's eyes narrowed, but I didn't falter.
"I want to survive. I want to protect the people who matter to me. Even if I have to break myself a thousand times, I'll live. Because if I fall… then the ones I love fall too."
The silence that followed was heavy. Arvel didn't move, didn't speak. But I thought—just for a heartbeat—I saw the faintest curve of approval in his eyes.
He moved away from the window and sank into the chair. I stepped forward, standing before him.
"So, Kael… why don't you practice the Thorne Spear Style? It's one of the finest spear arts in the world—our family's pride. A five–star art."
He wasn't wrong.
Every discipline—whether martial arts like swordsmanship, spearplay, or even bare–handed combat, or mystical practices like mana circulation, recovery, or channeling—possessed specialized techniques. These techniques weren't mere movements. They were structured methods that shaped mana or aura into lethal forms of combat or utility.
That was what Arts truly were.
Not just skills, but refined disciplines carrying destructive weight.
Arts were measured by stars.
One star marked the weakest, while seven stars belonged only to myth. In the Human Federation, five–star arts stood as the peak. Beyond that, the other races guarded their six–star arts, reserved for SSS–rank monsters and legends, not ordinary men.
And the Thorne family… possessed one of those rare five–star arts.
The Thorne Spear Art.
But I lowered my eyes, a bitter taste on my tongue.
"I can't use it."
I lowered my head slightly.
"I can only use two of the eight forms… and even those, I haven't mastered."
My voice was steady, but the weight of the truth pressed against my chest.
"The spear isn't my weapon," I added, fingers brushing against the hilt at my side. "My blade is the katana."
The commander's eyes lingered on me, unreadable as always.
"In the future, I'll need a sword art… a real one," I said, forcing the words out. "Something that matches me."
He said nothing, but I could feel his gaze judging, measuring.
Of course, I already knew where I would find the perfect sword art.
But that was for later.
For now… I had to survive, endure, and grow stronger within these walls.
"A sword art, you say?"
Commander Arvell's voice was calm, but there was a weight behind his words. "Do you think finding a sword art is easy? With the Thorne family's influence, of course, you could acquire one. But understand this—those sword arts sold in the markets, no matter how flashy, are little more than hollow shells. Only the arts guarded by ancient families, passed down generation after generation, are true legacies. With them, heirs stand at the peak of their era. Without them, even talent struggles to keep up
He was right. The market was flooded with sword arts, but most were hollow—weak foundations with no true power. Only the arts protected by ancient bloodlines, handed down through countless heirs, were worth learning. And the one I was destined to obtain in the future… one of those ancient legacies. But I couldn't tell Commander that.
"So, Kael," he said, eyes narrowing as though weighing something, "do you want to learn my sword art?"
My mind froze. His sword art? Was he truly offering me that? Did he even have one worth mentioning? And if he did, why… why would he teach it to me?
Sword arts weren't just techniques. They were a legacy. A treasure guarded with blood and pride. Families never handed them to outsiders. Masters rarely taught them to anyone outside their chosen heir. Yet here he was—Commander Arvell—offering me his.
"Your sword art, Commander?" I asked carefully.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "My own. One I created from nothing… and raised to the level of a four-star art."
A Four-Star Sword Art.
Yes, one step below the legendary Five-Star Arts—yet in truth, it was not any lesser. Even on the black market, such arts appeared only rarely. One or two at most, snatched away before anyone else could blink.
Mastered to completion, a Four-Star Art could rival a Five-Star in sheer might. That was why noble families treated them as legacies, passing them down through generations as treasures more valuable than gold.
Creating such an art was no simple feat. It was said to demand not years, but lifetimes. Many swordsmen devoted everything—their bodies, their souls, their very bloodline—to perfect a single art, only to fall short.
The Imperial Fangs of Thorne, the family's pride, was proof of that struggle. History claimed the first ancestor forged it only after three hundred years of relentless training. And at that time… he stood at the peak of SSS rank.
Then how much must the Commander have trained?
"I can see you find it hard to believe, but fret not—it's the truth.
I have been commander of this fortress long before your father succeeded the previous lord. In fact, I was appointed by your grandfather—my true lord."
His words carried a weight that pressed on my chest.
"My father…" I whispered, still trying to process. "He's been head of House Thorne for about twenty-five years… ever since my grandfather passed."
The commander's gaze sharpened, voice steady as iron.
"Do you know how long an S-rank can live, boy? Up to three hundred years. An SS-rank… seven hundred or more. And the SSS-ranks? They are nearly immortal. Every one of them alive today has walked this world for over a thousand years."
A chill ran down my spine.
That meant… the man before me had been standing guard at this fortress for more than a hundred years. Watching. Waiting. Serving.
"So, Kael," Commander Arvell's voice was steady, his eyes locked on mine, "do you want to learn my sword art?"
It was time to decide.
The answer seemed obvious—of course I wanted to. Yet, my mind weighed the future carefully. The sword art I would one day obtain… it was one of the most ancient, most forbidden techniques in existence. If anyone discovered I wielded it, the consequences would be catastrophic. Enemies, suspicion, fear—they would all come crashing down on me before I was strong enough to survive it.
That meant I needed a mask. A shield.
Commander Arvell's sword art could be that mask. To the world, I would be his disciple, practicing his techniques. My true art would remain hidden, revealed only in dire moments or when I had grown powerful enough to protect it.
I looked into the commander's stern gaze, and my decision was already made.
"Yes," I said firmly, my voice steady. "I want to learn your sword art."
His lips curled into the faintest trace of approval. "Good. Then go and rest for today. From tomorrow onward, you will no longer train with the other knights. You will train under me alone—until you master the first two forms."
His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp as blades. "From tomorrow… your real training begins, Kael."
I rose to my feet, bowed deeply, and said, "Thank you, Commander."
He didn't reply. With a simple wave of his hand, he dismissed me.
And so, with a strange fire stirring in my chest, I turned and walked away. Tomorrow, everything would change.