Three months. That was how long it had been since I opened that damned book.
The ink had faded on some pages, but the weight of its words never did. Each technique, each concept—etched into me like scars that hadn't broken skin yet. Morning after morning, I repeated them like prayers, even when my muscles screamed louder than my voice ever could.
I trained in silence, mostly. There was no master to correct my form, only the wind that punished my imbalance and the ache in my arms that whispered where I went wrong. But day by day, I got closer. I could feel it.
The first style I studied was Exosword. Brutal, loud, unforgiving. Kazakov Hyau Veyrax hadn't designed it for poets. It was pure forward momentum. Dragon Clash wasn't just about speed; it was about surrendering to instinct, letting your body break itself to carry your blade just one step faster than death.
The first time I tried it, I fell flat. Literally. I threw myself forward like an idiot and hit the wall of the abandoned warehouse I used as a dojo. Cracked two ribs. I couldn't breathe for days.
But I healed. And I learned.
I learned to shift my weight lower, to tense the right joints, to channel energy into my lower frame, the way the diagrams in the book suggested. I stopped trying to leap. I started trying to explode.
My legs burned every night, but each leap got sharper.
Folded Wings was next. Its elegance masked its savagery. I practiced by tying twigs to my forearms and slicing them with arcing strikes, forcing myself to find the right parabolic path, again and again, until the sound of splintering wood became a lullaby. I imagined arms—not twigs. I hated the thought, but the style didn't care.
It taught me how to kill. Not gloriously. Efficiently.
But it was Sudden Heat that terrified me. The book warned: "Only those who know pain can channel fire without fear." It wasn't metaphorical. I repurposed an old electrical panel in the warehouse, rigged wires to my training blade. The first surge burnt my palm raw. The second left a scar.
But by the third, I could see the edge of the sword hum—a faint glow, like anger made physical. I didn't test it on anything yet. I was afraid it would work.
And Flash Cut... I didn't dare attempt. Not yet. You don't run before you crawl, especially when the road is paved with lightning.
I turned to Armouredsword next, when my body screamed for rest but my mind demanded discipline.
Fluid Sword was an exercise in control. I crafted a training sword from flexible steel scraps, light enough to wield but responsive to pressure. I danced with it every day. I let it bend and whip and curve around imaginary foes. I imagined each movement not as a slash—but a breath. It taught me the rhythm of the fight, not the violence.
Canvas Block required more. It wasn't a technique—it was a mindset. I painted a wall white and marked each strike I blocked, visualizing enemies not as opponents, but as brushstrokes. I had to meet them, respond, shape them into my own form.
It humbled me. Over and over.
Then came God Breathe. Perfect defense, the book claimed. But there was nothing perfect about it when I started. I whirled the blade like a shield, trying to feel the spin, the redirection, the intention behind attacks I imagined. I tied bags of sand to strings and let them swing toward me, trying to deflect without stopping them.
Half the time they hit me. But each bruise taught me a new angle.
Swiftsword came later—when my movements became sharper. Faster. I wasn't ready for elegance until I stopped stumbling.
Ghost Strike was absurd. It demanded speed beyond human. I didn't have a rapier, so I forged a thin spike from broken fencing and tied it to a shortened handle. Every night, I would strike metal sheets with it as fast as I could, listening for the moment it punched through.
Snowfall was chaos masquerading as control. I had to repeat Ghost Strike, not once, but in chains—dozens in a second. I couldn't reach that speed, but I tried. I screamed into the cold, arms blurring as I struck invisible enemies, sweat soaking through my shirt.
Vacuum Shot? I didn't get that far.
But I read. I obsessed. I memorized the flow of pressure, the build-up of air, the way energy ripples through motion. One day, I would make it.
And when I couldn't move anymore, I would lay on the floor, breath ragged, heart thudding. I'd stare at the cracked ceiling and whisper to myself:
"I'm not there yet. But I will be."
---
There were moments when I doubted. Times when my arms trembled so hard I dropped my sword. Nights when I felt like I'd learned nothing. Like I was pretending to be something I wasn't.
But then I'd dream of them.
