The walk back through the hallway was quiet.
Ashen slipped his badge from the inside of his coat and tapped it against the exit pillar.
A soft chime marked the match record as updated.
No trophy, no announcement, no grand cheer — just a line in the logs:
> **Ring 3 — Winner: Ashen (Forfeit)**
Behind him, Kaito Ren was still kneeling when the attendants helped him up.
His blades had been taken from his hands because, it seemed, he'd forgotten to put them away himself.
Ashen didn't look back.
***
**Viewer Channel #19: Cindervault Bracket – Ring 3**
> *[Commentator 1]:* "It's official — we have our first wildcard victory."
"And… I have to say, one of the strangest I've seen. He didn't draw."
> *[Commentator 2]:* "Kaito Ren went down on his knees before a strike was thrown."
"You saw the data spikes? Elevated heart rate, tremor response — and that's against a supposedly 'low-tier' opponent."
> *[Commentator 1]:* "If low-tier can do *that*, I'd hate to see what high-tier looks like."
***
**SNEIAS Recruiter Chat – Private**
> *[User: Lucen4]*: "Patternless style tag. AI couldn't predict him. That's rare.
> *[User: Maen]*: "I've seen that before with veterans hiding style data. This wasn't concealment — it was lack of readable form. Pure reactive mastery."
> *[Lucen4]*: "Wildcard slot 1611. Flag him for higher observation."
***
In a smaller break room off Hallway 7, Kaito sat on the bench, staring at the floor.
A junior attendant asked, "What happened out there? Cramps? Qi disruption?"
Kaito shook his head slowly.
"No. Nothing like that. I just…" His voice trailed, searching for words.
"…You ever stand somewhere and know you don't belong? Like the other person isn't a contestant — they're something…"
He strained, but nothing fit. "…*Other*. That's what it felt like."
The attendant started to respond, but Kaito's gaze had already drifted, the conversation closed.
***
Ashen returned to his assigned waiting chamber. The soft glow of his name above the door hadn't changed.
Inside, the atmosphere was the same — even the stale, conditioned air was unchanged.
But now, somewhere in the network, his file had a new tag.
Somewhere else, his name had been whispered into a recruiter's ear.
Ashen sat, resting Wayfarer beside him.
No smile. No thought of victory.
Matches would keep coming until one day they wouldn't.
For now, it was just waiting again.
The room stayed silent except for the faint hum of the wall panel.
Then the panel blinked, a soft chime marking an update.
> **Next Match Assignment:**
> **Ashen (Wildcard)** vs **Ayjin [Rank 178]**
> Time: Pending
The name lingered there in the air — no details, no image.
Just **Ayjin**.
Ashen studied it for a moment.
Another step forward. Another opponent who thought they knew how a fight began.
For now, it was just waiting again.
But the Box would open soon.
----
The gate's red glow flared briefly, then switched to green with a quiet mechanical click.
Ashen stepped forward. His strides were measured, every footfall landing with deliberate balance.
The air inside the arena felt heavier—charged with anticipation and silence.
The coolness carried a faint static hum from the protective barrier fields.
Across the stone floor, Ayjin stood waiting, shoulders tight, hands loosely gripping the worn twin blades he carried.
His breathing was uneven, betraying nerves.
His posture was unsteady, lacking the solid grounding of a seasoned fighter—more of a man who stood because he had to, not because he was ready.
The ref-drone's mechanical voice broke the quiet:
> "Competitors, prepare. Begin."
Ashen was already moving.
He took one long step forward, weight shifting fluidly to his front foot—heel down first, toes flexing subtly as if sensing the ground beneath.
His hand brushed Wayfarer's cloth-wrapped hilt, fingers barely shifting the fabric.
The move was simple but deeply rooted in real practice: a classical **half-sword grip**
Hidden in the cloth wrapping, where the left hand would normally slide to the blade's middle for leverage, but Ashen adapted it.
A grip that promised precision control and power focused into every movement.
Ashen's stance was low and relaxed but ready — his right foot pointed slightly outward, left foot planted firmly behind at a hip-width distance.
His shoulders relaxed, torso angled—a perfect fusion of openness and protection, minimizing exposure.
Ayjin blinked, too slow.
Ashen's sword came up in a short, tight **thrust** motion.
The blade did not flash or flame, but it was exact—aimed at the exposed left side of Ayjin's coat.
