In that room, things were arranged well—not perfectly neat. However, it was still pleasant to look at. Carsel woke up—not because there was a task that had to be done this morning, but rather his body simply: had slept enough.
His eyes shifted to the time-telling device that no longer felt unfamiliar: It was 3:12 in the morning.
His palms lifted his body up, the soles of his feet stepping onto the floor. He moved faster than before—knowing better where he was going because he had memorized all the corridors.
He arrived at Seraphina's private forest—which was always tended to by her servants. His footsteps made no sound upon that river-stone pathway—not because he walked on tiptoe, but because those stones had been scrubbed so clean that not a single pebble or broken twig remained to crackle beneath his leather shoes.
The sky above his head was still a soot-blue color, a time when the night was already spent but the dawn was not yet fully born. His steps stopped ahead of his awareness, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the thin mist creeping across the surface of the grass.
The grass was cut to a uniform height, exactly three centimeters. Someone had measured it with a steel ruler or possessed a terrifying obsession with symmetry.
He looked up, staring at the canopy of giant trees surrounding him. The lowest branches were pruned at a strange angle of inclination—high enough to ensure an adult man's head would not hit them while riding a horse, but low enough to hide hanging lanterns if the owner wished to hold a sudden evening banquet.
He brought his face close to one of the sheltering tree trunks, where a cluster of rare orchids was neatly tied. He did not touch the petals, only noticing the hemp rope tying the roots of the plant to the tree bark. A dead knot, pulled from bottom to top. Someone with a height of no more than one hundred and sixty centimeters had done it. And from the tightness of the wrap, that servant was holding back anger—or fear—when tying it yesterday afternoon. The rope pinched the tree bark too deeply, an escape of energy from a trembling hand.
The cold air he inhaled carried the scent of wet earth, pine, and a faint sweet fragrance drifting from the darkness. He closed his eyes, letting his lungs breathe in the fresh and gentle air.
It seemed like a good time to meditate.
He sat cross-legged on the stone floor. His world shrank, dwindling until it was only as far as the reach of his own skin. Inside his chest cavity, the darkness was never silent.
There was a strange constant thumping—not a heartbeat pumping blood, but rather a wild, hot pulse at the pit of his stomach. It was the blaze of his own energy. A pure aura born from his flesh, bones, and his will to fight.
I want to tame that aura.
With a single forced jolt of will, he suppressed the blaze.
A burning heat instantly stung the walls of his chest, making his throat dry in a flash. His nerves tensed as if liquid metal were flowing through them. From the outside, his temples began to produce beads of sweat that melted slowly past his tightly clenched jaw. However, within his mind, he continued to squeeze that giant ball of aura, forcing it to shrink, condensing it until it became a single grain of incandescent sand that was incredibly dense at the center of his body.
His breathing slowed down, becoming almost imperceptible. His body was like a dark, silent labyrinth, and that grain of incandescent sand was the sole source of light.
Advance, his inner mind commanded.
The grain of sand darted. Through his nerve pathways, he directed that dense energy along his collarbone, down to his right arm, and stopped right at the tip of his middle knuckle.
Instantly, the blood vessels on that knuckle bulged and pulsed violently. The skin in an area as small as a coin turned red, radiating a tangible warmth. Meanwhile, the rest of his right arm, his shoulder, up to every other part of his body remained pale, ice-cold, and completely silent—as if dead. No energy leaked or scattered along the way.
Move.
The hot air at the fingertip extinguished in the blink of an eye. The incandescent point darted back to his chest, took a sharp turn downward, and plunged straight into his left heel. His heel vibrated softly, automatically pressing against the stone floor with a driving force that suddenly condensed at a single point. Preparing for an instant stomp.
Carsel kept playing with it in an increasingly faster rhythm. Left shoulder blade. Right knee. Nape of the neck. Tip of the left wrist.