Of the Emperor's sons. Of blades humming with history and power. Of Veyrax—its towers, its tyranny. I'd remember the weight of the broken coin in my pocket. My father's coin.
He died without ever raising a blade.
I would not.
---
Three months passed like a storm behind glass. And now... I stand at the edge of it all. The warehouse behind me. The city ahead. My blade dull, my body aching—but my spirit clear.
The underground ring waits.
Let them see what I've become.
The warehouse door creaked as I pushed it open for the last time. Rain tapped against the rusted roof like a ticking clock—counting down to something I couldn't delay anymore.
I wrapped the bandages tight, slid the blade into its crude sheath, and stepped into the alley where shadows watched.
"They said you'd show," a voice muttered behind a black hood.
"I'm here."
A pause. Then a nod.
"Ring's ready. You're the last entry."
I followed him down the slick, narrow path—lit only by the dim glow of flickering neon. My boots echoed against stone, each step heavier than the last.
The entrance was hidden behind an old laundromat. Beneath it, a maze of tunnels led to the ring. The smell of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor clawed at my senses.
Cheers erupted before I even stepped through the curtain. They weren't for me. Not yet.
But soon.
"Fighter name?" the handler asked.
I didn't hesitate.
"Kael."
He smirked, scribbled it down. "You're up second."
I stepped into the prep room—bare walls, a cracked mirror, a bucket of water. I knelt.
Not to pray. Just to breathe.
This was it.
I'd trained in silence. Now it was time to make noise.
Let the blood sing.
Let the swords speak.
"They said the winner gets a prize," I muttered, tightening my grip on the worn hilt of my blade.
Even though I wanted to be stronger… the prize had its own temptation.
The crowd's roar hit me like thunder.
The ring lights flared—blinding, burning.
Voices chanted through the air like a war drum.
"Kael! Kael! Kael!"
"Cena! Cena! Cena!"
I stepped into the arena. The air was thick with sweat and iron.
Across the ring stood my opponent. Cena.
Leaner than I expected. Scarred. Confident.
His eyes were sharp—like a snake ready to strike.
He smirked. "Your full name's Kael Revenant the Fourth, right?"
"So what?"
"You tryna be Veyrax the Fourth or something? You ain't no Veyrax, buddy. You're about to get cooked."
Before I could respond, the blade at his side was already in his hand.
I reached for mine. The exoskeleton whirred softly as I drew it from its sheath. Cena's stance shifted, dragging his left foot back, all his weight loading onto the right. His grip tightened.
Then—
Bang.
A thunderous pulse shook the ring. Steam hissed from his exoskeleton. He launched toward me with killing intent, like a bullet wrapped in steel.
Exosword Style – First Secret Technique: Dragon Clash.
I recognized it instantly. I'd practiced it hundreds of times over the past three months.
He closed the distance like a hawk diving for its prey.
"50… 40… 30… 20… 10… 5… 3… 1," I counted in my head.
He struck. A sound like thunder.
Clang!
Our swords collided, sparks flying. I braced with an Armoured Sword mindset, mimicking the motion of Folded Wings. My blade curved with his strike and countered it in one fluid motion. Even though my exoskeleton wasn't as advanced, it held up.
The crowd fell dead silent.
Another clash. Then another.
I shifted my form—
Swiftsword Mode: Ghost Strike.
My speed surged as I darted forward. A silent flash of steel.
He blocked it. And retaliated—
Exosword Style: Sudden Heat.
His blade hissed, glowing faintly orange as he spun into a heated, circular slash.
I deflected, barely.
Clang. Slash. Parry. Counter.
Metal bit flesh. Blood sprayed.
Neither of us gave an inch.
But he spammed Dragon Clash over and over. My defense was cracking.
I couldn't counter properly. My Armoured Style proficiency was too defensive. Too reactive.
I was on the edge of defeat.
And then—
I felt it.
Something inside me surged.
Like lightning running through veins.
Energy I had never reached before.
Flash Cut.
The thought echoed.
Could I really do it?
I leapt back, creating distance between us. The crowd jeered.
