Cracks in the Flame
The storm had not passed.
It had only grown harsher.
Steel rang against steel once more, the shriek of their blades tearing across the arena. Sparks erupted in bursts of gold, scattering like fireflies in the night, illuminating the sweat and strain etched across Kaen's face.
He staggered back as another strike tore into his guard, his boots scraping deep grooves into the cracked stone floor. His arms screamed with pain, trembling under the weight of every collision. The crowd could hear it—the uneven sound of his breathing, sharp and ragged, each inhale like fire burning his lungs.
His opponent's movements, in contrast, were unnervingly calm. Her blade cut the air in arcs of silver, precise and merciless. She advanced like lightning on the horizon, each step carrying inevitability. Kaen could barely see her blade before it was already there, slamming into his with a force that rattled his bones.
Too fast… too strong…
Another strike. Another clash. The sparks hissed against his cheek, mixing with sweat. Kaen twisted desperately to block the next blow—
SHHKT!
A line of red traced itself along his forearm. Shallow, but enough to sting. His eyes widened at the sight of blood dripping onto his trembling hand.
The audience gasped as one.
"She cut him again!"
"He's slowing down!"
"Kaen can't hold out much longer…"
Their voices pressed into his mind, a storm of doubt. He tried to push them out, but the truth was undeniable—his speed was faltering. His arms no longer moved fast enough to intercept every strike. His opponent wasn't just faster than him—she was accelerating.
CLANG!
A powerful strike sent Kaen staggering three steps back, his knees nearly buckling. His blade quivered violently in his hands, the steel ringing with the sound of a dying bell. He clenched his teeth and forced it steady, but his chest heaved uncontrollably, his breaths shallow and harsh.
"She's… pressing harder," he muttered under his breath.
The woman's eyes glimmered, sharp as the edge of her blade. She didn't speak, didn't mock. She didn't need to. Every strike carried her answer.
Kaen raised his sword again, just in time for her next blow.
CRASH!
The impact cracked the floor beneath him, sending dust spiraling upward. Kaen stumbled, his vision shaking as his arms absorbed the shock. His grip faltered, the hilt nearly slipping from his sweat-slick palms. His knees bent, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse entirely.
"Kaen!" a voice from the crowd shouted. "Hold on!"
But another muttered, "It's no use. He's finished."
The noise crashed into Kaen like waves, feeding the tremor already running through his body. His blade wavered. His breath hitched. His sight blurred at the edges, colors fading into dim smears of light.
And then—
SLASH!
The opponent's sword cut clean across his shoulder, tearing through fabric, leaving a burning line of blood. Kaen hissed, staggering back, clutching the wound with one hand while still holding his sword with the other.
The audience roared, some in awe, others in dismay.
"She's carving him apart!"
"He won't last another minute!"
Kaen's head dropped, sweat dripping from his hair onto the cracked stone. His arms trembled violently, refusing to obey his will. His chest rose and fell like a man drowning, desperate for breath.
His blade—so heavy now. Heavier than it had ever felt before.
(Why… why does it feel like this sword is crushing me…?)
The opponent advanced again, unrelenting. Her presence was suffocating, her steps echoing like the toll of a bell announcing his end. Kaen tried to raise his weapon, but his body screamed in protest. His arms shook uncontrollably.
The crowd's cheers and gasps blurred into a single, hollow roar in his ears. The edges of his vision darkened further, his focus slipping away.
Am I… going to fall here…?
He stumbled, his knee brushing the cracked floor. His sword tip wavered, scraping against stone, leaving a faint line as though it too was losing strength. His breath rattled, shallow and uneven, his chest burning with each inhale.
The arena seemed to shrink around him, his opponent's figure the only thing in focus. She raised her blade again, eyes cold, ready to end it.
Kaen's grip loosened, his fingers trembling as if they might let go.
For a fleeting second, he felt it—the crushing weight of despair. The thought that maybe the crowd was right. Maybe he couldn't keep up. Maybe this storm was too much.
His sword dipped lower, his shoulders sagging. His knees nearly gave in.
And then—
A faint whisper cut through the chaos.
Not from the crowd. Not from his opponent.
From deep within his own memory.
"Kaen…"
His head twitched, eyes widening slightly.
That voice—gentle, warm, carrying a weight no strike could match.
"Kaen, no matter how heavy the blade feels… never let go."
The words rang in his ears, louder than the clashing steel, louder than the crowd's roar.
His trembling fingers tightened slightly around the hilt.
The battlefield blurred for a moment, fading into something softer, something familiar. A dimly lit home. A child's hands gripping a wooden sword too heavy for him. A boy collapsing into the grass, tears streaking his cheeks. And a mother kneeling beside him, brushing the tears away.
Her voice, tender yet firm, echoed again:
"A sword isn't just steel. It's the will you carry."