He turned those points on and off as fast as a blink of an eye. His body was like a massive building that was pitch black, and he was the operator who was crazily pressing the light switches—ensuring only one room light was on at a time, while the other rooms were completely dead.
However, holding back a massive explosion inside a space that small required massive mental endurance.
Entering the twentieth minute, his head throbbed painfully. His focus wavered for a fraction of a blink as he tried to move the energy from his heel back to the pit of his stomach.
Whoosh!
His restraint broke. The grain of sand shattered. The energy that had been forcibly condensed all this time instantly exploded, overflowing uncontrollably throughout his entire body. The pores of his skin opened roughly, blasting a powerful wave of hot air into the open atmosphere. So strong was the push that the air around him flew blowing in all directions as if pushed by an invisible force.
His breath gasped, his eyes wide open. The air there suddenly turned warm because of his selfishly leaking aura. He looked at both of his palms, which were trembling severely due to extreme muscle fatigue. His chest rose and fell, hunting for oxygen that felt like it was thinning out.
His palm wiped the sweat on his forehead, then a thin smile appeared.
I could control it for twenty full minutes without any energy going to waste before it exploded.
His gaze sharpened.
— ✶ —
The sun had taken dominion over the sky—spewing millions of golden lights that burned the earth without mercy. And nature seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a cool breeze that was reluctant to come.
Marta stepped with such silence. Her facial expression stood in stark contrast to the temperature of her surroundings. Her fingers met the doorknob.
Then stopped.
Warm. Her pupils dilated then slowly returned to normal. Someone had just opened this door.
Once that door opened, what welcomed her was Carsel—with his back to her. Staring at the wall.
What did he see from that wall? That question landed in her head.
A wall was a flat surface that had no readable information. There were no rope knots, no handprints, no meaningful angles of inclination.
And he kept staring at it.
After all the interactions with him, she thought there was only one word that could describe Carsel.
Unique—truly unique.
Carsel's shoulders rose slightly; he turned around. Their gazes met, and Carsel's smile bloomed, like flower petals just showered by the first drizzle of rain. The look in his eyes radiated a warmth that slowly crumbled Marta's cold expression.
In Marta's perspective—for a fleeting moment, a girl with light blue hair overshadowed him behind Carsel. However, her face looked... blurred.
Marta's throat choked up.
She did not move. Did not blink. Just stared at the spot where that shadow was no longer present—because the moment her eyes tried to focus on it, it vanished like dew touching a hot surface.
Carsel turned around fully, his brow furrowing slightly. "Auntie?"
It seemslikethereissomethingwrongwiththewayI am present—Carsel looked at Marta's expression once again. It's as if I did something that is bothering her.
He protruded his upper lip slightly, sucking his lower lip into his mouth so that the clamp of his teeth would not cause suspicious creases in the skin of his face.
Marta blinked her eyes once. Her expression went back to being flat in a time faster than should have been possible.
"I just remembered someone,"
Carsel's mouth opened slightly—very slightly. Then closed again. His eyes looked down, then met Marta's gaze once more.
Before Carsel had a chance to ask, Marta cut him off quickly—as if already knowing what question was coming and she chose not to answer it.
"Your right arm."
It was not a question. Carsel lifted his right arm—stretching his fingers slowly, opening and closing his fist. There was no stiffness left. The torn tissue had finished repairing itself.
Marta looked at this for three full seconds before turning her face away.
"Good." She threw a wooden sword to him—single-handed, without looking. "Today is different."
Carsel caught it. "Different how?"
"You will attack first."
Carsel gripped it in silence. Inside his chest, something felt tamer now, having been condensed and released repeatedly during his meditation sessions. He felt his limits more clearly than before.
Twenty minutes this morning. Midday today might be twenty-two.
"Auntie." He paused. Marta did not turn around, but her shoulders shifted—listening. "There is something I want to ask."
Silence for a moment.
"Just ask."
Carsel stared at Marta's back. Reading the tension in her left shoulder that had not fully disappeared. Reading the way she stood, which was one millimeter stiffer than usual.
