Ezra wiped the sweat from his forehead with a worn towel. His shoulders heaved gently, steam rising from his skin into the cool morning air. The relentless clang of steel and wood echoed in his bones from another brutal session.
He took a long swig from his water bottle and sighed.
Fifteen days since he started duelling with his master.
Fifteen days of sparring. Of defeat. Of blood. Of pain.
And in those fifteen days, he had grown.
At first, he couldn’t land a finger on Ren. Not a kick, not a slash, not even a flicker of pressure.
But slowly, painfully, he began to chip away. A blocked blow turned into a glancing strike. A failed counter became a clean parry. Ren still outclassed him in every way—but Ezra was getting closer.
"Today... I finish it."
Ezra took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the sword at his side.
He had trained in silence for hours—refining, tuning, sharpening his new technique.
A technique forged not with mana, but with insight, strength, and pure swordsmanship.
He walked toward the dueling ground—an open clearing with flattened earth and battered stones, carved from weeks of battle.
Rain had begun to fall—gentle at first, but steady. The kind of rain that soaked into the bones. The kind of rain that cleansed the field before something important.
At the far end of the field, Ren Kurogane sat calmly beneath a tree, polishing a wooden sword with the care of a master swordsman cleaning a sacred relic.
Ezra stopped ten paces away and drew his sword with a clean, sharp motion.
His blade pointed forward—steady, unwavering.
Ren looked up slowly. His eyes, always calm, glinted with something between amusement and challenge.
He placed the cloth aside, returned his real sword to the space ring, and summoned the same worn wooden sword he’d been using for weeks.
"Oh? Confident today, are we?"
"Then come. Let’s see what you’ve learned, boy."
On one side stood an eighteen-year-old with muscles carved from steel and a soul hammered by discipline.
On the other—a legend, the Sword Emperor himself, holding back his true power, yet still a walking storm of experience.
The rain poured heavier.
Lightning cracked faintly in the distance.
One duel to decide mastery.
Ezra stepped forward—and vanished in a blur.
To the untrained eye, it would have looked like teleportation. But to Ren Kurogane, who had seen decades of swordmasters live and die—it was a young warrior who had pushed his Rank 3 limits to their breaking point.
The air rippled as Ezra launched himself forward with a supersonic burst, sword dragging slightly low to bait a downward block.
Ren raised his wooden sword with practiced ease, pivoting on his heel.
Their swords clashed once—just once—but the sound rang louder than thunder.
Ezra twisted mid-motion, attempting to circle behind, but Ren predicted it and struck with the hilt.
Ezra ducked, the wooden sword grazing his hair, and lashed out with a wide horizontal slash. Rain scattered from the blade like a crescent moon.
"He’s faster. More coordinated."
But he hadn’t lost focus. His foot slid forward like a dancer’s step, bringing him into range. He jabbed forward with the speed of a striking hawk.
Ezra parried the thrust with raw strength. Their blades locked—and for a moment, both stood still under the falling rain, faces inches apart.
"Still predictable," Ren murmured.
Because this was the moment he had been waiting for.
Ezra twisted his wrist—not to push Ren’s blade aside, but to guide it.
Instead of resisting the pressure, he moved with it, creating a spiral—a controlled redirection, like water flowing around a rock.
He felt something off.
Ezra’s sword rotated smoothly, his entire upper body coiling like a spring, his legs planted perfectly to channel full torque.
Ezra’s guard snapped forward, not toward Ren’s sword, but toward the joint of Ren’s wrist—precisely between the ulnar nerve and the thumb tendon.
It wasn’t a bone-breaking hit.
The impact caused a micro-shock through Ren’s grip, hitting the nerve cluster that controlled fine pressure reflex.
For an instant—just a fraction of a second—Ren’s fingers loosened.
That’s all Ezra needed.
With a twist of his hips and a spiraling redirect, Ezra’s blade knocked the wooden sword clean out of Ren’s hands.
It tumbled in the air, spinning end over end—
—and landed in the mud with a heavy splash.
Ezra stood still, his blade pointed downward, his chest rising and falling from exertion.
Ren looked at his empty hand.
Then at the sword in the mud.
"...You disarmed me," Ren finally said, his voice unreadable.
He sheathed his sword slowly.
Ezra exhaled. "I stopped trying to beat your sword."
