Avin stood tall, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his newest treasure. His chest swelled with an arrogance so potent it was practically leaking out of him. The sword in his hand glimmered — not dull wood, not iron, not some petty weapon from the training racks. No.
It was the Holy Sword. Golden, divine, an object that felt as if the world itself bowed in its presence.
He turned it in his grip, letting the light slide along its edge. The blade hummed faintly, not sound but sensation, a vibration that rattled against the bones in his wrist. And his mind drifted, uninvited, back to Bram.
That fight. That wooden sword. Just a plank of wood, enhanced, and yet with a single swing he’d unleashed a shockwave. Stone had shattered, the ground had screamed, and Bram had been reminded that Avin Nulla-Chrono was no mere nuisance. That was only wood. Wood!
His lips curled into a grin.
"So how powerful will this be?" he muttered, voice low, drunk on possibility.
He dragged his eyes across the room. Training equipment lined the walls in perfect order. Spears, shields, racks of armor polished to a gleam. Neatly arranged, neat enough that one swing here could obliterate weeks of effort. His grin widened. His hair, fallen over his face, was swiped back with a self-satisfied flick.
"Clearly," he declared, smirking at his reflection in the sword’s sheen, "I am too powerful for this place."
His ego was swollen, pressing against the limits of his skull. The Holy Sword wasn’t just a weapon — it was confirmation. A reminder that he was chosen, different, better.
"Swinging this thing will destroy everything here..." He lowered the blade slowly, with exaggerated caution. "...so I must not."
His restraint — at least in his mind — was godlike. Noble. A hero holding back his hurricane.
"How long could you do that?"
The words slid into the room, quiet but sharp enough to cut through his grin.
Avin froze. His head whipped back instantly, panic sparking in his chest.
Behind him stood Ashborn.
Not armored. Not cloaked in blood and menace. No, this was worse. He wore a plain white shirt, tucked neatly into trousers. Casual. Ordinary. Human. And that very normalcy carried a weight more terrifying than any armor ever could.
Avin chuckled nervously, scratching at the back of his head like a child caught stealing bread. "Um... just that day."
Ashborn stepped closer. His movements were slow, deliberate, each step heavy as judgment. He began to roll his sleeves up, fabric whispering as it slid to his elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle.
"Let’s see how good you are with it, then."
He stomped his boot. CLACK. A wooden sword nearby jolted up, the edge striking the floor just right to fling it spinning through the air. Ashborn’s hand snapped out, catching the hilt mid-spin with insulting ease.
Two quick swings. Whoosh. Whoosh. The air itself trembled.
Then the blade leveled, aimed directly at Avin.
Avin’s confidence wavered. He stumbled back, words spilling clumsily. "Really? Here? But the equipment—"
Ashborn’s face hardened, frown cutting deep. "You think all that power was yours?" His voice was low, flat, merciless. "Don’t kid yourself."
Confusion crashed into Avin’s chest. "What... what do you mean?"
"You were amplified," Ashborn said, taking another step closer, "by Gaia’s blessing. Without it, you’re weak. Incomplete. This isn’t your strength."
The words rattled in Avin’s head, tumbling over themselves. Gaia’s blessing? Amplified? He tightened his grip on the Holy Sword, trying to hold onto the thought of victory, of power.
Ashborn’s eyes narrowed. "Get ready. You’ll be taught what Leo couldn’t teach you." A pause. "Because of your incompetence."
Avin winced. He forced out a laugh, brittle and hollow. "Um, yeah... I should still be able to do some damage with this weapon." The grin that followed was shaky, born more of denial than belief.
His thoughts spiraled. Finally... maybe I can beat him. Maybe I can prove—
"Do you think a wooden weapon is even advisable?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Ashborn chuckled, humorless. "Come and see, then."
The invitation was clear. No retreat.
Avin surged forward, two heavy strides closing the gap, Holy Sword raised high like a guillotine in the sun. He roared inside his head. This time, I’ll show him!
But before the blade could descend—
Pain exploded in his chest. A sharp, cutting burn that stole his breath.
He staggered back, clutching at the wound that wasn’t there, his mind reeling. Ashborn stood calm, wooden sword lowered, as though he hadn’t even moved.
Ashborn shook his head slowly, disappointment dripping from the gesture.
"Your movements are too large. Your stance? Incomplete. Complete it yourself."
He jammed the wooden sword into the ground. The wood stuck upright, humming faintly from the force.
Avin’s eyes followed it, then lifted to Ashborn. His throat tightened.
"You were born with no talent."
The words hit harder than the strike. Avin’s chest constricted, his vision shaking. "...Harsh," he muttered, laughing weakly, trying to smother the sting.
Ashborn didn’t flinch. "But you have two advantages."
Avin blinked, desperate for hope.
"Eyes. Ears. Absurdly good ones." Ashborn’s voice carved through the air, sharp and unyielding. "Fast movements shouldn’t threaten you. You can see them. You know you can. The problem is not vision. It’s reaction."
Avin’s mind reeled back through memory: Bram’s lightning strikes, movements faster than comprehension — and yet he had seen them. Clear as day. The whispers in the abyss tent, too faint for human hearing, and yet his ears had caught every word.
His heart thudded. Maybe... Ashborn wasn’t wrong.
"Uh... yeah." The response was faint, more breath than sound.
"Don’t misunderstand." Ashborn’s tone snapped sharp again. "I’m not helping you. You’re weak. A danger to our family’s reputation."
He abandoned the sword entirely, fists rising in a casual stance that dripped menace.
"Come again. Smaller movements. Use your senses."
Avin inhaled. Focused. This time, no arrogance. He locked onto Ashborn’s form, eyes sharpening, ears tuning to every whisper of air. His pulse steadied.
Ashborn’s fist was already upon him. The distance between them collapsed in an instant. Follow current novels on noᴠelfire.net
Avin’s pupils dilated, crimson glow igniting. Time slowed. The fist stretched toward him like a meteor.
His head tilted right, only slightly. FWSSHH— The fist grazed his ear, missing him by a breath.
His sword swung instantly, diagonal slash downward, a strike born of instinct and fury.
But Ashborn’s elbow rose. Bone met blade.
The sound shuddered through the room. The impact ricocheted Ashborn back a step. Avin’s eyes went wide. Blocked? With his elbow?!
But before triumph could bloom, Ashborn was there again.
A fist blurred into existence, so close it filled Avin’s vision.
His arms rose, barely in time.
The punch slammed against his guard, rattling his bones. Pain screamed through him, delayed but merciless. His arms trembled violently, hands quaking.
He staggered back, gasping. His body screamed of cracked bone. His vision swam.
"What... the hell..." His voice was raw, disbelieving.
Ashborn’s shirt fell open. Fingers ripped the buttons free, fabric sliding to the ground in a careless heap. Sunlight spilled in through the high windows, painting his muscles in light. Steel wrapped in flesh, sculpted and merciless.
He walked forward slowly.
His knuckles popped, echoing like the ticking of a clock, a countdown to ruin.
His eyes burned with cold fire. His lips curled into something that was not a smile.
"Don’t worry about injuries," he murmured. His voice was calm, terrifyingly so.
"I’ll fix you right up."