He decided not to ask about that.
"To enter Ostrivien—what is needed?"
Marta stopped. Not surprised. But there was something in the way she stopped that showed this question was not un-anticipated by her. She just did not know when it would come.
She bent her knees. And for the first time in all their training sessions, she sat down before the session began.
"Sit."
Carsel noticed this without commenting on it. He also sat across from her—not too close, not too far.
"Ostrivien does not accept ordinary applications." Marta placed both of her hands on her knees. A different posture than usual—not a trainer's posture. More like someone who was conveying something that needed to be heard correctly. "They do not care about your family name. Do not care about how much money you have."
Carsel listened.
"What they care about is proof." Marta looked at him directly. "Verifiable achievements. A tiered tournament—there are four levels. You need a placement in at least three of those four."
"A placement. Top three, minimum." Marta paused for a moment. "Usually."
Usually—Carsel caught that word. There was an exception there that was not explained.
He was silent for a bit. Calculating something in his head. Not a strategy, but some sort of consideration about—
"I am sure you can do it," Marta cut him off even though she did not know what was on his mind.
Carsel's breath caught in his throat, his pupils dilated slightly and his gaze met Marta's.
"Huh?"
Marta exhaled until her eyes closed as well. Then returned. "I will not talk about motivation or give you a pep talk—I will tell you what truly is."
Marta's gaze was so deep, and Carsel felt naked. "Your adaptability is so extraordinary,"
Stop. Thinking about her next words— I don't need to explain that.
Indeed, there was no need.
"As long as you choose to fight—there will be a way for a possibility to achieve victory."
For a second, the world around him stopped spinning. That sentence hung in the air, locking his breath and letting his heartbeat take over control.
Not because he did not know what to say—but rather because there was something strange about the way those words landed. Not in his ears. Deeper than that.
As long as you choose.
He repeated that part in his head. Not the part about victory, not the part about the way. Just those two words.
He did not know what made them different from other words he had ever heard about himself. Maybe the way—flat, without a tone trying to convince anyone. Like someone stating a fact about the weather.
Or maybe not the way at all. Maybe just because this was the first time someone spoke about his ability without mentioning what he could do for that person.
He did not know. And because he did not know, he let it exist without trying to name it.
His finger moved without him asking it to—his right thumb pressed the tip of his middle finger. He realized it and stopped.
"Thank you." Quieter than he had planned. Then he stood up and tightened his grip. "I'm ready."
Marta did not reply with words. She just stood up, a single movement that was so efficient it almost looked like a shadow straightening up. Her wooden sword, which had been leaning against the wall until now, was already in her grip.
"Come," Marta said flatly.
Carsel took a deep breath, locking in the remaining composure from his meditation, and then darted forward.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Three loud, consecutive clashes shook the silence of the room. Carsel started aggressively—a diagonal slash from the right, followed by a quick spin aiming for the ribs, and ending with a straight thrust toward the chest. Remarkably, Marta did not back down a single step. She parried all three with minimalist movements, yet Carsel gave no pause; he instantly twisted his wrist, changing the direction of the sword at the last second to aim for Marta's neck.
Marta was forced to tilt her head sharply, the whoosh of wind from Carsel's sword brushing against her strands of hair. Marta's eyes flashed—there was a spark of appreciation there. The Carsel of now was different. His movements were more precise, fast, and sharp.
Now it was Marta's turn to press. Her wooden sword roared from above; Carsel did not withstand that attack, instead he directed his blade to slant upward diagonally.
As Marta's sword clashed against that slanted blade, it slid downward toward the ground on Carsel's right side. While his sword slid down, Carsel utilized that friction to twist his wrist, directing his own blade downward, then slashed at Marta's moving wrist.
Before the wooden blade arrived, Marta twisted her body slightly, pulling her sword back—then, pushed Carsel hard using her shoulder.