The vision faded. The arena returned. The storm raged on.
But Kaen's eyes flickered with something new.
Not strength. Not power.
But resolve.
---
The Voice of His Mother
The world around kaen wavered like a flame in the wind.
The roar of the crowd, the clashing of steel, the ache in his trembling arms—all of it blurred into a dull haze.
But that voice…
That gentle, unyielding voice cut through the storm.
"Kaen… no matter how heavy the blade feels, never let go."
His chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat.
The arena flickered, the stone floor beneath him dissolving into soft earth. He saw it clearly—grass swaying under the touch of the evening breeze, the fading glow of the sun painting the sky orange.
And there he was.
A younger Kaen, no more than eight years old, clutching a wooden practice sword far too big for his small frame. His arms shook, his knees quivered. He swung once, twice—then collapsed onto the ground, tears brimming in his eyes.
"I… I can't, Mother!" young Kaen cried, throwing the wooden blade aside. His small fists rubbed at his eyes. "It's too heavy! I'll never be strong enough!"
The boy's sobs echoed softly in the fading light.
And then—warm hands rested gently on his shoulders.
"Kaen…"
He looked up, blinking through tears. His mother knelt before him, her eyes filled with both kindness and steel. Her hands, roughened from years of labor, brushed the sweat and dirt from his cheeks.
"Do you know what this sword is?" she asked softly, picking up the wooden blade and holding it before him.
"It's… just wood…" Kaen muttered, ashamed.
She shook her head gently. "No. It's your will."
Kaen frowned in confusion.
"A sword isn't just steel, Kaen," she continued, her voice carrying both warmth and firmness. "It's the heart that wields it. The determination that refuses to break. No matter how heavy it feels, as long as you don't let go, it will never fail you."
Her words sank into him like seeds planted in fertile soil. She pressed the wooden sword back into his hands, guiding his grip with her own.
"Feel it," she whispered. "This isn't weight dragging you down—it's strength waiting to grow."
The boy stared at the blade, his small fingers tightening around it. His tears slowed, his breathing steadied. And when he looked up again, his mother's smile shone like the setting sun, tender and unwavering.
---
The vision cracked.
The arena returned.
Steel screamed as Kaen barely raised his blade to intercept another strike. Sparks hissed in his face, the force rattling his bones. He staggered back, but his grip… his grip didn't loosen.
The crowd gasped again.
"He blocked it?!"
"He should've fallen by now!"
Kaen's arms trembled violently, his body screaming for release. But his mind echoed with his mother's words: No matter how heavy the blade feels, never let go.
CLASH!
Another strike hammered against him, this one grazing across his thigh as he staggered aside. Pain flared hot, blood dripping down his leg. His opponent pressed forward mercilessly, her blade a blur.
Kaen's knees nearly buckled again, his sword dragging close to the ground—
—but his hands clenched tighter.
The voice echoed once more.
"A sword isn't just steel. It's the will you carry."
Kaen grit his teeth, his eyes blazing with defiance.
"I… won't let go."
The crowd saw it—
A boy on the verge of collapse. His body failing, his movements slowing. Cuts lining his arms, shoulder, and thigh. Blood dripping steadily.
And yet—his sword was still raised.
The opponent's eyes narrowed slightly. Not in pity, not in hesitation. But in faint acknowledgment. A storm respects even a tree that refuses to fall, if only for a moment.
She blurred forward again, her sword striking in a merciless arc—
CRASH!
Kaen's blade met hers once more. The impact drove him to one knee, his arms screaming in agony, but the weapon did not leave his hands.
Dust swirled around them, sparks showered the arena.
Kaen's vision swam with pain, but within the haze, he saw it again.
His mother. Kneeling before him. Guiding his hands on a blade.
Her voice: "As long as you don't let go… it will never fail you."
The crowd roared, the sound deafening. Some cheered, others jeered, but it didn't matter. Kaen wasn't listening to them anymore.
All he heard was her voice.
All he felt was the weight of the blade in his hands.
And though his body was cracking, though the storm threatened to break him entirely, his will refused to let go.
---
The Family's Warmth
The roar of the arena faded once more.
Kaen's breaths came ragged, his lungs burning like fire, his body swaying with exhaustion. Blood trickled from the cuts on his arms and thigh, his vision blurring at the edges. The opponent circled him like a predator, blade gleaming in the arena light, waiting for the next opening.
But before her sword struck again, Kaen's gaze slipped—drifting not to the stone and steel of the arena, but to something softer. Something brighter.
---
A table.
Wooden, scratched by years of use, yet polished with care.
The smell of stew rising from a pot, steam filling the room with warmth.
He was home again.
A younger Kaen sat at the table, legs swinging, his small hands reaching eagerly for the bread his father had just torn apart. His mother scolded lightly, swatting his hand with a wooden spoon.
