The world narrowed to the circle of hard-packed earth and the man standing opposite him. This was no longer a simple spar; it was an unspoken inquisition. The sword fanatic's eyes, sharp and analytical, held a question Kaelen dared not answer. The air was still, charged with the dust their feet had unsettled.
Kaelen led, his body moving with the instinctual, optimized aggression of the legionary. He feinted high and thrust low, a blow meant to skim a thigh—a scoring strike. It was fast, faster than any normal man could manage.
The fanatic's blade was already there. Not with a jarring parry, but with a soft, circular deflection that whispered against Kaelen's gladius, redirecting its force harmlessly into the empty air. The man didn't even shift his stance.
They traded blows, the sharp clang of iron ringing in the quiet lane. Kaelen was a storm of efficient, deadly motion. The fanatic was the sea. He flowed around every attack, his defense an effortless, graceful dance. He wasn't just blocking; he was reading the very intent in Kaelen's muscles, his movements so economical they were insulting. A cold, familiar dread began to pool in Kaelen's gut—the feeling of being utterly outclassed.
The sense of overwhelm was inexplicable. His body was stronger, his mind sharper, yet this man made him feel like a child swinging a stick. Frustration and a spark of primal fear ignited within him. He couldn't lose. Not here. Not to a stranger who saw too much.
Without conscious thought, he reached for the cold, heavy current slumbering in his veins. Ulos.
It responded like a hound to a whip-crack. A sliver of that terrifying energy uncoiled. First, it shot to his heart, a sudden, violent squeeze that made it pound like a war drum, flooding his limbs with oxygen-rich blood. Then it flooded his lungs, and his breathing became a supercharged, silent gasp, fueling the fire. Finally, it fused into the fibers of his muscles, which tightened with a density that should have torn his mortal frame apart.
The change was instantaneous. His next strike was not a swordsman's blow. It was a force of nature.
He swung the gladius downward. There was no finesse, only a terrifying, absolute finality. It was the descent of a meteor, meant not to wound, but to unmake.
The fanatic's eyes widened a fraction, his serene composure shattering. He brought his own blade up in a desperate, two-handed cross-block.
The impact was not a ring, but a sickening, metallic CRACK. The man grunted, a raw, pained exhalation as his face contorted in agony. His wrists buckled under the force, and his sword was driven down, the flat of the blade slamming into his own shoulder. He staggered back, his form broken, his weapon shaking so violently in his grasp it was a miracle he didn't drop it. He stood there, dishevelled and gasping, his entire body trembling from the shock of the blow.
And Kaelen's world went black.
The colossal strength vanished as quickly as it came, leaving a vacuum of utter exhaustion. His muscles, pushed far beyond their mortal limits, turned to water. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers, and he collapsed to the dirt, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The sun was hot, the air thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and oiled leather. Kaelen stood in the vast, communal training ground of the Castra Aeterna, his gladius slick in his hand. He had just finished a spirited spar with a fellow Decanus, their bout ending in a respectful draw. Laughter and the shouts of hundreds of drilling men filled the air.
Lucius jogged up, his face, unlined by the grief it would one day bear, split in a wide grin. "Kaelen! Centurion Commander Maximus wants to see you. Looks serious."
Kaelen nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with a rag. "Probably another complaint about the noise during night watch," he joked, clapping Lucius on the arm before heading towards the large, stone-built Principia that housed the command staff.
He knocked on the heavy oak door. "You wished to see me, sir?"
"Ah, Kaelen. Come in." Centurion Commander Maximus was a bull of a man going to seed, his scalp gleaming under thinning hair. His office was a model of military neatness. "You're smart," Maximus said without preamble, looking up from a stack of reports. "Probably the smartest in the cohort who isn't a preening aristocrat. I have a task for you."
"Sir?"
"I want you to go to the Grand Archives. In Aeterna Urbs itself. I've secured a transfer. I want you to study. Ancient history, dead languages, logistics. These lads," he gestured vaguely towards the window and the training grounds, "are brave, but they're simpletons. Knowledge is a weapon, Kaelen. I want you to sharpen it, then come back and teach them how to wield it."
It was an unheard-of opportunity, a path to a staff position, to a different kind of honor. Kaelen felt a surge of pride. "I won't let you down, sir."
"See that you don't."
The dream shattered.
He awoke to the chill of night and the gentle crackle of a small fire. The twin moons, Selune and Kythe, hung directly overhead, their cold light competing with the flames. Every muscle in his body ached with a deep, resonant pain, as if he had been beaten with clubs.
A figure sat across the fire, gingerly rotating his right shoulder, a poultice visible under his tunic. It was the sword fanatic.
Before Kaelen could form a question, the man spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"I've been fighting for forty years," he said, staring into the flames. "I've dueled Aethelian Weapon Masters, steppe chieftains, and Qin'Lun blademasters who could slice a falling leaf in half. I have never…" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...felt a blow like that. Your technique is raw, a soldier's technique. But it's brutally efficient. Good enough to endanger me. And that is a feat I have not experienced in a very long time."
He looked up, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "You collapsed the moment you landed it. Dragged us both into an early night." He gave a short, pained bark of laughter. "Since you've impressed me so thoroughly—and nearly dislocated my shoulder—you might as well know my name. I am Quintus Aramis."
Kaelen's breath caught in his throat. Quintus Aramis. The name was a legend. A lowborn prodigy who rose through sheer skill to become a military champion and, astoundingly, a member of the People's Senate. And then, twenty years ago, he had vanished from public life without a trace. The histories called it the 'Disappearance of the Iron Senator.'
"I know that name," Kaelen said, his voice hoarse. "Why did you disappear?"
Quintus's face grew still, the shadows deepening the lines around his eyes. "The Senate was a cage of whispers and lies," he said, his tone final and devoid of regret. "Every moment spent politicking was a moment stolen from the sword. I chose the blade. It is a more honest companion."
Understanding the matter was closed, Kaelen let it lie. "Well," he began, pushing himself up onto his elbows, "I know it's abrupt, but the smith…?"
Quintus nodded. "With power like yours, the ideal is to forge your own weapon, a blade that is an extension of your own spirit. But unless you have a decade to spare, I wouldn't recommend it. For now, there is a man. He owes me a favor. He understands that a weapon must have a soul. I'll introduce you at daybreak." He looked at Kaelen, a glint of professional interest in his gaze. "If you're bored waiting, I could offer some guidance. Your talent is undeniable, but it lacks… direction."
The moons began their slow descent, bleeding light over the horizon. And in the quiet yard, under the vast, star-dusted sky, the disgraced Ascender received tutelage from a lost legend, the first true step on a path he was only beginning to understand.