Carsel, losing his balance, chose to leap lightly. And in mid-air, they managed to exchange blade strikes twice—producing an incredibly fast and synchronized tapping rhythm.
For a few intense minutes, that fight looked completely equal. Carsel's instincts were able to predict the direction of her attacks, countering each threat with admirable adaptation, even forcing Marta into a defensive position several times. The rhythm of the two locked the entire room in a thick tension.
However, the afternoon grew hotter, and time began to erode Carsel's advantage.
Twenty minutes this morning. Midday today, his body's limit began to scream at the twenty-second minute.
Carsel's breath began to quicken. Heavy sweat flooded his temples, making his hand's grip on the hilt of the sword a bit slippery. The wound on his right arm that had just healed began to throb faintly—not due to damaged tissue, but because of muscle fatigue from being forced to work at its maximum limit in a short time. Carsel's speed slowly decreased, by just a fraction of a second, but for someone like Marta, that tiny gap was like a wide-open gateway.
Marta noticed it. Her old experience knew exactly when an opponent's stamina began to drain. Marta's expression remained ice-cold, but the intensity of her attacks suddenly changed.
Thwack!
Marta struck the lower part of Carsel's sword, shattering the rhythm that the young man had maintained until now. Carsel tried to recover his position, but Marta stepped forward, cutting off Carsel's room to move. A single horizontal slash from Marta forced Carsel back, followed by a barrage of continuous attacks coming from unexpected angles.
Carsel was now completely on the defensive. He could tell where the direction of Marta's attacks was going, but his body no longer responded as fast as a few minutes ago. Every time he parried, he was forced to take one step back.
Thwack! Thwack!
Marta dominated absolutely. She manipulated the weight of her sword, making Carsel misread the direction of the wind. In a very subtle feint movement, Marta pretended to aim for Carsel's left shoulder, making Carsel lift his weapon too high.
That was the end of the match.
Marta twisted her wooden blade downward, slipping between the gaps in Carsel's defense, and with one powerful jerk, she struck Carsel's wrist.
Crack!
Carsel's wooden sword slipped from his grip, spun in the air, then fell clattering to the ground. Before Carsel had time to react, the tip of Marta's wooden sword had already stopped exactly one millimeter in front of his throat.
Silence ruled once more. There was only the sound of Carsel's gasping breath, contrasting with Marta whose breath remained steady.
Marta looked at Carsel's pupils which were still dilated, then slowly lowered her sword.
"Twenty-two minutes," Marta said lowly, accurately counting the duration of Carsel's peak performance. "You can match me at the beginning, but experience will always win the rest of the fight when your body starts to tire."
Carsel looked down, staring at his palms which looked miserable—bright red, throbbing hot, and the skin at the base of his fingers was chafed, leaving a stinging pain from squeezing that wooden handle too hard. Before long, a thin smile appeared on his face. Marta was right, but instead of feeling defeated, he actually felt a strange satisfaction. His own limit today had shifted again.
———
BOOM!
The sound of a drum beating thundered, drowning out the stinging pain that had now evaporated from his palms. That inflamed hot sensation had been replaced by a thick, rigid layer as he clenched his fingers again in the silence of the locker room. When those palms were opened, the red color that used to torment him was no longer there. Instead, rows of hard, pale yellow calluses now lined his skin—a natural shield formed by thousands of grueling swings.
From behind the wooden door in front of him, the roar of the spectators' cheers shook the wall he was leaning against. As he reached for the real metal sword hilt on his desk, his calloused skin gripped the iron perfectly.
The time had come.
He swallowed hard, but his throat remained dry, his left leg trembling. His heart....
A warm palm landed on his back. Flat, full, not heavy—between Carsel's shoulder blades. Not pushing. Not directing. It was just there.
His pupils dilated. Carsel finally looked back, meeting Marta's gaze. Marta's expression was not as cold as usual, yet it was not warm either. To him... her expression was gentle.
For two long seconds, nothing banished the silence. And Carsel looked forward again—swallowing hard once more, both of his hands clenching tighter.