"Patience, Kaen," she chided, though her smile betrayed her. "Food tastes better when everyone's ready."
His father chuckled, ruffling his son's hair with a strong, calloused hand. "Let the boy eat, love. He trains hard. He's earned it."
His mother rolled her eyes but ladled stew into bowls, her movements brisk but gentle. Kaen remembered the way the light from the hearth reflected in her eyes, the way her tired hands never slowed, never faltered.
And his father—broad-shouldered, proud—always found time to smile, even after long days of work.
That warmth filled the room, wrapping Kaen in a cocoon of safety.
The laughter, the scolding, the simple act of sharing a meal—these were the moments he carried in his heart.
---
CLANG!
Steel struck against steel, jolting Kaen back to the present. His arms barely lifted in time, his opponent's blade slicing across his shoulder. The crowd gasped as crimson splattered the stone floor.
He staggered back, teeth clenched against the pain. His sword shook in his grip, his body screaming to drop it.
But he couldn't.
Not when those memories burned within him.
---
Another flash—this time of a festival. Lanterns glowing in the night sky, laughter echoing down crowded streets. Kaen remembered clutching his mother's hand as she guided him through the bustling crowd, his father carrying a bag of roasted chestnuts.
"You'll grow stronger one day, Kaen," his father had told him, kneeling to meet his eyes. "But strength is meaningless if you forget why you fight."
Young Kaen had tilted his head, confused.
His father had only smiled, placing a hand on his chest. "Fight for this. For the warmth you feel here."
Kaen remembered the crackle of fireworks in the sky, his mother's gentle laugh, the sweet taste of roasted chestnuts pressed into his small hand.
That warmth—that love—was what he fought for.
---
SLASH!
The opponent's blade tore across his side, shallow but burning. Kaen gasped, his vision swimming. His knees buckled again.
"Stay down!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"It's over!" another voice jeered.
"He can't take another hit!"
The words pounded against him, threatening to drown his resolve. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second—
—and then he saw it.
His family's faces.
His mother's smile, her hands guiding him with patience.
His father's proud eyes, his laughter filling the home.
The warmth of sitting at that battered wooden table, surrounded by love.
Kaen's fingers tightened around the hilt again, blood smearing across the leather grip. His blade lifted—not high, not strong, but steady.
---
The opponent blinked, her sharp eyes narrowing. She had cut him again and again, pressed him to the very brink. Any normal fighter would have collapsed.
But this boy—
This boy still stood, his sword raised, his gaze burning with defiance.
For the first time, her lips curled into the faintest of smirks.
---
Kaen's knees shook. His breath came ragged. But within the storm of pain, the warmth of his family anchored him.
He whispered through bloodied lips, his voice barely audible above the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd:
"I… fight… for them."
---
And when the next strike came, he didn't crumble. He staggered. He bled. But he held his ground.
The crowd erupted—not in cheers of victory, but in awe of a boy who refused to fall.
---
The Will to Endure
The blade whistled through the air.
CLANG!
Kaen caught it, but only barely. The impact sent a fresh shock of pain through his arms, rattling his bones. His knees buckled, and this time he couldn't stop himself. He dropped hard onto one knee, his sword digging into the stone floor to keep him from collapsing completely.
The crowd gasped as one.
"He's done for!"
"End it already!"
"He can't even stand!"
Their voices blurred together, a storm of doubt and dismissal. The weight of it pressed against Kaen's chest, making it harder to breathe. His sword trembled in his grip. Blood trickled down his arm, dripping onto the arena floor in steady beats, like a drum counting down to his defeat.
His opponent loomed over him, blade gleaming as she prepared the finishing strike. Her shadow fell across him, long and sharp, like a death sentence etched into the ground.
Kaen's fingers twitched. His grip faltered. The sword wavered, threatening to slip from his hands.
And for a heartbeat—he almost let it fall.
---
But then, another memory stirred.
A small boy sat on the floor of a quiet home, clutching his arm with tears streaming down his face. The wooden practice sword lay discarded nearby, its edge chipped from too many swings.
Kaen's mother knelt beside him, her hands moving with calm certainty as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. She dabbed gently at the small cut on his arm, her touch tender but steady.
"It stings!" young Kaen whimpered, flinching at every touch.
"I know," she whispered softly, her voice like a lullaby. "Wounds always sting. That's how you know you fought."
She wrapped a strip of cloth around his arm, tying it carefully. Then she looked into his eyes, her expression firm but filled with love.
"Listen to me, Kaen. Wounds are not weakness. They are proof. Proof that you stood, proof that you fought, proof that you endured."
The boy sniffled, blinking at her words.
"Even if you fall, even if you bleed," she continued, pressing her hand over his small one, "as long as you stand back up, you are not defeated."
