The boy swings.
His arms slash through the air in wide vertical arcs.
Sweat glistens down his ghostly porcelain skin, his snow-white hair swept back, a few loose wet strands sticking onto his damp forehead.
Huff Huff Huff
The boy swings.
His arms refuse to yield.
His legs refuse to buckle.
All he sees is the gleam of silver metal gleaming orange in the dim glow of the dual sunset.
Huff Huff Huff
The boy swings.
His thoughts trace back to his helplessness.
His inadequacy.
His foolishness.
He doesn't know how long he's been swinging.
If only he were stronger, could he have saved his mother?
It had been a month since he had buried her. The boy had been thriving in the training grounds ever since. Sword in hand, drive in his heart, and mana in his core. He had grown irrefutably stronger and more skilled than he had been before.
"That stance is not attuned to the likes of you."
The boy's head snaps up.
Further up the hill, beneath the remains of a willow tree, a man watches in silence.
He wears a jet-black yukata hanging loosely around his toned athletic physique, the fabric was rough and bore its fair share of tears from the years spent wandering. His face is sharp with high cheekbones, a strong jaw complimented with a narrow chin, and pitch-black eyes in a shape that highlights the man's "Eastern" heritage. His black unkempt hair is tied back loosely, strands falling around his face, giving him a rugged, almost wild appearance. A faint scar runs across his jawline—very much like his blade—the katana fastened on his left hip.
How long has that F*cker been up there? is he a stalker?—Oh to mention Wynn had graciously picked up a few colorful words from his friends on Helios
"Do not let your mind wander."
The voice comes from behind Wynn.
He could've sworn that the stalker was on the hill just a second ago.
If anything this must be what they called a particularly skilled stalker.
A Super Stalker.
"Cease your bullshit boy."
Wait.
Can he read my mind?
"No, I can not."
Wynn spins around, stepping back instinctively, his grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The man now stands mere paces away, his presence looming despite his seemingly average height.
"Who are you?" Wynn's tries to relax his face, attempting to steady his gaze and appear composed, his thoughts subconsciously trailing back to what Aldric would tell him.
"Never let your enemy see the fear you carry."
Wynn exhales slowly, forcing his heartbeat to steady. He locks eyes with the man, searching for something—anything—that would give away his intent. But the stranger's face is unreadable, his black eyes are calm like still water, reflecting nothing but everything.
The man studies the boy in return, then sighs—though a flicker of amusement finds its way to his face—not that Wynn could catch it in time.
"At least you're trying but your fear reeks, boy. You are no Aldric Von Ashford."
Wynn's jaw tightens. His grip on his sword steadies. "I asked you a question, respected sir."
The man lifts a hand, rolling his wrist lazily. "And I ignored it what can a twink like you do about it."
THIS FUC-
"Draw your sword," Wynn snaps.
The man raises a brow, then chuckles—a low, dry thing, like a blade scraping against its sheath. "You want to fight?"
Wynn doesn't answer. He simply raises his sword.
The man sighs again, shaking his head.
"Overconfidence is a cancer that festers in the mind, turning skill into arrogance and strength into ruin boy"
He rubs his eyes.
"Very well. A lesson, then."
Without warning, he steps forward.
Wynn barely has time to blink before the man's hand is already in motion. A sharp flick of his fingers. A blur of movement. A sudden, brutal impact against Wynn's wrist—so fast, so precise, that he barely registers the pain before his sword is flying from his hands.
It clatters onto the dirt, sliding several feet away.
Wynn's eyes go wide.
The man had disarmed him—without even drawing his blade.
"Pick it up," the stranger says.
Wynn hesitates, then moves, snatching his sword from the ground. He turns, raising it once more.
This time, he doesn't wait. He lunges.
A diagonal slash, fast and reckless, aiming straight for the man's chest.
But the man has already moved.
Wynn feels it before he sees it—an invisible force disrupting his balance, his ankle suddenly no longer where it was supposed to be. Then the world spins, and he crashes onto his back, dust flying up around him.
A dull silence follows.
Wynn coughs. Spitting out dirt.
Above him, the man stands completely still, not a single breath out of place. He hasn't even changed his stance. Hasn't even drawn his damn sword.
