Steel cut through the air.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Aurelian von Blackthorne stood alone in his personal training space, a secluded stone courtyard hidden deep within the Blackthorne estate. Tall obsidian walls surrounded the area, engraved with ancient reinforcement runes that absorbed shockwaves and stray sword aura. Above him, the sky was clear and pale, the morning sun casting sharp shadows across the ground.
His silver hair was tied neatly behind his head, revealing a calm, expressionless face far too composed for a six-year-old.
His body moved.
Fluid. Precise. Ruthless.
A wooden sword sliced horizontally through the air, followed immediately by a vertical downward slash. The movements were clean—no wasted motion, no imbalance. Each swing carried intent, even without aura.
One thousand.
Aurelian finished the final slash and smoothly returned the sword to a neutral stance.
His breathing remained steady.
No exhaustion.
No trembling.
At the age of six, his body was already perfectly conditioned.
Before sword practice, he had completed his daily routine—one thousand push-ups, one thousand squats, and long-distance running across the mountainous paths of the estate. His muscles, though lean, were densely packed, refined through repetition and discipline rather than brute growth.
This was not the body of a pampered noble child.
It was the foundation of a weapon.
Elsewhere in the Astra Empire, noble sons of his age were being taught etiquette, dancing, poetry, and political flattery. Some practiced sword forms lazily under instructors who praised them for effort rather than results.
Aurelian did none of that.
While others planned futures built on inheritance, he was forging strength that could not be taken.
He lowered the wooden sword and closed his eyes briefly, feeling the faint flow of energy within his body. Aura had not yet fully awakened—but it stirred, responding eagerly to his discipline.
At this rate, he calculated calmly, I will awaken aura before the average swordsman even picks up a real blade.
A faint presence approached.
Aurelian opened his eyes.
The head butler, an elderly man named Sebastian, stood at the edge of the training ground. His back was straight, his expression respectful, but his eyes carried quiet awe. He had served the Blackthorne family for over fifty years and had watched countless heirs grow.
None like this.
"Young Master," Sebastian said, bowing deeply. "His Grace, the Duke, has summoned you. He wishes to see you immediately."
Aurelian nodded once. "Understood."
No surprise.
No hesitation.
He placed the wooden sword back on its stand and walked toward the inner chambers. Servants along the corridor stopped and bowed as he passed.
"Good morning, Young Master."
"May your training bear fruit."
Aurelian acknowledged them with a slight nod. Respect was earned through consistency—and even the servants recognized something abnormal in him.
After changing into formal attire—a black shirt with silver embroidery, dark trousers, and polished boots—he followed Sebastian toward the Head of House Office, located at the heart of the Blackthorne estate.
The temperature dropped subtly as they approached.
The massive doors stood closed, forged from black stone and reinforced steel. Two elite Blackthorne knights stood guard, each radiating the presence of seasoned warriors.
Sebastian stopped.
"Go in, Young Master."
Aurelian stepped forward.
The doors opened without a sound.
Inside, the hall was vast and solemn. The ceiling soared high above, supported by pillars carved with symbols of conquest and war. Black banners bearing the Blackthorne crest hung motionless.
At the far end—
A black stone throne.
Upon it sat Alaric von Blackthorne.
The Duke.
Sword Emperor.
The strongest man in Arcanor.
He sat like a king—one leg crossed, one arm resting casually against the throne's armrest. His long black hair fell behind him like a shadow, his black eyes cold and unreadable.
No aura leaked.
And yet—
The pressure was overwhelming.
Aurelian felt it immediately.
This was not something learned.
This was dominance forged through blood.
Aurelian stopped several steps away and bowed precisely.
"Father," he said calmly. "You summoned me."
Alaric studied him silently.
Not as a father.
But as a ruler evaluating a successor.
"…You've grown," Alaric finally said.
Aurelian straightened. "I am training daily."
"I know," Alaric replied. "Your routines are reported. Excessive by most standards."
He paused.
"…Adequate by mine."
That single sentence was praise.
Aurelian accepted it without reaction.
Alaric stood.
The moment he rose from the throne, the air trembled. It was subtle—but real. Even suppressed, his presence bent the space around him.
"You are six," Alaric said, walking forward. "At age of ten, I had already killed my first demon."
Aurelian's eyes sharpened slightly.
Alaric continued, voice calm, as though recounting a simple fact.
"When I was twenty, I crossed into Abyssar alone. I did not do it for glory. I did it because demons crossed into our lands."
His black eyes hardened.
"I hunted them."
Aurelian listened without interruption.
"I pushed them back," Alaric said. "I cut down demon generals. I faced demon kings."
The hall felt colder.
"When they realized I would not stop," he said quietly, "they fled."
Aurelian understood the implication instantly.
Demon Kings… retreated.
Not because of an army.
Because of one man.
"In Arcanor," Alaric said, stopping directly before his son, "there is no one stronger than me."
Aurelian met his gaze.
"And yet," Alaric continued, "I do not intend for that to remain true."
Silence followed.
Then—
"You will surpass me," Alaric said flatly.
No pride.
No doubt.
A statement of fact.
Aurelian nodded. "I will."
For the first time—
Alaric smiled faintly.
"Good."
He turned slightly. "You were born of two powers."
His gaze shifted briefly, softer—almost imperceptibly.
"Your mother, Aria von Blackthorne… is the youngest Archmage in recorded history. At seven circles, her control surpassed veterans who had lived twice her years."
Aurelian remembered her embrace. Her warmth.
"She mastered magic as others breathe," Alaric said. "Her mind is sharp. Her mana vast. Even the Magic Tower acknowledges her as a prodigy without equal."
He looked back at Aurelian.
"And you," he said, "carry my blood and her talent."
The Duke's aura flickered—just for a moment.
The pressure was crushing.
"I will not allow you to be weak," Alaric said. "Not in this world. Not in Noctyrr."
Aurelian did not avert his eyes.
"I do not intend to be," he replied.
A long silence followed.
Then Alaric turned back toward the throne.
"Training will intensify," he said. "Sword Hall access will be granted soon. Aura conditioning will begin earlier than tradition allows."
He paused.
"And Aurelian…"
"Yes, Father."
"…Do not disappoint the name Blackthorne."
Aurelian bowed deeply.
"I will not."
As he turned to leave, the weight of the Blackthorne name pressed heavily on his shoulders.
But he welcomed it.
Because a Calamity did not break under pressure.
It thrived in it.