Ten days passed in silence and sweat.
The world beyond the walls moved as always—empires rose and fell, stars were born and died—but within the training ground, time was carved only by the steady clash of blades.
From the first light of dawn until the sky bled orange at dusk, Loryn trained.
Every day was the same rhythm: wake, stretch, draw the sword, repeat the strikes. Alther corrected his stance with the sharp tap of his blade. When Loryn faltered, the butler's stern gaze burned sharper than any cut.
"Again," Alther would say. And Loryn obeyed.
By the third day, his shoulders ached so fiercely he could hardly lift his arms. By the fifth, blisters tore open across his palms. By the seventh, his legs trembled with each step. And yet, he did not stop. Not once.
He wore no robe of elegance, no garments of gold or silver. Instead, he trained in a plain dark tunic and loose trousers, the fabric torn, dirt-stained, and soaked with sweat. Each scar on the ground, each drop of blood on his knuckles, became proof of his resolve.
Alther never spared him the harshness of truth.
"Your strike is weak. Reset your stance."
"Your footwork drags. Again."
"You think too much. Let the blade breathe for you."
And slowly—painfully—Loryn did improve. His movements grew sharper, his strikes cleaner, his grip steadier. The boy who once swung his sword with raw stubbornness now carried the faint rhythm of a warrior.
On the tenth morning, the air itself seemed to hold its breath as master and student faced each other one last time.
Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks. Step for step, strike for strike, Loryn matched Alther's pace. His chest burned, his vision blurred with sweat, but his sword did not falter.
Then—Alther stopped. His blade lowered, his shoulders easing for the first time in days.
"That's it," Alther said. His voice, usually sharp as steel, carried an edge of finality.
Loryn blinked, lowering his stance. His chest rose and fell like a drum. "That's it?"
"There is nothing more I can teach you in basic swordsmanship," Alther replied, his tone firm. "Your foundation is complete—your strikes true, your balance steady. You are ready to step into a higher path."
Loryn swallowed, his grip tightening on the hilt. "And what path is that?"
Alther's eyes gleamed like a sword catching the sun. "The Sword Art of the Omni King."
The words struck like thunder. For a heartbeat, Loryn forgot to breathe. His father's sword art—the style that had carved its name into the bones of the omniverse, that legends whispered could split stars and silence gods. A technique spoken of with awe and fear alike.
Alther sheathed his blade with solemn care.
"But understand this. The King will not hand it to you simply because you are his son. The Sword Art is not a gift—it is a trial. You must prove yourself worthy of it. His castle is not far from here… yet the distance is not measured in steps, Loryn. It is measured in resolve."
Loryn turned toward the horizon. There, rising beyond the forests and rivers, stood the Castle of the Omni King.
Its spires pierced the heavens, black stone laced with runes that pulsed faintly like the heartbeat of an ancient giant. Walls shimmered with protective wards older than galaxies. Each tower rose higher than mountains, crowned with banners that rippled against the eternal wind of the omniverse. Even from afar, its majesty pressed down like a mountain upon the heart.
The sight made Loryn's chest tighten. His mind flickered back to the crushing weight of his father's aura, the helplessness that had forced blood from his lips. That memory still lived in his bones. Yet now, standing tall, he felt something different awaken within him. Not fear. Not despair. But fire.
"I'll go," Loryn said firmly.
Alther's stern features softened, just barely. A rare flicker of pride touched his gaze. He placed a hand on Loryn's shoulder. "Good. Then walk with strength, young master. What lies ahead is not just training—it is a trial of spirit."
The morning sun broke through the clouds, painting the citadel in gold. Loryn sheathed his sword, wiped the sweat from his brow, and began to walk.
The path was long, winding through forests where the air hummed with mana and across rivers that reflected the fractured skies. Each step drew him closer to the fortress of legends, closer to the man who was both his father and the strongest being in existence.
For the first time, Loryn did not walk as the youngest child of the Omni King, nor as the boy burdened with strange, infinite energy. He walked as a swordsman—seeking the flame that would define him.
And at the end of the road, the Castle awaited.