Chapter 4: Alex vs Arthur
Inside a colossal training hall—nearly the size of two football fields—two figures clashed in a blur of steel and motion. Their swords collided with such intensity it felt less like training and more like a duel to the death.
One of them was a boy—tall for his age, standing at 179 centimeters despite being only eleven. His hair was black like the midnight sky, and his golden eyes burned with a sharp, unrelenting fire. That fire wasn't just ambition—it was obsession. He wanted to win. No—he needed to win.
His name was Arthur Valerian.
The child from a decade ago was long gone. Ten years of ruthless training had forged him into a weapon. The discipline of his past life as a soldier, along with his mastery of close-quarters combat, had evolved into an elegant and deadly swordsmanship. Thanks to his unique skill, [Sword Lord], he had absorbed every technique his mentor had taught him—and mastered them with terrifying speed.
In the capital, people whispered of his genius. They called him "Little Northern Blade"—half in jest, half in awe.
⸻
Back to the battle…
Their swords clashed again, sparks flying as Arthur struggled to hold his ground. Sweat drenched his body, and fresh cuts bled across his arms and chest. His sword trembled under the weight of his opponent's power.
Alex Reacher, his towering mentor, hadn't broken a sweat.
"Are you giving up?" Alex asked, his tone calm but piercing.
Arthur grit his teeth, blood trickling down his lip. "Never."
There was a fire in his eyes now—not just determination, but pure, defiant resolve.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll learn the hard way."
Arthur lunged forward with a war cry, unleashing a flurry of powerful strikes. Steel rang against steel. Each blow was fast, desperate, and wild. But Alex met them all with ease, parrying single-handedly, his expression barely shifting.
"Calm down, boy," Alex said. "Keep swinging like that, and you'll never win."
In one swift move, Alex caught Arthur off balance, sweeping his legs out from under him. Arthur crashed to the ground, dust flying around him.
Lying on the floor, Arthur clenched his fist. I've matched his technique… but his strength, his speed—it's still above mine. Even if I use [Appraisal], it won't help. That only works on opponents whose level is within four of mine. Alex is Rank 6—I can't even read his stats.
Every time I learn something new, he counters it with another technique… It's like he has an endless bag of tricks.
Frustrated, Arthur looked down at the cuts on his body. There's only one skill left. The one that can finally draw blood.
He stood up slowly, his breath steadying, his heartbeat syncing with the world around him. Arthur closed his eyes and focused.
His trump card wasn't his sword—it was his mana. Unlike others, Arthur had a gift. His unique skill, [Mana Regeneration], allowed him to absorb the ambient mana around him. While others ran dry, his mana kept flowing like a river with no end.
He channeled it now—concentrating it into his limbs, into his sword, into his very soul.
Mana surged through his veins, glowing faintly beneath his skin.
Then he whispered the words—
"[Heaven's Descent]"
In an instant, Arthur vanished.
Like a phantom, he reappeared in front of Alex in the blink of an eye. For the first time, Alex's eyes widened in surprise. He raised his sword just in time to block—
Clang!
But something was wrong.
The sound was different.
Crack.
Alex's sword snapped in half.
A heartbeat later, Arthur's blade sliced clean across his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
Alex stood frozen, stunned.
Arthur, drained of all strength, looked up and smirked. "I win…"
And then, he collapsed—unconscious.
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Silence filled the massive training hall.
And then, Alex Reacher burst into laughter.
It wasn't a mocking laugh—it was loud, proud, and full of genuine joy. His voice echoed through the chamber like thunder.
Not far away, standing at the edge of the training hall, Count Alaric Valerian—Arthur's father—watched everything unfold with wide eyes. But his shock wasn't because Arthur had drawn blood from Alex.
No, it was something far deeper.
It was the technique.
The move Arthur used… [Heaven's Descent].
That wasn't just any skill. It was the signature sword technique of the Valerian bloodline, passed down through generations. A skill so refined and intricate that even the most gifted knights couldn't master it without years of comprehension—not just of mana, but of the sword's essence itself.
Count Alaric had only learned it when he reached Rank 3—after decades of training.
And yet…
His son had performed it—perfectly—at only 9th Mana Circuit, and at just eleven years old.
"Unbelievable," Count Valerian muttered, almost in awe. "He learned Heaven's Descent… at the Ninth Circuit… Maybe… he'll surpass even me one day."
Alex, now calm, gave a proud grin. "Surely. After all, he is my student."
But Count Alaric shook his head, smiling as he stepped into the training ground.
"No," he said, looking down at his unconscious son with affection shining in his eyes. "He's my son."
The two men laughed—one as a mentor, the other as a father—each proud in their own way.
Count Alaric walked forward, gently lifting Arthur into his arms. Despite the bruises and cuts, Arthur's face carried a faint smirk, like a warrior proud of his victory.
"He's growing faster than I imagined," Alaric whispered, brushing a blood-specked lock of hair from Arthur's forehead. "A true Valerian."
Without another word, he turned and carried his son out of the training hall—towards the heart of the estate.