The sound of wood clashing against wood echoed out the arena.
Inside, Calien and Cain moved like twin storms—colliding, separating, clashing again.
They held nothing back.
Their wooden knives blurred in motion—slashing, thrusting, parrying, deflecting. No sparks flew, but the rhythmic thunks, clacks, and cracks filled the arena like a relentless drumbeat.
Each strike came sharper, faster, more precise than the last.
Around the bricked arena, soldiers leaned in, eyes wide, mouths agape.
This wasn't what they expected.
"Is Calien… keeping up with Cain?"
"No way. Cain was supposed to destroy him!"
"He trained under Captain Fergan for a year!"
"And that outsider kid? Just some low-tier mana specialist!"
"Doesn't make sense. I bet on Cain!"
The voices rose—shock, awe, even grudging admiration. Some rubbed their eyes, half-expecting the illusion to break.
But it didn't.
Calien wasn't just keeping up—he was pushing Cain.
Then a voice cut through the chaos.
"They're just feeling each other out," Crosun said quietly.
Beside him, Guch raised an eyebrow.
Crosun's eyes burned with a mix of grief and resolve. "Now the real fight begins."
Cluck! Clack! Cluck!
Guch crossed his arms. "Huh," he muttered to Crosun and Fergan. "Cain's opening with tight arcs and pressing hard on the second step... he's starting to move like Colton."
Crosun's breath caught.
His eyes locked on Cain's footwork. The memory hit like a wave—Colton, his firstborn, alive and fighting. That same flow. That same reckless control. That same fire.
Colton had been a genius. A leader. The best of his sons.
And now, he was gone.
Crosun stiffened. His eyes didn't see Cain anymore—they saw Colton. In every move, every grin of confidence and every breath he takes.
"…My son…" he murmured, just loud enough for Fergan to hear.
Fergan glanced at him but stayed silent.
So did Guch.
They understood.
Silence fell between them.
In the arena, Cain's demeanor shifted. The smirk disappeared.
He stepped back—seven slow, measured paces—then dropped into a new stance: knees bent, blade angled low, ready.
The air grew heavy.
Guch's eyes widened. "Beast-Slaying Form?"
Fergan tensed. "So he's ending it?"
Guch chuckled in disbelief. "He mastered that form in two months. And now he's using it with a wooden knife? Bold."
He elbowed Fergan. "Remember how long it took the others just to stop falling over trying that stance?"
Fergan nodded. "He's gifted."
Guch grinned at Crosun. "You've raised another monster. Cain has real talent—more than most veterans."
But Crosun didn't smile.
His focus had sharpened into concern.
The crowd felt it too. Excitement turned to shouts.
"He's doing it!"
"That's Cain's strongest move!"
"The little kid Calien is finished!"
"He can't stop that strike—it's over!"
Inside the ring, Calien felt it.
Danger.
Cain's mana surged, flowing into his limbs and blade like a coiled serpent ready to strike.
Calien's heart pounded. No time to think. No time to run.
He closed his eyes.
And remembered.
The form. The motion. Teacher Nolan's lessons.
Then his hand moved.
He threw the knife.
It cut through the air like a shooting star.
"What—?" Guch blinked. "He threw it?"
Crosun's eyes widened.
Fergan leaned forward. "What's that boy thinking?"
Cain's eyes snapped to the incoming blade. Reflex took over. He slashed—
Clack!
The two wooden blades collided. Calien's knife flipped high into the air.
Cain opened his mouth—
But stopped.
A shadow appeared.
Calien was already there.
When did he—?!
The falling knife spun downward.
A hand caught it mid-air.
Calien's hand gripped it tightly.
Cain barely had time to gasp.
Then—slash. Calien struck, fast and clean.
Cain tried to block, but his stance was off, causing him to stagger a little.
Bang! A kick slammed into his gut.
Cain reeled back, trying to recover.
Crack! A fist to the eye. He stumbled, raising his left hand to guard himself.
Then—
A chill.
Wood pressed against his neck.
Cain froze, wide-eyed.
His own blade had fallen. He was defenseless.
Calien stood before him, calm and unfazed.
"…You lost, elder brother," he said quietly.
Silent.
The arena, once buzzing with energy and bets and laughter, now stood in eerie stillness. No cheers. No murmurs. Not even the sound of armor shifting or boots scraping the stone.
The soldiers watched, mouths parted, unable to speak, still frozen in the aftershock of what they had just witnessed.
Calien.
Calien, the quiet one. The boy who trained away from the spotlight. The one who was supposed to lose.
And yet, there he stood—victorious, wooden knife still in hand, barely scuffed, and his calm eyes were scanning the silent crowd.
No one could believe it.
Not the soldiers who had trained day and night beside Cain.
Not Buch and Fergan, seasoned warriors who had watched Cain's growth with pride.
And especially not Crosun.
Crosun, whose gaze remained locked on his youngest son as a thousand thoughts collided in his mind. He remembered every hour of training Cain had endured.
