Arion didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment, he was pushing himself deeper into the ruins—legs barely holding, breath scraping in his throat, hands trembling around the rusted sword.
The next moment, exhaustion slammed into him like a hammer. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and he slumped behind a fallen stone column.
He tried to fight the sleep crawling up his spine.
He told himself he'd rest "only for a second."
Just one second to breathe.
Just one second to stop shaking.
But his body was past its limit.
Too much running.
Too much fear.
Too much loss.
His eyes slid shut before he realized it.
He woke up standing.
No sharp pain.
No cold ground.
No ruined village.
Just… a pale-blue emptiness stretching endlessly in all directions.
Arion blinked hard.
His heartbeat steady.
His breathing normal.
Am I dreaming?
It felt wrong.
Too vivid.
Too solid.
The "ground" under his feet was smooth like polished stone but neither cold nor warm. The sky above was gray, swirling like a storm that never formed. The air carried no wind, no scent—just silence. A heavy, watchful silence.
Then he saw him.
A boy stood about ten paces away.
Same age as Arion.
Same height.
But everything else was different.
The boy's posture was straight.
His shoulders squared.
His grip on the sword—the real sword in his hand—was practiced, confident, almost noble. His clothes were clean and fitted, like someone who'd never known a day of running or hunger.
And his eyes…
Cold. Focused. Studying Arion like a teacher evaluating a failed student.
Arion tightened his grip on the rusted blade, which felt heavier in this strange place.
The boy lifted his sword slightly—not threateningly, but formally.
"State your stance."
Arion blinked.
"What?"
The boy frowned, as though Arion's existence annoyed him.
"You step into the echo-ring without a stance? Reckless."
Arion didn't understand a word, but his gut told him one thing:
This wasn't a normal dream.
Nothing about this place felt like the wandering, chaotic dreams he'd had before.
This felt structured.
Defined.
Like a training ground designed by someone with discipline carved into their bones.
Arion opened his mouth to ask where he was.
He didn't get the chance.
The boy moved first.
A blur.
Fast. Clean. Efficient.
Arion barely raised his sword before the first strike hit.
CLANG!
The force vibrated through his arms like lightning. His grip nearly failed. His wrists screamed in protest. His stance shattered instantly.
The boy didn't pause.
Another strike.
Then another.
Each one controlled, measured.
Arion staggered back.
"I—wait—!" he gasped.
The boy's sword carved down again, forcing Arion to block. Sparks flickered from metal scraping metal. Arion's breath hitched. He swung back—wild, desperate, inexperienced.
The boy tilted his head slightly, like disappointed.
"Your blade follows panic, not intention."
He stepped aside effortlessly.
Arion's slash cut empty air.
Before Arion could recover, the boy's foot swept his leg.
Arion crashed onto the smooth ground. Pain flashed up his spine. He dropped the sword. His hands scrambled to reach it, but the boy placed a boot on the blade, stopping him cold.
"You lack balance."
His voice was calm, almost bored.
"You don't understand distance. You don't know timing. And your arms are too stiff to hold steel properly."
Arion gritted his teeth and shoved upward—but the boy didn't budge. His strength wasn't overwhelming… it was controlled. Like he'd had years to shape it.
The boy kicked the sword toward him, letting Arion take it again.
"Again."
Arion pushed onto his feet, chest rising and falling. His legs trembled. His mind raced.
He wasn't a fighter.
He'd never trained.
Never had time or teachers.
His father taught him how to gut fish, not parry blades.
But this boy…
His swordsmanship wasn't learned in fights.
It was taught.
Refined.
Like a noble's training.
Arion raised the rusted sword with both hands, grounding his stance the best he knew how.
The boy nodded faintly.
This time, he didn't rush.
He approached slowly, testing Arion with small, precise swings—light taps on the blade that exposed every weakness in Arion's defense.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each one made Arion flinch.
The boy sighed.
"You think strength is enough? Foolish."
He suddenly struck with full force.
Arion blocked.
Barely.
His arms throbbed.
His grip failed again.
His stance collapsed.
The boy knocked the sword out of his hands in one smooth motion. It clattered behind Arion, useless.
Then the boy drove a knee into Arion's gut.
Air blasted out of his lungs.
Arion collapsed, gasping.
The boy's voice floated above him—calm, cold, absolute.
"You cannot progress."
Arion coughed, confusion bleeding into fear.
"What… what does that mean?"
The boy stepped back exactly one pace, pointing his sword downward.
"You do not leave this ring until you defeat me. You cannot face the next echo until you overcome this one."
Arion's eyes widened.
Next echo?
"Where—where am I?" he asked, voice cracking.
The boy didn't answer.
Instead, he said:
"This place tests those who touched the blade."
Arion froze.
The blade?
The rusted sword?
This dream… this boy… all of this was connected to the weapon he grabbed while running for his life?
Before Arion could process it, the boy raised his sword again.
"Stand."
Arion didn't want to.
His ribs ached.
His arms felt numb.
Fear crawled under his skin.
He wasn't a warrior.
He wasn't brave.
He wasn't ready for any of this.
But he stood anyway.
Because the boy wasn't giving him a choice.
Arion retrieved the rusted sword and lifted it. His legs shook. Sweat dripped down his temple.
The boy's gaze didn't soften.
"Again," he commanded.
The duel resumed.
If it could even be called a duel.
Arion swung.
The boy parried.
Arion blocked.
The boy redirected.
Arion tried to counter.
The boy punished every mistake with a precision that bordered on cruel.
Strike.
Strike.
Strike.
Arion's arms numbed.
His wrists buckled.
His blade trembled uncontrollably.
Another hit slammed into his shoulder. The world blurred.
Arion dropped to his knees, unable to stand any longer.
The boy lowered his sword.
"This is your limit."
Arion shook his head, breath shredded.
"N… no… I can still—"
"You can't win like this," the boy said plainly.
"Your sword—heavy."
"Your steps—uneven."
"Your fear—obvious."
Arion's vision dimmed.
The ground felt soft.
His entire body begged to collapse.
The boy's last words echoed faintly:
"You will return only when you are strong enough to defeat me."
Arion opened his mouth to respond—
But the dream shattered.
Like glass cracking under pressure.
A ringing sound pierced his skull, and the blue world dissolved.
Arion snapped awake.
He shot upright, gasping as though drowning. Sweat drenched his forehead. His chest rose and fell violently.
The ruins surrounded him again.
Cold. Dark. Real.
And the sword lay across his lap.
Unrusted?
For a split second, he thought the blade looked cleaner—less corroded, less dead. But when he blinked, the rust returned.
Had he imagined it?
His arms throbbed with real pain.
His legs felt heavy.
The bruises from the dream hurt as if the hits were real.
Arion stared at the blade.
"That boy… who was he?"
The sword didn't answer.
But Arion knew one thing clearly:
This wasn't a dream he could wake up from.
This was a test.
A prison.
A path.
And until he defeated that boy…
He wasn't going anywhere.