Chapter 97 – The Weight of Empty Hands
Sorin walked through the bustling streets of Enden with Serenya at his side, her watchful eyes ensuring he neither strayed nor caused unnecessary trouble. Chaos seemed to trail after him wherever he went, and she knew leaving him alone was asking for disaster.
Their first stop was the Merchant's Guild. Sorin hefted a sack filled with monster cores, beast hides, and severed claws onto the counter. The weight landed with a heavy thud, making the polished wood groan. The appraiser's eyes widened at the haul, and after a careful count, a bulging bag of gold was placed in Sorin's hand. He smirked as he tested the weight.
"Not bad for a morning stroll."
Next came clothes. His old attire was shredded, bloodstained, and clinging with dust from the wave. He slipped into a fresh set—sturdy, well-fitted, stitched to allow freedom of movement. It felt right on his frame, but incomplete.
"Better," he thought, tugging at the sleeves. "But wrong without steel at my hip."
By the time they reached the tavern, hunger gnawed at him. He devoured roasted meat and bread at a startling pace, though his motions carried a strange refinement, as if battle rhythm had bled into every part of him—even eating. A mug of ale washed it down. He leaned back with a sigh, but as soon as he stepped outside, his hand went to his waist. Empty. The ache returned.
"Damn it… swords aren't tools," he thought bitterly. "They're part of me. And if they break this easily… maybe I've been careless. Or maybe Orven's work isn't as good as I believed."
When they arrived at Orven's shop, his mood was already dark. He pushed open the door. The familiar scent of oil, steel, and smoldering coal greeted him.
Orven stood behind the counter, thick arms crossed, his expression hard. Reyn waited nearby, calm and observant. Beside Orven stood an unfamiliar old man—slightly stooped, but his eyes sharp, measuring Sorin with quiet intensity.
Sorin ignored them and scanned the walls. One side bore Orven's usual katanas—solid, reliable, but uninspired. But on the opposite wall, three blades rested on polished racks, commanding presence. On the three swords displayed , he noticed they each bore names inscribed on small placards beneath them: Wado Ichimonji, Sandai Kitetsu, and Shusui. Their steel shimmered faintly, each carrying its own temperament, as if alive.
He stepped forward, boots echoing against the wood, and without asking, drew one.
The blade sang free, polished steel catching the light like rippling water. He tested the weight, the balance, the subtle tension within the metal.
"When did you make these?" he asked quietly.
Orven's jaw tightened, refusing to answer. The words stung him like a hammer blow. His scowl deepened, shoulders sagging as if Sorin's casual tone had belittled his craft.
"Steel's not endless," he muttered. "And neither's my patience. You burn through swords like they're firewood…"
Before the tension thickened, Reyn placed a reassuring hand on Orven's shoulder.
"Don't worry," Reyn said lightly. "I'm sure he'll still come to you for throwing knives."
Orven grunted, still sour but less defensive.
Sorin raised an eyebrow. Reyn met his gaze, steady and calm.
"Yes, you can try all three," Reyn said. "But not here." He paused, then added, "Those blades aren't Orven's. They're mine. One-of-a-kind katanas, waiting to become legendary. And I promise you this—they won't break."
For the first time since entering, Sorin grinned, sharp and dangerous. He slid the katana back into its sheath with a click that rang like a promise.
"Good. I've regained most of my strength. A spar sounds perfect."
Without another word, he headed for the door. Reyn and Orven followed, whispers already chasing them through the street as curious eyes tracked their procession.
They arrived at an open sparring ground, a place where adventurers often tested their strength. Kael was already there, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. His presence alone drew tension from the crowd gathering fast.
"That's Sorin, isn't it?"
"Yeah. He's fought plenty here. No one's lasted long."
"They say he beat a knight captain with a broken sword once."
"Then who's he fighting today?"
"Whoever it is… they'd better be ready."
Sorin stepped into the dirt circle, hand brushing against the katana at his side. His face was calm, but inside, his blood stirred.
Reyn stood at the edge, eyes bright with anticipation. "Go on, Sorin. Show us what you can do."
Kael uncrossed his arms, straightened, and smiled. "So you're the man they call Sorin Kaelthorn. Let's see if the stories are worth the breath."
Sorin drew one blade, its edge gleaming. His voice was steady, flat. "Most of the time, I only fight swordsmen. Even monsters—if they've got steel, or claws sharp enough to cut—that's when it's real."
Kael chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "That's fine. I've been working on a new martial art. No blades. No tricks. Just these." He raised his fists. "And I promise, they'll be tougher than steel."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"He's going barehanded?"
