A suffocating silence pressed in from all sides.
Azrael's breath caught as his eyes darted across the crumbling courtroom. Jagged cracks ran down the stone walls like veins of despair, and a pulsing crimson light bled from behind the judge's bench. In the middle of the room, resting ominously on a table before them, lay a single knife—its blade glistening with dried blood.
A sudden slam.
CRACK.
The gavel struck with thunderous force.
"Guilty."
The voice was deep, distorted—almost inhuman.
A chorus of whispers stirred the air, slithering like snakes across their skin.
"You killed him..." "You killed him..." "You killed your own father."
Veyron clutched his head, trembling. His breath came in ragged bursts as if the very air fought against him.
"Shut up. Shut up—shut up—!"
Azrael tried to stand, but cold, invisible chains yanked him down. His limbs refused to respond, his body paralyzed under the weight of unseen guilt.
"What… is this?" Azrael growled through gritted teeth.
Dark hands burst forth from the shadows, reaching, clawing, dragging them deeper.
And then—
They screamed.
And awoke.
Azrael jolted upright, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. Beside him, Veyron gasped for air, eyes wide with fear. The room was dim, lit only by the early morning sun filtering through the curtains of the NGO's common hall.
"Another nightmare…" Azrael muttered, wiping his brow.
Veyron's voice was hoarse. "The same courtroom. The knife. The voice… accusing us."
Before either of them could speak, soft footsteps echoed from the hallway. Elara entered with a notebook tucked under her arm. Her bright eyes immediately dimmed as she saw their pale, shaken expressions.
"You two look like you've seen a ghost," she said gently, concern threading her voice.
Veyron managed a crooked smile.
"More like demons," he replied, voice rough.
Elara set the notebook down and crouched between them. "Was it the same dream again?"
Azrael nodded. "It's more than a dream. It feels real."
"It's like someone's showing us something we're not ready to understand," Veyron added, fingers trembling.
Before Elara could press for more, the NGO Director stepped in, followed by a well-dressed woman in her forties. She wore a neatly tailored pantsuit and a serene expression.
"Everyone, I have wonderful news," the Director announced. "You'll be transferring to a new institute—one designed to nurture your talents."
The woman stepped forward. "It's a special school. You can train in martial arts, academics, or athletics. But don't forget—your education is still the priority."
Azrael and Veyron exchanged glances. Elara clutched her notebook tighter. Their nightmares still haunted them, but an opportunity to grow stronger couldn't be ignored.
They nodded.
The new campus was unlike anything they had seen before.
Sprawling fields stretched across the land, training courts and libraries dotted the landscape. Students buzzed with energy, sparring in the courtyards, solving problems in shaded study pavilions, or sprinting laps across the open field.
Azrael stood silently before a stick-fighting arena. Wooden staffs clashed with rhythmic intensity, movements fluid and deadly. He watched, mesmerized.
"This… feels right," he thought. The movements echoed something buried deep within him.
Nearby, Veyron's eyes lit up at the metallic shimmer of fencing swords. Two duelists danced with calculated grace, their blades flashing like lightning.
"Now that looks fun," he smirked, feeling a surge of competitive energy.
And Elara? Her eyes sparkled as they approached the library—an endless corridor of knowledge.
"So many books," she whispered, almost reverently. "I'm in home."
They enrolled without hesitation:
Azrael chose Arnis—Stick Fighting and Tactical Combat. Veyron selected Fencing—swordship where speed met style and strategy. Elara dove into Advanced Academics, devouring knowledge like oxygen.
8 Years Later
The boy was gone.
Azrael, now eighteen, stood tall at the Arnis arena—calm, calculated. His staff flowed like wind, each strike honed with lethal precision. Victory after victory piled beneath his feet. He had become a national champion at the age of seventeen years.
Veyron, sixteen, the rising star of school fencing. But he still battled his greatest enemy—himself. His rage boiled hot, often clouding his judgment.
Elara, fifteen, remained a prodigy. Professors whispered her name with awe. She solved complex problems most adults couldn't grasp.
At the National Fencing Qualifiers, tension crackled like static.
Veyron squared off against his opponent: Kaito Nakamura.
The match began.
"RAHH!" Veyron lunged forward, his strikes swift and aggressive.
But Kaito... didn't flinch.
He deflected each blow effortlessly, eyes calm behind his mask.
"So reckless, Veyron! You will never qualify with this aggression." Kaito taunted with a smirk.
And then—
"You're wide open."
In a single, elegant motion, Kaito pierced through Veyron's defense. The tip of his blade tapped Veyron's chest.
"Match over!" the referee called. "Kaito advances."
Veyron's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Damn it!" he shouted, storming out of the arena.
The training hall echoed with the sound of fury—Veyron striking a wooden dummy again and again, panting with frustration.
His coach Hifumi Takahashi leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
"You lost because you fought like a wild beast," he said coolly.
Veyron turned, eyes blazing.
"I was fast. I pushed him!"
"And he read every move. Brute force won't help you beat someone like Kaito. You need to outthink him. Anticipate. Strategize."
Veyron scowled. "Then what should I do?"
Hifumi walked forward, tossed a wooden staff toward him.
"Train more. I have to teach you how to fight smart."
Veyron caught it, his breathing slowing.
"Fine. Let's do this."
And they did.
The next weeks became a crucible.
Hifumi was merciless.
He dragged Veyron out of bed at 3:30 AM. No time for stretching—just straight into freezing showers to shock the nerves awake. Then came uphill sprints wearing ankle weights and a sandbag vest. Each breath burned. Each muscle screamed.
"No excuses," Hifumi snapped. "Your enemy won't ask if you're tired. He'll just kill you."
Veyron collapsed into mud. Hifumi tossed water on him.
"Get. Up."
Footwork followed—etched into gravel with blood and sweat. Veyron practiced fencing stances on uneven terrain while holding posture with coins balanced on his shoulders.
"If the coin falls, start over."
Afternoons brought blindfolded duels. Hifumi attacked with silent footsteps. Veyron had to sense every shift of wind, every change in pressure.
Evenings? Pain.
They sparred with dulled steel blades. Real weight. Real bruises. His ribs ached. His fingers bled through taped gloves. Every failure was punished.
"Timing! Not power! You attack the mind, not the body!"
One day, Hifumi hurled a sword at him mid-sentence.
Veyron caught it.
Hifumi smiled for the first time. "Now you're learning."
Each night ended with Veyron crawling into bed, joints stiff, eyes swollen. But his mind? Sharper. Quieter.
One night, he looked up at the stars, whispering, "What if I still lose?"
Hifumi replied from the shadows, "You will never lose if you think you will never lose."
Veyron nodded, fists clenched. "I'll win. No matter what."
In the library, Elara scribbled notes furiously, eyes dancing across the pages of an old book.
A shadow fell across her desk.
"Still buried in books, huh?" a voice teased.
She looked up. Daichi Sakamoto—her classmate, always grinning, always trying to get her attention.
"Books make more sense than people," she said flatly.
Daichi laughed and plopped into the seat beside her.
"Let me take you out for coffee. One hour away from all this."
She arched a brow. "Is that your way of asking me out?"
"Maybe."
Elara smiled—just a little. "One cup. But don't expect some fantasy novel romance."
"No promises," he winked.
The next day, under the arena lights, Veyron faced Renji—his other rival, a rising star just behind Veyron in school rankings.
But this time, he stood still. Calm. Ready.
His fingers curled tightly around his sword.
"This time, I'm not just fighting with rage."
He looked at Renji across the platform.
"I'm fighting to win."
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin!"
To be continued...