City of Valmor — Training Grounds
The morning sun blazed over Valmor's vast training field, painting golden streaks across the steel swords and wooden dummies lined up in rows. The scent of dust and sweat filled the air as Aryan tightened the bandages around his wrist, his body still aching from yesterday's rooftop training.
He could barely stand straight — his legs trembled, his arms heavy — but his eyes burned with determination.
Roy stood in the middle of the arena, his cloak flowing lightly with the breeze. His posture was calm, but his aura was sharp — a veteran's presence that demanded respect.
"Day three," Roy said, drawing two wooden swords from the rack and tossing one toward Aryan. "Today we learn the meaning of conviction."
Aryan caught the sword clumsily. "Conviction?"
Roy nodded. "Every strike you make must carry your will — your reason to fight. Hesitation…" he stepped closer, his tone darkening, "kills."
The moment the word kills left his mouth, Roy's sword flashed forward. Aryan barely raised his weapon before clang! — the wooden blades met, sending a vibration through his arms.
"Defend yourself, Aryan!" Roy shouted.
The training began.
The Clash Begins
Aryan swung wildly, his strikes filled with desperation rather than form. Roy dodged each one with minimal movement, sidestepping effortlessly, his eyes analyzing every mistake.
"Too slow!" Clack! — Roy struck Aryan's ribs.
"Too obvious!" Whack! — A clean hit across Aryan's shoulder.
Aryan stumbled, his breath ragged. His arms screamed in pain. But every time he fell, he forced himself back up.
Roy's eyes narrowed. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that."
Aryan gritted his teeth. "I'm not stopping until I can stand equal to you."
Roy smirked faintly. "Then stop thinking — feel! A warrior's instinct doesn't come from thought, it comes from the soul."
Their swords met again. Sparks of friction and soul energy danced in the air.
Breaking Point
Hours passed. The sun reached its peak, scorching the field. Aryan's shirt was soaked in sweat, his knuckles bloodied. He could barely hold the sword straight.
Roy swung with precision — his attacks were fluid, rhythmical, almost like a deadly dance. Aryan blocked a few, dodged fewer, and took many hits head-on.
A final blow struck him down — his back hitting the ground with a loud thud.
Roy looked down, expression unreadable. "You're beaten, Aryan. Give up for today."
Aryan coughed, blood dripping from his lip. He tried to rise again, his hands trembling. "No… not yet."
Roy frowned. "You'll destroy yourself at this rate."
Aryan's gaze met his — fierce and burning. "Then let me. I need to become strong… for them."
For a moment, Roy saw something in Aryan's eyes — that same fire, that same reckless determination. Memories flickered behind his stoic face — a young warrior long ago, who too had refused to quit.
Roy's voice softened. "You remind me of someone… someone who refused to die. Just like you."
The Awakening Reflex
Roy lunged one last time — a final test of Aryan's will. His sword came down with blinding speed.
And then, something shifted.
In that instant, Aryan's pupils dilated — his body moved on its own. He twisted, raising his sword in a perfect counter stance — identical to Roy's own technique.
The two swords clashed mid-air with perfect symmetry.
Roy's eyes widened. That stance… he copied me?
Aryan didn't even realize what happened. His mind was blank, but his body — his soul — had remembered.
The Copy Soul had activated for a brief second, mimicking Roy's movement flawlessly.
The force of the clash sent Aryan stumbling back, his body drained. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
Roy approached slowly, eyes serious now. He looked at Aryan — bruised, bleeding, barely conscious — but alive, unbroken.
"You're… something else, kid," Roy murmured. "That wasn't instinct. That was something far deeper."
Aryan looked up weakly. "Did… I pass today's training?"
Roy chuckled softly. "Pass? You nearly destroyed your body — but yes… you passed."
He helped Aryan to his feet. "Rest. Tomorrow, we go beyond strength. We train your soul."
Aryan nodded, barely able to stand, his vision blurring. "I'll be ready…"
Roy watched him with quiet admiration. "He's different," he whispered to himself. "His will burns brighter than most warriors I've ever met."
As Aryan limped toward the resting hut, the evening sun dipped behind Valmor's spires, casting long shadows across the ground.
And in those shadows, something stirred within Aryan — a faint hum of the Copy Soul, pulsing with new life.
His journey toward vengeance… had only just begun.