The cut was a whisper; short, clean, slicing the fabric with surgical precision.
The sound was just the soft tearing of cloth, no clang or fanfare.
Ayjin staggered back, surprise flashing briefly through his eyes.
The crowd started to murmur, sensing the match would be brief.
But then Ayjin laughed—half embarrassed, half invigorated.
With a quick movement, he reached into his sleeve, pulling out battered black earbuds.
He slid them in carefully, index finger tapping. Inside his ears, the roar of the arena faded, replaced by the sharp strains of a violin instrumental—strings that were sharp, restless, demanding.
He closed his eyes, chest rising and falling deliberately.
When he opened them again, something had changed—a new sharpness, a new focus.
Not glowing, but keen, burning with silent intensity.
Ashen noticed.
The relaxed line of his lips twitched, the smallest corner of a smile.
He took a soft step back, shifting his stance just so—offering Ayjin space to breathe, to respond.
*Let me see what you carry beneath the nerves.*
Ayjin's breathing steadied, his shoulders loosening like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap.
The fight resumed—not the flash and fireworks of a show, but the sacred dance of real blades honed for war.
Ashen's moves now slowed just a measure—a deliberate **Engarde** stance, sword held at mid-length with the tip slightly raised and angled downward.
The position spoke of readiness, a poised guardian rather than an aggressor.
Ayjin lunged—a classical **Oberhau "over cut"**, a downward diagonal aimed to connect with Ashen's left shoulder.
His blade sliced fast, trusting power over precision.
Ashen met the attack with a refined **Zornhau "wrath cut" parry**—a swift, controlled deflection using the strong edge of his longsword.
The blades clashed with a faint ringing.
Instead of rushing to follow, Ashen's sword slipped seamlessly into a **Mittelhau "middle cut"**, a defensive-cutting motion to redirect Ayjin's momentum without overcommitting.
His feet pivoted smoothly; the heel of his back foot barely shifted as he maintained balance.
Ayjin barely had time to adjust but caught the rhythm.
The violin's strings swelled behind him, fueling each movement.
Ashen's eyes flicked to Ayjin's hands, watching the subtle tightening of his grip, the barely noticeable twist in wrist angle that exposed his blade's weak side—an opening.
With no haste, Ashen stepped forward, shifting his weight onto the front foot again and executed a **Haupstich—a precise thrust** aimed at the joint between Ayjin's left shoulder and collarbone.
It was fast, but measured—not murderous, more of a warning.
Ayjin instinctively stepped back, dodging—but in doing so, his back foot slipped on a faint stone imperfection. His stance wavered.
Ashen's smile deepened, quiet approval in his eyes.
*You're learning faster than I expected.*
The next exchanges were a masterclass in **timing and structure**:
- Ayjin pushed forward with a feinted **Zwerchhau "thwart cut"**, aiming horizontally to force Ashen's blade aside.
- Ashen responded with a light **Abnehmen "taken down"**, a counter cut to catch the attacker's blade from above with a downward blow—swift, precise, and designed to unbalance.
- Ayjin reacted by shifting instantly to a **Krumphau "crooked cut"**, an angled strike meant to deceive defense by slicing around the guard.
- Ashen matched with a subtle wrist flick, redirecting both their blades without breaking eye contact.
Ayjin's footwork improved, his balance returning.
The violin's melody rose, invigorating him—his muscles coiling like springs yet controlled, anticipatory.
After several measured exchanges, Ashen shifted the pace—still slow enough to teach but unmistakably deadly.
With a slight *feint* to the right, Ashen circled his blade in a tight arc, his sword edge barely whispering over Ayjin's ribs as a **Schielhau "oblique cut"**, cutting along the angles of defense.
Ayjin's eyes widened—a hesitation betrayed on his face—as the strike found a blind spot he had not defended.
His breath caught. Without thinking, his knees buckled, and he sank to one knee—the act unconscious but final.
The crowd's noise surged.
Ashen stepped back, lowering Wayfarer fully, his gaze steady.
Ayjin pulled out his earbuds, voice steady despite his defeated posture:
"I… forfeit."
The ref-drone's voice was clinical:
> "Ring 3 — Winner: Ashen."
Ayjin rose slowly, wiping sweat from his brow, a tired but genuine smile blooming.
In the quiet stillness, Ashen's slight smile lingered—it had reminded him of...Someone, that he forgot the name of.