Ashborn’s fist tightened, knuckles creaking like bending stone. Then, without another word, he sprinted forward. His movements were swift, precise, and deliberate, the kind of sprint that carried no wasted energy.
Avin did not retreat. He stood his ground, sword held firm, body strangely calm for someone staring down a storm. Each exchange, each painful lesson from moments earlier had tuned his nerves. The panic of the first strike was gone. In its place sat a flicker of clarity.
Ashborn leapt. His body cut upward, suspended for a heartbeat, one arm cocked high, fist clenched like a meteor threatening descent. The air howled around him.
He came down like a hammer.
Ashborn’s own words rang in his head: Smaller movements. Use your senses. His right foot slid outward, grounding itself into the floor. The world slowed, his crimson gaze sharpening, tracing every subtle arc of Ashborn’s descent.
With a pivot, he spun along his right leg. His grip tightened around the hilt, both hands supporting the sword as he turned. His body slipped clear, spinning away from the crashing blow.
Ashborn’s fist slammed into the carpeted floor. The dense fabric burst open, wood and stone beneath splintering as a crater bloomed beneath his knuckles. Dust plumed upward.
Avin, already in motion, used the momentum from his spin to whip the sword toward Ashborn’s back. The strike was sharp, desperate, carrying all the weight of his realization.
But the attack was met once again by an elbow. Ashborn, without even turning, swung his arm backward. The blade met bone.
The jolt ricocheted down Avin’s arms. His stance faltered, one foot stumbling. His balance broke.
Ashborn’s eyes narrowed. His knee bent, his body dropped, and in one fluid motion, he spun low.
His leg swept the ground, hooking Avin’s feet.
Avin’s body lifted — weightless, helpless — before gravity seized him. He crashed down hard.
THUD! His back hit the floor, the impact rattling his spine.
And before he could even draw breath, Ashborn was already towering over him. His right foot lifted, poised like a guillotine above Avin’s chest.
But Avin rolled. Instinct. Adrenaline. Desperation. His body reacted before his mind could catch up.
KRSSHH! Ashborn’s stomp tore into the ground where Avin’s ribs had been, splintering it further.
Avin rolled until he caught himself. His hands dug into the hilt, sword stabbing into the ground. The blade buried itself, halting his momentum with a screech. Dust billowed. His chest rose and fell, heart pounding, but his eyes burned sharper than before.
He turned that halted momentum into a weapon. His body dipped low, legs coiling, then whipped out.
A spinning kick lashed toward Ashborn.
But Ashborn simply leaned back, spine arching in casual avoidance. The kick passed clean through air.
Avin landed, but something inside him shifted. This wasn’t Clive anymore — not the boy fumbling through combat. His movements flowed from some hidden reservoir of instinct, memory not his own. Muscle memory that Avin never knew, but his body did.
The failed kick had been intentional. A fake.
He stomped his spinning leg into the ground mid-motion, halting himself in an unusual stance. Left leg stretched forward, foot digging deep. Right leg bent back, ready to spring. Both hands clenched tight on the sword’s hilt.
Ashborn’s brow twitched. The stance was strange, awkward. For the first time, a hint of confusion crossed his face.
And in that heartbeat of hesitation—
His front leg exploded forward, all tension released in a violent burst. The sword tore from the ground as he swung upward, arching into a massive vertical slash, the curve aimed directly at Ashborn’s head.
The speed was unlike anything he had done before. The weight of momentum, the force of desperation — all of it sang through the blade. For an instant, he believed it would connect.
For an instant, he felt
But when his eyes focused, they widened in disbelief.
The edge of the blade was caught.
Between Ashborn’s fingers.
Two fingers, pinching the blade as if it were paper.
"Impressive," he said simply.
Then the blade shattered.
Shards of divine metal burst outward, glittering through the air like fragments of a dying star. The shards sliced past Avin’s face, grazing his cheeks, embedding into the floor. His breath caught in his throat as the weapon disintegrated in his hands, leaving only a broken hilt.
Ashborn’s eyes lingered on the shards. "It seems this is the limit."
But when his gaze returned to Avin, it paused. His eyes narrowed, studying.
"Why are you grinning like that?"
"Huh?" Avin blinked. He hadn’t even realized.
Ashborn reached up, touched his own lips, and felt it.
The rush, the raw pulse of battle, had seeped into his veins. Something alien, something he had never felt as Clive. The fear was gone, replaced by... exhilaration. His grin stretched wider, uncontrolled, a laugh trembling in his chest.
Ashborn brushed shards off his shoulder with a slow pat. His expression softened, if only slightly.
"You are acting different," he said. Then, for the first time, a faint smirk crept across his face. "I you."
With that, he turned.
No dramatic bow. No grand words. Just a casual wave of his hand as he began walking away.
"I might come visit you at the academy."
Avin watched him leave, chest still rising and falling, heart thrumming with something dangerously close to respect.
"He’s strong," Avin muttered, eyes narrowing with admiration. "Weird... this isn’t how I remember him in Avin’s memories. He was always cruel, blatantly hateful."
The thought clung to him, heavy and confusing.
A sharp pain shot through his arm, the cracked bone finally screaming back into his awareness.
"Ugh—damn it..." He groaned, clutching the limb. "He said he’d heal me..."
But Ashborn was gone.
He sighed, shoulders slumping.
Dragging himself out of the ruined arena, he made his way back to his room. His body ached with every step, but the adrenaline dulled it just enough to carry him through.
The bathroom’s steam welcomed him. The shower hissed to life, hot water cascading down. He stood beneath it, letting it wash the grit, sweat, and pain away. The heat seeped into his cracked bones, offering fleeting comfort.
Afterward, he pulled on the most casual clothes he could find. Loose, soft, unremarkable. His exhaustion was immense; sleep called to him louder than any duty.
He shuffled to his bed. The mattress promised heaven. He collapsed forward—
Something caught his foot. His body pitched forward. Thɪs chapter is updated by novel⁂fire.net
WHAM! His face smacked the floor.
"Ouch!" He groaned, rolling over, hand rubbing his nose. His eyes darted down.
He pushed himself upright, sitting cross-legged in front of it. The thing was large — suspiciously so.
"It’s huge. How the hell did I miss this?"
Closer inspection revealed its nature: a suitcase. Metal clips glinted along the edges. He popped them open.
Inside lay neatly folded clothes, academy-issued, stiff and sterile.
"Ah. My suitcase for tomorrow..." He muttered with a groan.
His eyes narrowed at the sight. "Ugh. What is this ’academy,’ anyway?"
He paused. "...I mean, it’s an academy, so... for learning?"
Another pause. He squinted. "Why else would they call it an academy?"
His palm smacked against his forehead. "Ugh. I’m talking to myself again."
With a grunt, he dragged himself onto the bed, flopping onto his back. His eyes wandered upward, catching the ceiling.
It was vast, high and majestic, covered in intricate carvings that twisted into patterns of stars and vines, golden filigree dancing in the candlelight. The ceiling stretched like a sky of its own, so ornate it mocked the tired body staring at it.
His gaze blurred. Thoughts scattered.
And, in that scattered mess, exhaustion finally dragged him under.