"That's suicide…"
"Or maybe not. Look at his stance. He's solid as stone."
What they didn't know was that Kael had been secretly forging new martial techniques, inspired by the artifact Reyn had once given him—the Grand Fist. Since then, he had shaped his strength into something sharper, training in silence, waiting for a chance like this.
Serenya stepped forward, her silver hair catching the light. Her voice rang calm but firm. "I'll be referee. No killing blows. First to yield, or until I call it."
The air thickened with silence.
Kael lunged first. His fist cracked through the air—BOOM!—and Sorin barely redirected it, the strike punching a hole through the stone wall behind him. Gasps erupted.
Sorin stayed calm, redirecting strike after strike. Kael's fists weren't just fast—they were explosive. Energy hardened his arms, gleaming like iron. Each burst of force propelled him unpredictably, shockwaves blasting from his back or shoulders to launch him into new angles. He was a storm of motion, each blow heavier than the last.
Through it all, Sorin tested each blade in turn. With Wado Ichimonji, his defense felt fluid and graceful, the blade carrying a refined balance that matched his calm demeanor. With Sandai Kitetsu, the steel carried a wild edge, almost as though it wanted blood, forcing Sorin to steady his will against its chaotic nature. Finally, with Shusui, he felt overwhelming weight and presence, its cuts carrying an ominous gravity that drew respect with every swing.
Then, Sorin struck—one clean slash grazing Kael's arm. Crimson welled, Kael twisting back with a growl. Sorin pressed forward, blades testing Kael, each strike precise and deliberate.
Minutes blurred. Kael's grin began to fade, sweat streaking his face. Finally, he barked, "Tch… that silent, cool guy act of yours is pissin' me off!"
Sorin responded with a smirk
Energy crackled around him. BOOM! A fist thrust forward—not at Sorin, but at the air. A shockwave blasted outward, mimicking the Grand Fist's Shell Bullet. The impact hurled Sorin back, dust and stone exploding across the arena.
The crowd roared.
"Impossible—Kael attacked from a distance?!"
When the dust cleared, Sorin stood, blood on his lips, aura sharp as a blade. He drew all three swords, the third clenched between his teeth.
"Three Sword Style…"
And then he moved.
A storm of strikes rained down, faster than the eye could follow. Most swords would have shattered under such pressure, but Reyn's blades held. Silver arcs carved Kael's hardened defenses, leaving red lines across his arm. The final clash sent Kael skidding back, right arm shredded and trembling.
"Enough!" Serenya's voice rang out. She stepped between them, commanding. "This match is over."
Sorin exhaled slowly, sliding the three katanas back into their scabbards one after the other. He looked at Kael—sweating, bruised, his right arm covered in cuts—and finally spoke. His tone was calm, even, but it carried weight.
"That was a good fight, Kael. You're lucky I didn't fight at full strength… otherwise, you wouldn't be standing."
The crowd buzzed at his words, some whispering in disbelief, others nodding in respect.
Kael chuckled through his heavy breaths, rolling his shoulders as his wounds began to knit themselves back together unnaturally fast. Within moments, the cuts on his arm sealed shut, leaving faint red marks where blood had been. His healing ability had always been terrifying, but paired with his martial growth, it was even more so.
"Maybe so," Kael admitted with a grin. "But don't get cocky, Sorin. Like you with you swords if used my armor, I would've torn you in two."
The air seemed to thicken with tension at his words, and the crowd fell into hushed silence. Sorin didn't answer—he just smirked faintly before walking off, his expression unreadable, though his respect for Kael had grown.
Reyn's eyes widened at Kael's shockwave. His chest tightened with awe. He's shaping his power… focusing it. If he truly fuses that with the Grand Fist, he'll be unstoppable.
And then, another thought struck him, deeper, richer.
This is what it means to be a craftsman. My creations aren't just weapons—they're seeds. They spark growth. They push people beyond their limits. What if, generations from now, warriors and mages build whole new arts, whole new magics, inspired by what I've made?
The idea set his heart alight. It wasn't just about today's battle. It was about leaving a legacy strong enough to change the future itself.
Sorin then turned toward Reyn—only to see him give a faint smile before suddenly vanishing, teleporting away without a trace.
Sorin blinked once, then reached into his pouch and pulled out the heavy bag of gold he had earned. Without hesitation, he tossed it to Kael.
"Give this to your mysterious friend," Sorin said flatly. "These swords are worth more than gold. I'll see to it they're carried into real battles."
Kael caught the bag with one hand and smirked, tucking it away. "Don't worry. He'll get it.".... he didn't.