The crowd inside the Graythorn arena vibrated with an energy so intense it felt alive. Waves of murmurs rolled through the spectators, a storm of excitement and curiosity centered on the two figures standing at the heart of the battleground.
On one side stood Leonel Graythorn, small compared to his peers, calm compared to anyone else his age. His posture was relaxed, almost deceptively so, his wooden practice sword held loosely in his hand. There was no bravado, no outward sign of fear or tension—just quiet readiness.
On the opposite side stood Zellan Darius Ironwood.
If Leonel was a whisper of wind, Zellan was a thunderclap—loud, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. His broad frame cast a long shadow across the stone floor, and the colossal sword resting on his shoulder looked as though it had been forged from a mountain itself. Every muscle bulged beneath his armor, each step he took making the stone tiles tremble ever so slightly.
The contrast between them was almost comical. Many in the crowd whispered that Leonel looked like he had wandered into the wrong arena. Some laughed, others frowned in concern. But all watched with held breath.
Zellan drank it in.
His grin widened as he stepped forward, swinging his sword off his shoulder with practiced ease. His voice echoed across the arena like a war drum.
"So this is it?" he drawled, spreading his free hand dramatically. "The great Leonel Graythorn. Honestly, I expected more. This is what the Graythorn bloodline has to offer? A mere entry-level Sword Initiate?"
A few spectators snickered. Others shifted uncomfortably.
Zellan wasn't done.
He turned toward the stands as though he were performing on a stage. "Let it be known that today, I—Zellan Darius Ironwood—will show everyone the difference between a mid-level Sword Initiate… and a child pretending to hold a sword!"
The crowd reacted in mixed waves—laughter from some, murmurs from others. The elders watching from above exchanged unreadable glances.
Leonel still had not moved.
His sword hung loosely by his side, his breathing slow, his gaze fixed on Zellan not with fear, but with something closer to curiosity. As if he were analyzing a puzzle rather than facing a towering opponent threatening to smash him into the floor.
Zellan's grin faltered slightly at the lack of reaction. He stepped closer, leaning down as though speaking to a child.
"What's wrong?" he taunted. "No comeback? No trembling? Are you scared? Or…" He narrowed his eyes, "are you too weak to answer?"
Leonel's lips parted at last.
He tilted his head slightly, voice light and almost bored.
"You talk too much."
The words were soft, but they struck harder than any blade.
A shockwave of laughter tore through the stands. Even a few elders failed to suppress their smirks. Zellan, on the other hand, froze like someone had slapped him with a fish.
"W-What did you just say!?" he sputtered.
Leonel shrugged. "I said you talk too much. Unless you came to bore me to death, maybe start fighting?"
For a moment, the arena was silent.
Then the crowd erupted.
Zellan's face flushed red with humiliation, rage boiling up from somewhere deep. His grip tightened around the hilt of his massive sword until his knuckles turned white.
"You'll pay for that!" he roared.
ZELLAN'S FURY — TITAN SWORD TECHNIQUE
Zellan spread his feet apart, the stones groaning beneath the immense pressure of his stance. His sword lowered, gathering power, a faint ripple of force pulsing outward as though the blade breathed.
He roared:
"Titan's Fury: First Form—GROUND SPLITTER!"
The sword came crashing down like a meteor.
The impact detonated across the arena floor. The stone split violently, a jagged crack ripping toward Leonel like a hungry beast. Dust and debris shot upward as a shockwave raced along the ground.
But Leonel moved with a grace that bordered on effortless.
A single step back.
One breath.
The shockwave tore past him, carving a trench several meters long, while Leonel stood untouched—almost serene.
Gasps filled the arena.
"What…?""He dodged that like it was nothing!""That technique can break stone! He didn't even lift his sword!"
Zellan snarled, frustration brewing like a storm behind his eyes.
"STOP DODGING AND FIGHT ME!"
Leonel smiled faintly. "Stop missing, and maybe I will."
Zellan's rage spiked. Power surged into his sword, the blade humming with vibrating energy as cracks of stone formed beneath his feet.
"FINE! I'll end this! Titan's Fury—Second Form!"
He swung wildly:
"STONE AVALANCHE!"