I am ready.
The wooden doorknob turned smoothly beneath his sweaty fingers—his feet stepped out with a certain determination. The earring in his left ear pulsed softly, like a drop of water falling into the calmest part of himself.
In front of him stood a young man with armor covering every centimeter of his body. His right shoulder was higher than the left—an old habit of someone who relied too often on one side. His sword was adorned with carvings that were too intricate for a weapon actually meant to be used; the kind of sword bought to be looked at, only then to be practiced with.
Carsel looked at himself briefly. Simple clothes. Dirty boots. No armor. His sword was ordinary.
That was not a problem.
"Surrender quickly." The tip of the opponent's sword pointed straight at his chest. His mouth formed a smirk that had been practiced in front of a mirror. "You can't possibly win."
Carsel opened his feet shoulder-width apart, left foot forward. Sixty percent of his weight forward, forty backward. His knees bent slightly, his torso rotated thirty degrees—slanting, turning sideways.
A stance that his body already memorized before his mind gave the instruction.
"I will still choose to try."
The young man's eyes narrowed. There was something that changed in his shoulders—not anger, closer to offended, the kind of offense born from someone unaccustomed to not being taken seriously. He stomped his foot onto the arena floor.
Fire appeared on the blade of his sword—not igniting slowly, but exploding all at once, deep red like iron left too long in a furnace. The air between them turned heavy.
He burst forward. A vertical slash came down from above, bringing a wave of heat strong enough to distort the vision.
Inside Carsel's chest, there was something already moving faster than his decision—not panic, but a sort of calculation working at a layer lower than consciousness. One circular step. His body weight flowed to the side, utilizing the turn that his knees had already started before his brain finished the sentence.
The opponent's sword cut the air. The arena floor cracked and blackened at the spot that should have been his head.
Carsel did not respond with strength—he knew his sword would break if it clashed weights. Instead, he let the affinity from his earring flow to the blade, thin like a layer of dew, swirling on the metal surface like a current that could not be held but also could not be stopped.
A series of thrusts came. Small fireballs launched from every plunge—inaccurate, but the number was enough to force someone without armor to run.
Carsel did not run. He moved within the gaps between those attacks—one step, slanting, a half-turn—a way that was only possible if there was no armor weighing down every joint. Every time the fire sword approached, he tilted his blade slightly, letting the attack slide to the side like water poured onto a slanted surface.
The water on his sword blade grew thicker. Swirling tighter and tighter.
He had never learned this technique formally. He just felt that the energy absorbed from each parry did not go anywhere—it just piled up, waiting.
The opponent leaped backward. Thrusting his sword into the ground. Carsel saw his shoulders rising and falling—breathing that was already irregular, but forced to not be seen.
"Just destroy yourself along with your damn water!"
Energy gathered around the young man in a way that felt different from the previous slashes. Not larger—more desperate.
A pillar of fire exploded from beneath his feet, shooting up like something that could no longer be held back.
Carsel's left foot gripped the floor. He lowered his body, drawing his sword to the side of his waist. The water collected on the blade felt dense now—no longer a liquid, but a pressure looking for a way out.
He chose not to avoid it.
One step forward. Right toward that pillar.
He swung his sword in a single horizontal turn. The water pressure exploded out—very thin, very fast—cleaving the heat in front of him in a way that made the air hiss like hot iron dipped into cold water.
White steam filled the arena. The audience disappeared. The opponent disappeared. Everything was white.
Then slowly thinned out.
The tip of Carsel's sword stopped a few centimeters from the young man's throat. A drop of water fell from his blade, clinking softly against the floor that was still warm.
Carsel's clothes were wet. His hand throbbed. But what he noticed was the opponent's right shoulder which was higher than the left—now dropped, level with the left, for the first time since the fight began.
The tension that had clenched the young man's jaw vanished, replaced by a strange sense of emptiness. As if, with this defeat, an invisible weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.