The night air was still when it struck.
A whistle through the dark—followed by the hiss of a blade.
Aden twisted instinctively, parrying the sudden strike with the flat of his sword. Sparks flew. He slid back across the stone floor, heart hammering.
From the shadows, a low chuckle rumbled.
Rudeus Vasco stepped into the moonlight, already sheathing the blade he'd just used.
"No warnings in real battle," he said. "Why should you expect one now?"
Aden breathed hard, lowering his stance.
"So this is my goodnight lullaby?"
Rudeus grinned. "If you survive, you'll sleep just fine."
Then he lunged.
What followed was a storm.
Each strike from Rudeus felt like the swing of a mountain. Aden dodged, blocked, countered—his movements a desperate dance, body burning from days of endless training. But something had changed.
He could see it now.
The gaps.
The weight shifts.
The breath before the strike.
He couldn't always react before—but now he could.
Their blades clashed again, and this time, Aden slipped beneath the arc, ducking beneath Rudeus' wide slash, grazing Rudeus's shoulder with the edge of his sword.
Just a scratch.
But it stopped the old knight in his tracks.
The courtyard fell quiet.
Rudeus looked at the blood beading on his shoulder, then at Aden, a glint of amusement in his eye.
"Well," he said, "you're not completely useless after all."
He stepped back, exhaled slowly, then turned around.
"You've earned your name back, Aden Vasco. Now get some rest."
Aden blinked, surprised. Not "boy." Not "whelp." His name.
But before he could speak, Rudeus added without turning:
"Tomorrow, you'll face Ian. And if you thought I was cruel…" He chuckled. "You'd better pray you're ready."
The next morning arrived colder than usual. Mist clung to the training ground like a living thing.
A new figure stood at the center of the sparring ring, tall and clad in obsidian-black armor, the crest of a silver wolf etched into his breastplate.
Ian Vasco.
Rudeus stood between them, arms crossed.
"This," he said, "is your final test. Defeat him. Or don't bother stepping into the Wrath chamber."
Before Aden could speak, the duel began.
No signal. No warning.
Just pure, blistering motion.
The clash rang like thunder.
Ian Vasco's blade came down like a guillotine, and Aden barely sidestepped, boots skidding across the polished stone. The moment he steadied himself, Ian was already there again, faster than most would believe possible for someone in full black armor.
"You hesitate," Ian said coldly. "That'll get you killed."
Aden responded with steel.
Their swords met in a shower of sparks. Blow after blow, they exchanged strikes—Aden using the traditional Vasco sword techniques, trying to bait Ian into familiar patterns.
But Ian was no ordinary warrior. As vice captain of Rudeus Vasco's personal knight order, he had seen countless battles—and survived worse. He ducked under Aden's slash and retaliated with a crushing elbow that knocked the wind from him.
Aden flew back, hitting the ground hard.
He rolled, coughing, blood trailing from the corner of his lip.
Get up.
He could almost hear Rudeus in his mind. His pride. His cruelty.
Get up.
Aden rose—slower this time—but his stance was different now.
Ian narrowed his eyes.
"What's that stance?"
Aden didn't answer.
The air around him shimmered. Heat radiated off his body, crimson aura crackling along the edge of his sword like embers given life. The ground beneath his feet steamed as the first formation of the Way of Fire activated.
Ian's expression shifted from curiosity… to alarm.
Aden charged.
Faster than before, his footwork fluid, almost ghostlike. He weaved through Ian's guard like fire through dry grass. Every slash, every pivot, painted crimson arcs in the air. His aura intensified with each movement—each step stoking the flame higher.
Ian backed off, deflecting furiously, sweat beading along his brow.
"This technique… You mastered it?"
Aden's response was a burst forward—an upward slash that nearly grazed Ian's throat. The knight twisted, evading at the last second, but the look in his eyes changed. No more doubt. No more mockery.
Now, he was afraid.
Aden didn't let up.
He transitioned seamlessly into the advanced steps of the Way of Fire, the battlefield now a furnace. The crimson aura bled across the chamber like molten metal. And then—it came.
The Final Stance.
Aden's blade glowed as though dipped in the sun itself. The air warped around it. His breathing slowed. His focus narrowed.
Way of Fire – Fourteenth Form: Crimson Eclipse.
He brought the sword down.
Ian's instincts screamed at him to evade—not block. Not this.
He dove to the side as the slash tore through the air, splitting the reinforced cold iron floor like butter. The chamber trembled. The wall behind Ian cracked and groaned—cut clean from ceiling to ground, molten lines hissing with heat.
Silence.
Only the sound of Aden's breath remained.
Ian lay on the ground, panting. His gauntlet trembled as he looked at the crevice carved through the training hall.
"I yield," he muttered. "If I hadn't dodged that… I would've died."
Rudeus stepped forward, hands behind his back.
He hadn't drawn his sword. Hadn't said a word.
But even he couldn't hide the faint look of awe.
"That," he said, "was a killing technique."
Aden stood in the center of the wreckage, sword still glowing, eyes burning—not with wrath, but with control.
He had tamed the fire.
Later, as Ian nursed his bruises and Rudeus leaned against a stone pillar, the Black Knight spoke quietly.
"Why teach him that? The Way of Fire? It's way too early."
Rudeus didn't answer immediately. He watched Aden in the distance, the boy sitting alone with his sword on his lap beneath the night sky.
"…Because one day," Rudeus said, "he'll have to fight monsters. Maybe even become one."
that night, Aden sat alone beneath the obsidian sky, the stars stretched like silent scars across the heavens.
The sword rested beside him, no longer burning but warm to the touch—like a loyal beast slumbering after a long hunt.
His hands were bruised. His ribs ached with every breath. The cut across his shoulder still bled faintly beneath the bandages. But none of it mattered now.
Not after what he saw in Ian's eyes.
Fear.
He had seen it. For the first time since waking in this world, someone truly feared him.
And yet… the fire within him still whispered.
It wasn't satisfied.
Because the real battle hadn't even begun.
Two days remained.
Two days until he would stand before the wrath that lived in his blood—the demon buried in his name.
There would be no knights to catch him. No uncle to save him. No bloodline to shield him.
Just him… and the rage clawing to devour his soul.
If he failed, there would be no second chance.
He would not die as Aden Vasco.
He would vanish, forgotten—just another vessel in a long line of lost children.
But if he won…
Then he would emerge as something the world had never seen.
A man who did not fear his Wrath—
—but mastered it.