"Get up," he says.
Wynn does.
And again, he charges.
Again, he swings.
And again, the man breaks him.
Time after time, the result was the same. Wynn slashed, lunged, feinted—only for the stranger to sidestep him with ease, disrupting his balance with the slightest shift of movement, knocking him down with the flick of a wrist, a tap of a foot, a brush of the hand.
It wasn't a fight.
It was humiliation.
Wynn gritts his teeth, panting, his hands shaking with frustration. His muscles burn, his legs felt like lead. And yet the man before him was as unbothered as ever, his expression barely even shifting.
"Enough," the stranger finally says. "This is going nowhere."
Wynn's breath hitches. His vision swam with exhaustion. And yet…
He still hasn't landed a hit.
The stranger turns as if to walk away.
"No."
The man pauses.
Wynn swallows hard. He straightens. Despite the ache screaming through his body, despite his trembling hands—he raises his sword once more.
"No," he says again. "Not yet,"
I promised.
I promised.
And Here I am getting thrown around like a fucking dog.
For the first time, the man looked mildly interested.
"Oh?"
Wynn closes his eyes. Reached deep inside himself.
And then—he lets it out.
The air around him trembles.
A heat unlike anything natural surges from within his chest, coiling up his spine, spreading to his fingertips. Black and scarlet flames erupt along the blade, writhing like living things, crackling with barely contained fury.
Wynn's eyes snap open, now glowing a deep, unnatural crimson.
The man observes the change, his expression unreadable. "Interesting."
Wynn doesn't answer. He only moves.
This time, the flames propel him forward, his speed multiplies, his strikes wreathed in searing heat. The very air hisses as the blade cuts through it, trailing embers in its wake.
And yet—
The stranger still doesn't draw his sword.
He moves as he had before, eyes closed, dodging each attack with infuriating ease. Wynn's strikes were incomprehensibly faster, more relentless, more devious but the result does not change.
Sidestep. Dodge. Deflect. Trip.
Once again, Wynn was sent tumbling.
And then—nothing.
The heat flickers. Died. The glow in his eyes fades.
He lays on the ground, his vision blurred, his limbs too heavy to move. His body had given up before his mind had.
A shadow looms over him.
"You're stubborn." The stranger's voice was quieter now, though still carrying that same edge of amusement. "I'll give you that."
Wynn forces his head up, staring at the man through sweat-stung eyes.
The stranger finally reached for his blade.
Not to draw it.
But to sheath it properly.
"Come," he says, turning. "If you can still stand, you might be worth teaching."
Wynn blinks.
The words take a moment to sink in.
Then, slowly, painfully, he pushes himself up.
"Who are you?"
The man halts, turning to face the boy.
And for the first time since Wynn had seen him—
He smiles.
"Luminaire Muzashi Katagiri. Though most simply call me the Eastern Blade."
Wynn blinks, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Muzashi chuckles, the sound low and unbothered, before turning away. "Keep up—unless you'd rather go hungry."
Wynn pushes his thoughts aside and follows.
What the Muzashi hadn't told Wynn, however, was that he carried another name.
Eighteen years ago, when the Abyssus Church attempted to take root in the Empire, the Emperor had sent only two of his knights to eradicate them. Those two would later be known as the Emperor's Swords, though their deeds—and the way they fought—had already earned them their own share of notoriety.
Of the pair, the son of a noble house was celebrated for his courage and the unwavering sense of reassurance he brought to his allies. Raymond Von Scit—a name etched in history, revered as the Empire's Hero.
But the other?
The other was something else entirely.
A commoner from Helios, a man who did not fight for honor or recognition—only results. He didn't inspire. He didn't reassure. He ended things. A killer with a blade that danced like death itself, his movements an art form, his presence an omen. There was no mercy in his strikes, no hesitation in his steps. Where he walked, ruin followed.
They did not call him a hero.
They called him The Heavenly Demon.
And he was the Empire's number-one ranked awakened—the strongest, the deadliest, the one no enemy lived to tell of.
************
The Empire has an awakened ranking, planetary rulers and high-ranked nobles ETC are not included in this list.