The sun had only just begun to rise, bathing the world in a crimson hue that clung to the clouds like blood mist. Morning dew shimmered faintly over the tiled pathways of the Virelith estate, and the faint, cheerful chirping of birds echoed through the trees, a gentle rhythm that stirred life into the quiet world.
Caelan stirred from his bed at the sound of their song.
His limbs ached faintly, reminders of yesterday's duels. Of the feast. Of the duel with Silas Cromwell—the clash of lightning, fire, and will that had left him barely standing. But still, his spirit felt lighter than it had in years. Not just stronger—clearer. More focused.
He dressed quickly, pulling on his black training robe and tying the crimson sash around his waist. He slid his Voidbrand Ring onto his finger and paused briefly to gaze at it—still getting used to how effortlessly it stored Stormfangs now. A part of him still expected to feel the weight of blades at his back. But they were gone, tucked safely into the pocket space of the ring.
He stepped out into the fresh air and made his way down the winding path toward one place—his father's private training hall.
It stood like a temple of discipline at the far end of the estate, surrounded by tall hedges and runic wards that shimmered faintly in the morning light. When Caelan reached the tall, steel-reinforced doors, he placed a hand upon them. A ring of glowing blue light spread from his palm as a magical circle flared briefly in the air.
Click.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss of mana, and Caelan stepped inside.
The first thing he heard was steel.
Sharp, clean *clang!*s filled the room—the unmistakable sound of blade striking blade.
His eyes widened.
There, in the center of the polished hall, stood Theron Virelith.
The clan head was bare-chested, wearing only loose black-and-crimson training pants. His body rippled with power, honed from decades of training and combat. He stood alone against six training dolls, each of them enchanted to mimic the strength and speed of a peak Master Stage warrior.
And Theron wasn't using mana.
Caelan immediately noticed. His father was relying only on the raw, terrifying strength of his body—and yet, it was like watching a wolf toy with a pack of hounds.
One doll lunged, and Theron parried without effort, turning the momentum into a spin that drove his boot into another. Steel slammed into steel, sparks flying. Another came from behind—he caught the attack with his sword, then kicked it away with a grunt.
Caelan remained by the door, watching with a quiet intensity.
> His movements… they're almost too perfect. Like he's not just fighting… he's dancing.
Theron moved with the weightless grace of a stormcloud and the precision of a master craftsman. Every cut, every dodge, every counter flowed like water over rock.
> This is the sword at its peak.
Then came the moment that took Caelan's breath away.
Three dolls lunged toward Theron at once.
The air shifted.
Theron stepped into a strange stance. He exhaled deeply. And then, with a single swing—
Whoosh—CLANG.
—All three dolls were split in half. They weren't even close to his blade.
Caelan's jaw tightened. "That… wasn't aura."
It was something deeper. Something older. Something far more terrifying.
> Sword Will.
He had heard stories. Whispers of swordmasters who didn't need to touch you to cut you. Whose blades reached beyond steel.
> Sword Intent… that's where it begins. When one masters their sword art completely, their strikes gain presence—a weight that cuts more than flesh. Just standing near them feels like standing before a falling blade.
> Then comes Sword Will—the will of the blade itself, imposed onto reality. A swordsman at this stage can cut with force alone, shaping each swing with thought. The sword no longer follows the hand—it follows the spirit.
Theron didn't stop.
He blurred forward with a burst of strength, steel flashing as he tore through the remaining two dolls. They crumbled like paper in the wind.
He exhaled sharply, steam rising faintly from his skin. His red eyes glowed ever so slightly in the dim light of the hall.
Caelan swallowed.
> After that… the true monsters emerge.
> Sword Aura. It's said to be the stage where a swordsman becomes their blade. The air around them crackles with sword energy—shields, phantom blades, even constructs can form. Their aura can match spells, even create multiple attacks from a single swing.
> And then there's Sword Domain. The realm where the sword rules all. Only the greatest reach it. Within that domain, everything—mana, movement, sound—can be sliced. It becomes the Blade God's Throne.
Caelan couldn't breathe for a moment.
Was that his future?
He had so far to go.
But watching his father… made him want it all the more.
Theron finally turned, his gaze locking onto Caelan.
He'd known his son was watching all along.
"Welcome, son," he said, his voice calm, deep, and still humming with the energy of battle.
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