The battlefield was screaming in pain.
Steel against steel in a chaotic chorus, sparks every time blades collided.
Cries of pain and triumph overlapped.
More than twenty thousand fighters clashed across the open plain.
They came from everywhere.
Armored mercenaries with heavy greatswords.Lean assassins weaving through gaps with daggers flashing.Sword-wielding mages whose blades burned with runes.Beastkin roaring as they swung axes the size of shields.Humans, elves, half-bloods, demon-kin—no banners, no alliances.
Sword Spirits flared openly here.Spectral weapons clashed midair. Shockwaves tore craters into the ground. One fighter was thrown screaming across the field, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dirt.
Another laughed as he charged.
The world felt feral here—alive, hungry, merciless.
Then—
The wind changed.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
Just enough that the dust shifted.
A figure stepped onto the battlefield.
At first, no one noticed.
They rarely did.
He wore a long black cloak, the color deep and muted, like twilight frozen into fabric. It moved gently despite the chaos around him, untouched by flying debris or shockwaves. Beneath the hood, his face remained hidden, swallowed by shadow.
He did not run.
He simply walked forward, boots pressing into the bloody ground.
One of the fighters noticed him at last.
"HEY—!" the man shouted, blade raised. "GET OUT—"
The shout ended abruptly.
Not with blood.
Not with death.
Just… silence.
The man crumpled mid-step, collapsing as if the strength had been drained from his bones.
Another fighter turned, eyes widening."What the—"
A third charged, Sword Spirit blazing.
The cloaked man stopped walking.
He rested one hand lightly on the hilt of his sword which couldn't be properly seen.
The blade slid free with a sound so soft it was nearly lost beneath the noise of battle.
Nearly.
Those closest to him felt it first.
A pressure.
Not crushing. Not violent.
Balanced.
Like the moment just before snow falls.
The man lifted his sword.
And swung.
It was not a fast strike.
It was not wide or aggressive.
It was gentle.
A single, smooth arc through the air.
No flash.No roar.No visible burst of power.
Yet the world blinked.
A wave rippled outward from the sword's path—not a shockwave, but something subtler. Sword Spirits across the battlefield flickered violently, their manifestations stuttering like flames caught in a sudden wind.
All Fighters dropped.
Not screamed.
Not thrown.
They simply fell.
Bodies collapsed across the field in the span of a breath, weapons slipping from numb fingers, Sword Spirits dissolving back into silence as consciousness fled.
Dust settled.
The battlefield, moments ago alive with chaos, became still.
The cloaked man exhaled once.
Slowly.
He sheathed his sword.
Not a single drop of blood stained the earth.
He did not look at the fallen.
He turned away and walked on, cloak trailing softly behind him, as if the world itself had decided not to resist.
And left the silent battlefield.
___________
It was just another regular morning in the merchant district.
Sunlight slipped between tiled rooftops and wooden signboards, painting the narrow streets in gold. Shopkeepers raised shutters with sleepy yawns. The scent of fresh bread drifted through the air, mingling with spice and woodsmoke.
It was an ordinary morning.
The kind the world had countless times without ever noticing.
In a small yard just beyond the Arcelion household, a boy exhaled slowly.
Shhh—thwack.
A wooden sword sliced through the air.
The sound was clean. Controlled. Too precise for a blade made of simple oak.
Lucien Arcelion stepped forward, boots crunching softly against frost-dusted grass. He wasn't tall enough to dominate a room, nor small enough to be overlooked easily. Average height, lean frame—but the way he carried himself gave him an easy presence.
Straight-backed. Balanced. Calm.
His movements were refined, shaped by repetition rather than brute force. Every shift of weight was deliberate. Every step flowed naturally into the next, as if his body already knew where it needed to be.
Sunlight caught in his hair as he turned.
Lucien's hair was a soft blue-silver, faintly wavy, falling loosely around his ears and brushing the nape of his neck. It wasn't styled or restrained; it simply fell the way it wished, catching the light like frost on polished steel.
His eyes—clear ice-blue—were narrowed in concentration.
They weren't cold eyes.
They were observant ones.
Another swing followed.
Then another.
His grip was relaxed but firm, fingers resting naturally along the hilt. His hands bore faint calluses—earned through work as much as training. Not the hands of a noble or academy student, but of a merchant's son who carried crates, ran errands, and helped wherever he was needed.
Shhh—thwack.
A faint mist followed the sword's arc.
Just for a moment.
Lucien paused.
He lowered the wooden blade, breath steady, chest rising and falling evenly. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin despite the cold. When he wiped his brow with his forearm, a faint scar along his left wrist caught the light.
Old.Quiet.Unasked about.
"…Better than yesterday," he murmured.
His voice was warm, easygoing. The kind that made people relax without realizing why. A small smile spread across his face—gentle, unguarded, sincere.
At seventeen, Lucien stood on the edge of adulthood, his features still carrying traces of youth. His face was well-balanced, neither sharp nor soft. Clean lines. Calm expression. No air of arrogance, no hunger for attention.
He adjusted his stance again, lifting the sword into guard.
Mother's composure guided his posture.Father's steadiness anchored his balance.And something quieter—something internal—kept his movements centered.
Shhh—thwack.
The frost around him stirred.
Lucien frowned slightly, ice-blue eyes flicking toward the drifting mist.
"Huh…"
He tilted his head, puzzled, then laughed softly.
"Guess it's just cold today."
He resumed his practice, unaware that the air responded not to the weather—but to him.
To anyone watching from afar, Lucien might have looked like a young noble training for knighthood. His form was too refined for a commoner. His presence too composed.
But Lucien Arcelion was no noble.
He was a merchant's son.
His mornings usually began with inventory checks and deliveries. His afternoons disappeared into ledgers, negotiations, and helping his family's business run smoothly. Training happened before all of that—not because anyone demanded it, but because it felt… necessary.
He finished his final set and lowered the sword, stretching his arms overhead. His joints popped softly as he laughed to himself.
"Maybe someday," he said lightly, "I'll actually be good at this."
The frost danced once more.
Far away—far beyond merchant streets and quiet mornings—an ancient structure stood at the center of the world.
The Tower of the Last Wish.
It loomed unseen from where Lucien stood, yet its presence itself was enough.
Lucien put the wooden sword across his back and headed toward home, frost crunching underfoot. He pushed open the gate to the Arcelion property and glanced back once at the clearing he'd trained in since childhood.
A simple place.A quiet beginning.
The kind no legends ever bothered to remember.
Yet.
Lucien Arcelion walked toward the warmth of his family's home, blue-silver hair catching the morning light, ice-blue eyes calm and hopeful.
And unaware that his story—had already begun.