CHAPTER II
Dawn came without warmth.
Mist crawled low across the Ebon Wing encampment, clinging to boots and corpses alike. The battlefield beyond the walls lay quiet now—too quiet. The kind of quiet Zen had learned never to trust.
He was sharpening his blade when the footsteps stopped behind him.
"You're awake early."
Zen didn't look up. "You're awake late."
A pause. Then a soft laugh.
Zaerphel stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, the Crimson Herrek resting against his chest. He looked untouched by exhaustion. As if sleep itself bent around his will.
"I wanted to see you fight," Zaerphel said. "Not against enemies. Against me."
Zen finally raised his eyes.
"No spectators," Zen replied. "No interference."
Zaerphel smiled. "Agreed."
The mist parted as they walked beyond the camp, toward a stretch of open ground littered with shattered stone and rusted weapons—remnants of a hundred forgotten clashes.
They stopped ten paces apart.
Zen rested his hand on his sword.
Zaerphel drawed his sword that emitted
Killing pressure
"You're legendary sword" Zen said.
"so you know about this it's called God's incarnate
Zaerphel replied calmly.
Zen felt it then.
Presence.
Something menacing & monstrous
beneath Zaerphel's sword, like a blade sheathed behind flesh and monsters.
"Begin," Zaerphel said.
Zen moved.
No warning. No flourish.
Zen swing at zaerphel with monstrous force
Zaerphel stepped aside—barely. The edge passed close enough to slice a strand of blond hair free. It drifted to the ground that it broke with immense force
between them.
Zaerphel's eyes sharpened.
"Good," he murmured.
Zen pressed.
Strike. Step. Cut.
Each blow was precise, lethal, merciless. The kind meant to end fights, not test them. Zen's muscles sang as Vǫrðr flowed through his body and cold through his frame.
Zaerphel retreated, hands empty, movements efficient rather than desperate.
Too efficient.
Zen adjusted.
Predator Perception always analyzing his opponent.
He stopped attacking where Zaerphel was—and struck where he would be.
Zaerphel barely avoided the blade this time, boot skidding through damp earth.
The smile faded.
"Interesting," Zaerphel said.
He reached up—
And removed the Crimson Herrek.
The air changed.
Not violently. Subtly. As if the world leaned closer.
Zaerphel slipped the Herrek into his coat and extended a hand.
A sword was tossed from the ground to his palm.
Zen didn't blink.
They clashed.
Steel rang against steel, sharp and merciless. The force of the impact cracked stone beneath their feet. Zen's arms absorbed the shock without faltering.
Titanic Physique.
Zaerphel's technique was immaculate—refined, aristocratic, controlled. Every motion conserved energy. Every parry guided Zen's strength away rather than meeting it head-on.
They circled.
Zen attacked in bursts. Zaerphel countered in flows.
A kick to Zen's ribs—blocked. A pommel strike to Zaerphel's temple—deflected. Sparks flew as blades kissed again and again.
Zaerphel's eyes gleamed.
"You don't hesitate," he said between clashes. "Not even against me."
"I don't hesitate against anything," Zen replied.
Their swords locked.
Zaerphel leaned in, voice low. "That's why you'll die young."
Zen twisted, breaking the lock, and struck—
Zaerphel vanished from the blade's path.
Zen felt it a heartbeat too late.
The flat of Zaerphel's sword struck his ribs. Another hit his shoulder. A third clipped his knee.
Not killing blows.
Zen dropped to one knee, breath sharp.
Zaerphel stood over him, blade at Zen's throat.
Silence occurred
Before Zaerphel stepped back and lowered his sword.
"You lose," he said simply.
Zen rose slowly, pain burning bright but clean
"Yes."
Zaerphel studied him, then smiled—not triumphant, but pleased.
"Serve the Ebon Wing," Zaerphel said. "Fight under me."
Zen met his gaze. "I don't kneel."
Zaerphel nodded. "Good. I don't want servants."
He extended his hand.
"I want men who can stand beside my dream."
Zen stared at the offered hand.
He thought of blood-soaked fields. Of broken fathers. Of survival bought with teeth and steel.
He took it.
Their grips locked—firm, equal.
The moment they touched—
Far beyond sight, in the Kurai Sekai, something they watched this events take place
Not in approval.
In curiosity.
Zen released the hand first.
Zaerphel laughed softly. "Welcome to the Ebon Wing, Zen Noctryn."
Zen sheathed his sword.
He didn't smile.
But for the first time since birth—
He did not feel alone.