A wave of destructive force exploded outward, slicing chunks of stone from the arena walls and launching them at Leonel with terrifying speed. It was less a technique and more a natural disaster—like a rockslide given life.
But Leonel simply moved.
He didn't dodge.
He flowed.
As stones whipped through the air, Leonel slipped between them with uncanny precision. He ducked, stepped, twisted just enough that debris passed within inches of him yet never touched. To the audience, it looked less like evasion and more like a dance—one choreographed with the wind itself.
When the dust settled, Leonel stood in the same place. Untouched.
Zellan stared, eyes wide, sweat beading on his brow.
"H…How are you dodging everything!?"
Leonel tilted his head. "Zellan… you're strong, but you move like you're swinging a tree trunk. It's predictable."
The calm suggestion only infuriated Zellan further.
His sword began to glow—deep crimson, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air around him vibrated with raw force.
"You want my best!? FINE!"
He raised his blade toward the sky, crimson energy spiraling around it like blood-red wind.
"Titan's Fury: Third Form—COLOSSUS FALL!"
Zellan leaped.
His massive frame soared overhead, his shadow engulfing Leonel completely. The air trembled. The elders leaned forward at once, recognizing the danger.
Even Darian Graythorn's stoic mask cracked slightly."This technique… he'll destroy the entire arena floor."
But Leonel did not retreat.
He didn't brace.
He didn't lift his sword.
He simply closed his eyes and breathed.
A whisper left his lips.
"Graythorn Sword Art… Second Form."
The wind stilled.
The shadows shifted.
Leonel vanished.
No—he moved, but so fast that he became a blur, a streak of shadow carried by a gust of air.
"Gale Shadow Strike."
The arena erupted with a violent explosion as Zellan's colossal blade smashed into the ground, fracturing the stone into a spiderweb of cracks. Dust billowed into the air in a choking cloud.
For a moment, no one could see.
When the dust cleared, the scene froze the arena into utter silence.
Leonel stood behind Zellan.
His sword lowered.
His breathing calm.
Zellan knelt at the center of the shattered stone, his sword buried deep in the ground. His body trembled—not from pain, but from the realization that if Leonel had chosen to, that single afterimage-fast strike could have cut him down.
"How…" Zellan rasped, voice cracking. "How did you…?"
Leonel looked over his shoulder, voice soft and unhurried.
"Speak less next time, brother."
The words struck harder than any blade.
The arena exploded.
Cheers. Laughter. Gasps. Disbelief.
Some spectators stood on their seats. Others pressed hands to their mouths. A few simply stared in stunned silence.
Above, the elders exchanged looks of genuine astonishment.
Lady Seraphina Graythorn—normally composed even in battle—couldn't fight the proud smile blooming across her lips.
"He's better than I expected."
Beside her, the First Elder Valtor chuckled, a sound like old stone cracking. "A glimpse," he murmured. "Only a glimpse… but what lies beneath is far greater."
Even Darian Graythorn allowed himself a small, approving nod.
SELENE'S INTERFERENCE
Just when the arena was settling into awed murmurs, a piercing little voice split the air:
"BEAT HIM, BROTHER! SMASH HIM TO BITS!"
The entire arena froze.
Then laughter erupted once again.
The culprit jumped up and down in the stands—a tiny five-year-old girl with bouncing pigtails, waving both arms like she was leading a parade.
Selene Graythorn.
Leonel's younger sister.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled even louder:
"Next time make him cry, big brother!"
Leonel felt his soul leave his body.
He dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. Even Zellan—still kneeling—let out an exasperated laugh.
Lady Seraphina sighed, though her eyes sparkled with unmistakable amusement."That child will be the downfall of this family."
"Too late for that," Darian muttered.
More laughter shook the elders' podium.
QUIET TRIUMPH
As Leonel turned to leave the arena, the whispers followed him like shadows.
"Did you see that speed?""A low-rank did that!?""He didn't even look tired…""Who IS this kid?"
Leonel ignored them.
Not out of arrogance—he simply had nothing to prove. His steps were quiet, controlled. His breathing steady. His eyes focused, not on the praise or admiration, but on the path ahead.
This wasn't the end.
It wasn't even close.
In the shadows of the elders' podium, Valtor Graythorn watched the boy with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.
"Interesting…" he murmured, fingers tapping the armrest. "Very interesting indeed."