Every sparring session, every grueling set of drills. Cain had promise—talent that couldn't be denied. And yet…
He lost.
He lost.
Fergan, still stunned, finally muttered, "…Maybe it's the weapon."
Buch nodded slowly beside him, though his brow remained furrowed. "Cain trained with swords, not knives. If he had a real sword, this would've ended differently."
"Yes," Crosun said darkly, as if trying to convince himself. "It wasn't a fair test. Cain never favored knives. His form, his flow—they're meant for longer reach."
But even as they said it, none of them truly believed that was the full reason.
Down in the arena, Calien sheathed the wooden knife into the belt loop at his side and looked up. His voice rang out, even and unbothered.
"I will attend the Academy tomorrow. I expect you'll keep your word."
The calmness in his tone only added to the unease of the crowd. There was no triumph in his voice, no mocking pride. He simply stated a fact. As if this had always been the natural outcome.
Buch and Fergan shared a look, neither replying. Crosun's eyes remained dark, unreadable.
And then, like a sudden lightning bolt cracking across a still sky, Cain moved.
He broke into a run—straight toward the weapons rack.
The soldiers parted in silence, some flinching, others just watching, unsure whether to cheer him on or hold him back.
Cain grabbed a wooden sword and wheeled back toward the arena. His face was twisted—not with embarrassment, but rage. Raw and boiling.
"You!" he screamed, pointing the blade at Calien. "I'm not done yet!"
Crosun stepped forward, lips parting to stop him, but Buch placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Wait."
Crosun frowned, his jaw clenched. "This isn't honorable."
But Buch's gaze was hard, calculating.
"Are you sure you want Calien to attend the Silver Blade Academy tomorrow?" he said softly. "He looks fine now. But if Cain injures him just enough…"
Understanding dawned like a cold, gray morning.
Crosun's breath caught, but he said nothing.
Maybe Buch was right. Cain couldn't lose to Calien again. Not publicly. And if Calien was too injured to attend… it would delay everything. Perhaps even cancel it. Just enough time to sort things out. Just enough time to… reconsider.
He said nothing more.
In the arena, Calien tilted his head. "We had a deal."
"Shut up!" Cain roared, gripping the sword in both hands. "I'm going to crush you!"
He didn't wait for a response. Cain charged.
Calien barely had time to sigh. He stepped back, drawing the wooden knife once again, but this time, his stance was sharper, his footing more rooted.
If Cain wanted a rematch, fine.
He'd end this again.
The clatter of wood echoed as Cain came in fast, slashing with the broad strokes of someone who fought for pride, not victory. But Calien was already moving.
Every swing was dodged or deflected with grace, the boy's movements a strange combination of instinct and something deeper—like water flowing effortlessly around boulders.
Another parry. Another sidestep.
Then—
Crack!
The wooden knife smashed against Cain's sword, knocking it loose from his grip. It clattered away, spinning across the arena floor.
Before Cain could react, Calien swept his leg low and knocked his brother off his feet.
Bang!
Cain hit the stone hard. His breath left him in a grunt, stunned and winded.
Gasps exploded from the crowd.
"He beat him again…"
"With a knife…"
"Cain… lost twice?"
Cain looked up, eyes wild, the taste of dirt and defeat sharp in his mouth.
Calien stood above him, arm lowered, his weapon no longer raised. His face was calm, unreadable.
"Give up," Calien said, voice cool. "You have no chance, older brother."
He didn't say it mockingly.
He didn't need to.
The truth hung there, in the silence that followed, more powerful than any taunt.
Cain's chest rose and fell rapidly.
His mind raced.
He remembered how the soldiers once looked up to him. How he was the prodigy, the pride of the Silverhart bloodline.
And now?
Beaten.
Beaten again.
By his little brother.
"No…" Cain whispered.
Calien didn't move.
"No… no… NO!" Cain shouted, pushing himself up. "I can't lose! I can't—not like this!"
His voice broke, but he kept screaming.
"I cannot be defeated this easily!"
His body trembled.
"I will not be defeated this easily!"
And then his voice twisted.
"I'll kill you!"
He reached out wildly, eyes bloodshot, as if driven by something deeper than rage—something darker, more desperate.
"I'LL KILL YOU!"
He lunged—
"STOP!"
Crosun's voice rang out like thunder, and suddenly, everything froze.
Cain halted mid-motion, his body quivering. His breathing loud, erratic. His eyes slowly turned toward the voice that had grounded them all.
Crosun's face was stone.
The weight of his command turned every breath in the arena into mist.
Even Buch and Fergan went quiet.
Crosun took a step forward, his gaze locked not on Cain, but on Calien. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then his eyes flicked to his eldest son.
"…That's enough."
The judgment in his tone left no room for argument.
Cain lowered his hand, trembling, as the weight of defeat finally crushed the last fire in his eyes.
Calien remained still, staring down at his older brother, but he didn't look proud. If anything, he looked disappointed.
He wanted to see how strong he really is.