"What's he doing? Trying Flash Cut? Even Tier 6 Exosword users can't pull that off!"
Laughter. Mockery.
Cena grinned. "You tryna use Flash Cut? You're gonna be cooked after this, man. Can't block my Dragon Clash with that flashy garbage."
He shifted into his stance—Dragon Clash again.
I mirrored him.
Left leg back. Right leg loaded. Core tight.
But my grip was different—two hands.
Not a lunge. A deathblow.
My body trembled. Not from fear—from power.
My dull blade began to shimmer faintly with heat and light.
Focus.
I drew every ounce of energy from my heart to my limbs.
Every cell aligned. Every nerve ready.
Bang.
He launched at me again—smoke and speed. An explosion behind him.
I dashed, too.
But this time—no sound.
Only light.
Only silence.
One meter.
He spun.
His sword came down.
I struck.
Clang!
The loudest sound yet.
My arms screamed. My blade held.
His sword shattered—cracked like glass.
My stroke continued—unstoppable.
Steel met flesh.
Blood sprayed—high, arcing to the ceiling.
His exoskeleton snapped apart.
His torso split as his head and arms hit the ground.
His body slumped forward, lifeless.
I stood still, sword in hand.
I was the winner.
My sword's busted. My chest burns. And Cena's being hauled off with half his gear shattered.
The cheers are still echoing, but my ears are ringing from more than the noise. It's not victory that hits me—it's confusion.
That move… that flash… what the hell did I just do?
I stagger toward the edge of the ring, sweat dripping into my eyes, and shout up at the crowd:
"Hey! Someone tell me what the hell Tier 1 to 10 even means!"
A few people chuckle. Some look down at me like I'm an idiot. Then one guy, leaning against the rail with a half-smoked cigarette and a stitched-up jaw, leans forward.
"You serious?" he says, voice rough. "Kid just cooked a guy with Flash Cut and don't even know the damn scale?"
I glare. "I've been training in a warehouse with scrap metal and one book. I don't have a 'scale.' So quit laughing and talk."
He stares at me for a second, then spits his smoke out and folds his arms.
"Alright. Fine. Listen up, rookie."
"We measure fighters by Form. 1 to 10. It ain't official, but it's what we all use."
"Form 1?" He shrugs. "Barely swinging. No control. Just flailing steel. That's your average street punk with a blade."
"Form 2, 3—you start feeling your energy, learn how to boost your body, maybe use one move right if the wind's blowing in your favor."
He raises a finger.
"Form 4's where you start fighting. You got instincts, you can switch stances, control your footing. That's where most of the underground crowd peaks."
Then he jabs his finger at me.
"That's where you were—High 4. Your stance was clean. Your timing? Tight. But earlier? When you used Flash Cut—"
He exhales, shaking his head like he still doesn't believe it.
"That was a jump. You spiked into Low 7. Maybe just for a second, but you pushed past the wall."
Someone else chimes in from the side, "That's suicidal, though. Most people snap their arms just trying Form 6. You're lucky you're not jelly."
The coach guy keeps going.
"Form 5? That's where people stop thinking and start reacting. They blend styles, fight on instinct. Real duelists."
"6?" He smirks. "That's war. Exo users, two-style hybrids, fake Veyrax cosplayers. Everyone wants 6 because you can win tournaments with it."
"But 7?" His tone drops. "That's where legends start. You don't learn that. You break into it. Your body barely holds together, but your soul's on fire."
He glances up like he's seeing ghosts.
"Only a few hit 8. They control everything—terrain, tempo, your breath. And 9?"
He spits on the ground.
"I've never seen 9. Just heard stories. Exo-skeletons melt before they even land a hit on those freaks."
"10?" I ask, still breathing heavy.
He just stares.
"Veyrax the First. No one else. End of story."
I let it all sink in. My fingers twitch around my sword hilt even though it's in pieces.
Form 7.
That was me?
My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to.
"…I only used it for one second."
The guy nods. "Yeah. But you reached it. That's all that matters."
The crowd's quiet for a moment. Then someone starts clapping. Then more.
I look around—half of them don't even know what they're clapping for.
But I do.
---