At first, Abigail walked—measured and composed, her steps echoing faintly across the silent arena.
Then something changed.
A heartbeat later, she was sprinting—cloak fluttering behind her, eyes locked onto Nero with focused intensity. Her feet barely touched the ground as she launched herself into the air, closing the distance in a single, arcing leap. Her blade came down like a guillotine, a deadly stroke meant to test him from the start.
But Nero was already moving.
Even before her blade fell, he felt it—the subtle tremor in the air, the disturbance of intent. The entire arena unfolded before him like a living diagram. Every shift of weight, every flicker of breath, every strand of motion was laid bare. He didn't see Abigail's blade as a threat—he saw it as a pattern, a thread to be unraveled.
And in that moment, his gaze wasn't on her at all.
He stepped aside effortlessly, avoiding her powerful downward slash with fluid grace. Abigail didn't pause.
She twisted into a horizontal slash, aiming to catch him mid-motion—but Nero parried it with a flick of his wrist, steel kissing steel. He stepped in, pressing the assault, his sheer momentum forcing her back two steps.
A smile tugged at Abigail's lips. Her blood stirred.
She surged forward again, blade glinting with moisture.
"Storm of Azure Blades."
The words rang silently within her as she slashed her sword outward.
A sudden burst of magic surged to life—three luminous crescent arcs of water burst forth, layered one over the other, shimmering with razor-sharp clarity. The crowd gasped as the technique sliced through the air like the fangs of a sea serpent.
But instead of retreating as she expected, Nero did the impossible.
With astonishing speed, he dashed headlong into the attack, his body moving like a current between waves. At the last possible moment, he leapt, contorting mid-air in a spiral, slipping cleanly through the narrow space between the second and third crescent blades.
Abigail's heart skipped. Her instincts screamed. She pivoted sharply, driving her sword backward toward where she thought he might appear—
She stopped mid-strike, awkward and twisted, her breath catching in her throat.
A sword was at her neck.
Cold. Unforgiving. Real.
Her pupils dilated. Her pulse thundered.
Was this... truly a thirteen-year-old boy?
"Do you think I could stay by my Lord's side with such a level of swordsmanship?"
Nero's voice was calm, almost dispassionate—but it carried the weight of truth.
Teeth clenched, Abigail moved. With blistering speed, she lashed out, swinging her sword in a tight arc—one designed to be undodgeable.
But in the blink of an eye—he was gone again.
A blur of motion—and suddenly, his sword returned to her neck, this time from the opposite side.
It had taken him less than a second.
On the noble stand, Adam lowered his face into his hand and sighed.
"This is supposed to be entertainment…"
His voice was quiet, tinged with pity—not for Nero, but for Abigail.
Knights had pride. And Nero had just shattered it with clinical ease.
In the stillness that followed, Nero's voice rang out, colder than before.
"Do you know how tough it is to be a BloodBlade?"
He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking deep into every soul present. It wasn't boastful. It wasn't arrogant.
This wasn't just a boy with a sword.
This was the phantom who turned tides. The shadow who counted his kills in hundreds every time he stepped onto a battlefield.
The one who held the gates of Goshen alone.
Who stood against Darius—and didn't fall.
The man marked by Torah, the Human Torch.
These weren't titles whispered in courts. They were spoken in hushed reverence across blood-soaked war camps and forgotten ruins—names meant to warn, not glorify.
And even fewer understood.
On the viewing balcony, Ruth narrowed her eyes, voice sharp with curiosity.
"Is this House Ashbourne's strongest knight?"
Beside her, Lucas Adamos answered without hesitation.
"What if he's not? He's thirteen."
Ruth exhaled through her mouth, slow and quiet, as if suddenly aware they had all just witnessed what House Ashbourne was hiding all this time.
The battles continued long after Nero departed the arena, yet his presence lingered—like a shadow stretched across the hearts of those who had witnessed him. His performance clung to memory the way flesh clings to bone: inseparable, undeniable, and raw.
Hours passed, the sun beginning its descent behind the western walls of the city.
Eventually, the day's events drew to a close, the last cheers and murmurs fading into silence. But Asher's duties were not yet over. Nobles and merchants waited—faces painted with warm smiles. He met them one by one, voice steady, gaze sharp, until his mind dulled from the endless conversation.
Only at nightfall did he finally retreat to the quiet of his chambers.
There, at last, the weight slipped from his shoulders.
He lay on his bed beside Sapphira, her breathing gentle, his body sinking into the plush mattress. The soft hush of evening wrapped around them like a woven cloth of serenity.
The hum of life beyond the windows seemed distant, irrelevant. Peace returned to him—not the kind that came from victory, but the rare stillness found in simply being safe.
For a while, nothing else existed but breath and dreams.
The door shook beneath a series of violent knocks, shattering the tranquility like a warhorn in a temple. Asher's eyes flew open. Sapphira jolted upright beside him, the sheets twisting around her limbs.
The voice, desperate, raw, almost broken, echoed from beyond the heavy wooden door.
It struck not just their ears, but their very souls.
"I-it's Mia." Sapphira found herself unable to speak properly.
Asher's heart trembled.
What was this feeling?
Was it fear? Was the city under siege? Were assassins in the halls?
Why did his chest feel tight, as if something precious was slipping through his fingers?
The voice returned—louder, cracking.
"My Lady! Open the door! It's Merlin and Atreides. They're… they're—!"
The words stopped there, caught in the throat of the messenger. But what didn't come through the door came in waves from the silence that followed.
Pure, undiluted dread.
Asher was already on his feet, bare, breathless, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum as he crossed the room—
Like a phantom, he appeared at the door.