I let my fingertips brush across the mark etched into my skin, and with a gentle surge of energy, the mark responded—pulsing once before the space in front of me folded inward like water disturbed by a single drop. In the span of a heartbeat, the weight I had come to know like breath returned to my palm—my crimson blade, curved and single-edged, warm as always, as if it had been waiting patiently for my call. It didn't simply rest in my hand—it belonged there, vibrating with a low, steady hum that only I could hear, as if it had awakened from a long slumber and was already hungry for battle. The light caught the edge of the blade and flickered along its length like a whisper of flame.
A gasp broke the hush, sharp and utterly unprepared.
"A… storage mark?!" the noble boy sputtered. He stumbled a step forward, eyes wide, lips barely moving around the words as he stared at the glowing sigil on the back of my hand. "That… that's impossible. Those things cost a fortune."
I didn't answer him. I didn't even look his way. His reaction wasn't surprising—humans here still relied on printed marks, cheap and fragile things that could barely hold ten swords and yet drained the vaults of nobles. I remembered Master once laughing about it, calling Humans systems primitive. To me, it was a convenience. To them, it was a symbol of luxury. I had no intention of explaining that difference.
Instead, I focused on the man in front of me.
He stood in the center of the courtyard, his stance measured and refined. There was no wasted movement in the way he held his blade, no slack in his posture. His presence was heavy—not because of any overwhelming aura, but because of the confidence that came from experience. His name had already been whispered earlier—Anshar. A mid-level aura controller. A soldier with battlefield weight behind him. He radiated the calm of someone who had trained his whole life to never be surprised.
But he was already making a mistake.
I could see it in his eyes. He hadn't registered me as a threat.
I stepped forward without rushing, my voice steady, unhurried. "We're about to duel," I said, eyes locking with his. "Wouldn't it be proper to introduce ourselves first?"
He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the formality. "Anshar," he replied, tone clipped and confident. "Middle-level aura controller." He gave me a faint smirk, not born from cruelty, but from certainty that this would be short. "And you?"
I kept my expression neutral.
'If I told him the truth, he'd hesitate—and this would be over too quickly. Master said I didn't need to go all out against someone like him. Even if I held back, it'd be enough.'
"Rayon Krater," I said simply. "Middle-level aura controller."
The air seemed to freeze for half a second. Anshar's eyes widened—just slightly—but enough for me to catch it. His grip adjusted instinctively on his sword. "Impossible," he muttered under his breath, not to me, but to himself. "You're a middle-level controller at your age?" And then his gaze dropped to my blade. "Wait… you're not just that. You're an augmenter."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. A faint smile tugged at the edge of my mouth, a small curve of amusement that confirmed everything he feared.
Behind him, the noble boy shifted, visibly shaken now. His hands were shaking, but he tried to tuck them behind his back, clinging to whatever pride he had left. His guards looked unsure, eyes darting between Anshar and me.
Anshar narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
"You insulted the young master," he said firmly, his tone hardening like metal cooling in water. "You'll face the consequences."
And just like that—without ceremony, without a shout—he lunged.
The steel came at me in a clean arc, precise and fast, honed through repetition and instinct.
CLANG!
His blade met mine with a deafening spark. The impact was sharp. Strong. Enough to break a lesser opponent's stance.
But I barely moved.
I stood still, letting the momentum disperse through my body with a practiced shift of weight, a small turn of the foot, a flick of the wrist that made his power feel hollow. He attacked again—faster this time, more desperate. His blade came from the side, low and quick, but I turned with it, letting the wind of the strike brusmh past as I deflected it with almost lazy ease.
My body remembered Liam's wild swings from sparring. He had more unpredictability than this.
I moved lightly, without strain, as though the duel was happening a layer beneath me. Anshar's footwork was tight, sharp, his attacks carried authority—but it was clear now: he was aiming to test me, and he was failing. Every clash of our blades pushed him closer to the edge.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Again and again, I blocked without effort. I didn't even raise my voice. I let him see the inevitability in my stillness.
His expression darkened.
He stepped back, panting now, frustration evident.
"Fight me properly," he snapped. "You mock me by holding back!"
I tilted my head, my voice calm—gentle, almost. "If I fought you properly, you'd be lying on the ground by now."
I could have left it at that, but I didn't.
I chuckled softly, not cruelly—but with honest amusement.
And then I laughed.
In the middle of the courtyard, while our blades were still warm from contact, I laughed aloud. Not to insult him, not to enrage him—but because the whole situation was absurd. Because I couldn't help it.
The air thickened instantly.
Anshar's aura exploded.
"I was holding back because you're a boy," he growled, "but now—"
The ground shivered as his energy erupted, rolling outward like a pressure wave. His blade shimmered, wrapped in a thick coil of aura. The air around him warped, distorted. Heat rippled across the stone. Even the noble boy looked thrilled for a moment, convinced this was his guard's victory.
But I stood still. No stance. No charge.
I waited. And just as Anshar closed the distance—sword howling with power, crashing toward my chest like a bolt from the sky—I moved.
No, not moved—responded.
I channeled aura into my crimson blade and lifted it in one, clean motion.
CLASH!
The force of impact tore through the courtyard.
CRACK.
The sound that followed was sharper than anything before.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
Then his sword shattered.
The fragments burst outward like glass under pressure, steel flying in all directions. The hilt remained in his hand, but the blade—it was gone. Reduced to nothing but memory.
Anshar stepped back, disbelief painted across his face. He stared down at the broken weapon in his hands, at the empty space where his confidence had been.
I exhaled, then lowered my sword gently, letting the hum subside.
"What happened?" I asked quietly. "Weren't you going to punish me?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
I took a step toward him.
He flinched—just once.
And in that moment, everything changed.
I said, my voice colder and heavier, "If this is the best the noble houses can offer... then I'm disappointed."
I walked past the line where our swords had last met and stopped just close enough for him to hear my final words.
"This wasn't a real battle," I whispered, tone dipping into something colder, something darker, "but if it were…"
I leaned in slightly, gaze unblinking.
"I would have torn you into small, precise pieces like your sword."
Behind him, Calvin finally moved. His eyes met mine—and there was no disdain in them. No fear. Just quiet astonishment. As if something he didn't fully understand had just unfolded in front of him.
The noble boy, desperate not to lose face, forced himself to speak, though his voice was faint.
"You'll… regret this."
I smiled. Calm and composed. "I'm looking forward to it."