Ren looked at him for a long moment. The rain soaked both of them, but neither moved.
A deep, booming laugh that rolled through the forest louder than thunder.
"HAH! You damned genius."
He walked forward, still grinning, and patted Ezra’s shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over.
"I’ve fought emperors. Dueled demons. Battled beasts with ten swords in ten hands. But this—this is the first time I’ve been disarmed by a kid using nothing but a wooden technique and bad weather."
Ezra couldn’t help it—he smirked just a little.
"Congratulations, Ezra Celestrian."
"So, what do I get after defeating you, Master?"
Ezra’s voice was calm—but his eyes carried a glint of curiosity.
Ren burst out laughing.
"Cheeky brat! You disarm me once and you’re already bargaining?"
He smirked, rubbing his chin. "Well, you did earn it... how about a technique? Not just any. A Rank 7 sword technique."
Ezra’s breath caught. He blinked—visibly shocked.
"A... Rank 7 technique?"
Even for a genius, that was absurd.
"I’m just at the beginner stage of Rank 3, Master. Even with talent, I can’t use something like that now."
Ren folded his arms, expression unreadable.
"You will. Maybe not today. But one day."
"I’ll teach you techniques from Rank 3 all the way to Rank 6. You master what you can. I won’t hold your hand."
Ezra looked down at his sword, then back up at Ren.
A long silence passed.
"...I’ll do it, Master."
A satisfied grin formed on Ren’s face.
"Good. But now that you’ve stopped skipping your mana training, it’s time for the next phase."
Ezra raised an eyebrow.
Ren’s tone dropped slightly, a rare seriousness in his voice.
"You’ll be fighting me again... but this time, I’ll be using real swords. And mana."
Ezra’s breath quickened. His heart began to race—but not from fear. From excitement.
"Before that," Ren said, stretching his arms, "we’re heading to a place that’ll accelerate your mana growth."
Ezra tilted his head.
"A special place? Where?"
Ezra didn’t ask again—but inside, he knew.
He had read this arc.
The Silent Forest’s Core Zone.
The Waterfall of Roaring Tempest.
The cave behind the water.
The domain of the one who watches time: KairosZeth—the Time Dragon.
Dragons in this world weren’t mere beasts. They were ancient sovereigns, each one capable of taking on armies and laying waste to cities. There were only four left, and each one was said to be at a pseudo Rank 10 .
KairosZeth—the Time Dragon—had single-handedly slain two Archdukes of the Demon Empire in the original novel. While his body may be old, his power over time made him near unstoppable.
"And now... I’m about to meet him."
Ezra clenched his fists.
He wouldn’t be weak. Not anymore.
He would one day stand alone—against Vorthas Vel Azriel, the Demon Emperor’s son.
He would kill him with his own hands.
Before he could lose himself in thought, Ren grabbed his arm.
The space around them began to warp, twisting like shattered glass reforming in real time.
Ezra’s mind reeled, and then—
He collapsed, immediately vomiting into the grass.
Ren scratched his head sheepishly.
"Ah. I forgot—first time space-jumping without a scroll, huh?"
Ezra looked up, face pale with rage.
"You did that on purpose...!"
Ren grinned like a guilty dog.
"Eh. Builds character. Besides, the guy we’re meeting prefers well-groomed guests."
Ezra didn’t respond. He silently rinsed his mouth with water, splashing some on his face before standing tall.
Ren nodded, his tone suddenly serious.
"Follow me. And don’t speak unless spoken to."
Ezra’s gaze sharpened.
Together, they moved through the jungle. The deeper they went, the stranger the forest became—trees that hummed with mana, flowers that glowed, even small beasts that bowed in fear before retreating.
The thunder of the waterfall.
A roar so loud it felt like the sky itself was falling.
A colossal waterfall, hundreds of meters high, cascading like a river from the heavens. And behind it—dark stone, carved like ancient fangs into the cliff face.
The Cave of the Time Dragon.
Ezra’s heartbeat slowed. His breath caught.
He was about to enter the domain of a being who could see past, present, and future in a single breath.
Ren stopped at the edge of the pool and turned to him.
"Whatever happens inside," he said quietly, "don’t lie. Don’t act smart. Just speak your truth. The old lizard hates arrogance more than he hates demons."
Then they stepped into the mist—
And the world changed.