Her smile then—gentle, unwavering—etched itself into his heart forever.
---
The memory shattered into the present.
Kaen's body screamed, every muscle begging for surrender. His sword trembled so violently it was almost torn from his grasp. His vision blurred, his breath ragged.
But those words echoed inside him: "Even if you fall, even if you bleed… as long as you stand back up, you are not defeated."
His trembling fingers clenched tighter around the hilt. His knuckles turned white through the blood. His body may have been broken, but his will—his will blazed brighter than ever.
---
The opponent's blade came down in a merciless arc.
CRASH!
At the last possible moment, Kaen surged upward, catching the strike with his own. The clash sent sparks flying, the sound like thunder rolling across the arena. The sheer force nearly crushed him back into the ground—but he didn't let go.
The crowd erupted.
Some screamed in disbelief, others shouted his name, others simply stood frozen, unable to comprehend how he still fought.
Kaen's chest heaved, his entire frame shaking. But slowly, agonizingly, he pushed up from one knee to both feet. His legs wobbled, his body bent, blood dripping freely—but he was standing again.
---
The opponent's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in them. Not mockery. Not amusement. But recognition.
Kaen's lips moved, barely forming words. His voice was raw, cracked, but steady.
"I… am not… defeated."
And then—he roared.
A cry that tore from deep within his chest, carrying with it every memory, every wound, every ounce of defiance. His voice thundered through the arena, drowning out the jeers and cheers alike.
The crowd fell silent for a moment, awed by the sound of sheer, unbreakable will.
Kaen's sword lifted again. Shaking. Bleeding. Barely clinging to strength.
But it lifted.
---
And for the first time, his opponent tilted her head ever so slightly, as if acknowledging that this fight was no longer just a contest of blades. It was a clash of souls.
Kaen stood there, swaying, bleeding, trembling—yet unbroken.
---
The Rise of the Ember
The arena felt like it was holding its breath.
Kaen stood there, swaying, blood dripping from a dozen cuts, his chest rising and falling with ragged gasps. His blade trembled in his hand, its edge cracked, glowing faintly under the arena lights as though ready to give out at any second.
The crowd stared in silence. Moments ago, they had believed him finished—done, broken, unable to rise again. And yet here he was, standing tall, eyes blazing with a fire that refused to go out.
It was not strength that kept him upright. It was not speed, or skill, or some hidden technique.
It was something far heavier, far brighter.
Will.
---
Flash.
Kaen remembered sitting by the hearth as a child, his little legs curled under him while his father polished his blade. His mother hummed softly nearby, cooking stew that filled the room with warmth. His younger siblings chased each other around the table, their laughter bouncing off the walls.
It was messy. Loud. Chaotic.
But it was home.
"Kaen," his father's voice echoed in the memory, calm and steady. "One day, when the world tests you, remember this—"
His father placed the polished sword in Kaen's small hands. The weight had been unbearable back then, his arms trembling as he tried to hold it.
"Steel breaks. Flesh bleeds. But a heart that refuses to bend… that is unshakable."
His mother had smiled at him then, brushing her hand over his hair.
"And that's the heart I raised."
Flash.
---
Back in the present, Kaen's grip steadied.
His opponent's calm eyes studied him. For the first time, there was a flicker—something almost like interest, or even respect.
"You should have fallen," she said quietly, voice like steel brushing against stone. "Yet you rise again. Why?"
Kaen's answer was simple. His voice raw, trembling, but unshakable:
"Because I carry more than myself."
He lifted his cracked blade high. The sparks clinging to its edge seemed to glow brighter, almost alive, reflecting the fire burning in his eyes.
---
The crowd erupted into chaos.
"Impossible!"
"He's still standing!"
"How can he fight after that beating?!"
"Kaen! KAEN! KAEN!"
The stadium shook under the roar of thousands, their voices colliding into a single thunderous cry.
Kaen's bloodied form became a symbol—not of strength, but of refusal. Of defiance. Of standing when no one thought he could.
His opponent tightened her grip on her sword. The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips, though it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Very well," she whispered. "Show me this will of yours. Let's see how long your ember burns."
---
Kaen lowered his stance, every muscle screaming in protest. His body threatened to collapse, but his spirit—his spirit roared louder than ever.
The ground cracked beneath his boots as he steadied himself. His cracked blade gleamed in the light.
The two fighters locked eyes.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
No crowd. No sound. Just two souls colliding in silence.
And then—
BOOM!
They lunged at each other once more.
The final clash of the chapter erupted with a thunderous spark of steel against steel, brighter and louder than any before. The sound echoed across the arena, shaking stone and heart alike.
The screen of sparks swallowed them, hiding the outcome.
The chapter ended there—
Kaen's battered figure locked against the storm, his ember burning brighter than ever, refusing to die.