"How are you, Rayleigh?" the Prince asked, his voice steeped in a rare softness signalling respect and care.
A puff of smoke swirled into the moonlit air.
"Does it matter?" Rayleigh replied, voice calm, indifferent. "You're here to kill me anyway."
He reached into his coat, retrieving a worn cigar, as if they were still just master and student on a quiet training night.
"Would you mind?" he gestured.
With a flick of his fingers, Lucas summoned a delicate flame from his aura, just enough to light the cigar.
They stood in silence, shoulders touching the cold wall, smoke curling between them like the ghosts of shared memories.
Rayleigh—once hailed as the royal knights' fiercest martial artist. A 4-Star master with no glowing brilliance, no radiant aura. Just raw power, honed in fists, flesh, and instinct. His weapon was his body, and his body was a temple of war. Even now, calm as ever, he radiated the quiet threat of a veteran killer.
The silence dragged. It was not peace. It was a battlefield waiting to happen.
Then came the question.
"Why did you do it?" Lucas asked.Rayleigh looked at him, eyes unreadable.
"They were annoying." A pause. "So I taught them a lesson. Pity they didn't survive it."
The final moment drew near.
Lucas exhaled slowly. The fire inside him began to burn hotter, heavier.
"Then I have no choice," he said, drawing his sword. "Any last words?"
Fiery aura surged around the Prince, curling up from his limbs like a living flame. The ground beneath his feet darkened, scorched by the heat radiating from his very soul. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. This was no longer a conversation—this was the end of a bond.
He exhaled slowly, eyes locked on his former master.
Then he moved.
A single slash—quick, heavy, burning with fire-enhanced aura—cut through the air toward Rayleigh, aimed straight for the heart.
But Rayleigh didn't flinch. With a pivot as fluid as a whisper, he avoided the blade with insulting ease.
"All this fire…" he muttered, brushing the ash from his sleeve, "It makes your sword skills dirty."
His voice wasn't taunting. It was weary. Disappointed. As if watching a masterpiece crumble under its own ambition.
The flames around Lucas flared again—hotter this time. But Rayleigh stood as calm as stone, his eyes sharp. The battle had begun, and already, the master was teaching his final lesson.
Lucas smirked.
"Oh? Then watch this—"
Heavenly Flame Art, First Form: Ember's Path.
The sword shimmered, burning brighter but moving lighter. Each swing possesses intense power and speed. But Rayleigh moved like wind, untouched.
"Still slow." evaded with ease. "Let me show you real swordplay."
Weapon Art: Sword of Apollo.
A simple blade shimmered into existence—no glory, no fire, just lethal elegance.
With one movement, Rayleigh struck. A flash. A gasp.
Blood sprayed.
Lucas was shocked. The sight of his own blood stunned him. It had been years.
His heart raced—but there was no time for fear. He smothered his flame, stripping his aura bare. No more fire. Only steel.
Steel clashed against steel—each strike faster, sharper. Rayleigh parried them all. But Lucas was watching, learning.
Then—an opening.
He twisted mid-strike, redirecting the force downward. Rayleigh's blade faltered. In a blur, Lucas discarded his sword and drew a hidden dagger from beneath his robe.
A thrust.
A stab.
A wound.
Rayleigh bled.
But he smiled.
"You've grown," he whispered. "In strength. In cunning."
His own weapon vanished. A new one appeared.
Weapon Art: Twilight Dagger.
Before Lucas could react, pain exploded from his shoulder. Poison laced through his veins.
He stumbled back.
"You've learned well… from your brother. But in the end—" Rayleigh stepped forward, "—it's still child's play."
Lucas stood, barely. His wounds screamed. His mind fogged. But his resolve held.
Even with death hanging above him, he stood.
Then a distant wail. Sirens.
Rayleigh clicked his tongue.
"What a damn nuisance."
With a glance over his shoulder, he faded into the night. "We'll finish this another time."
Lucas fell to one knee, blood trailing behind him like broken honor.
Hours later, he returned to the inn.
Alaric rushed to his side. Without hesitation, he poured potions, summoned what little healing aura he had. The boy's hands trembled, eyes burning with worry.
The Prince drifted to sleep, and when dawn rose, he awoke to find Alaric collapsed beside him—exhausted, drained… loyal.
And for the first time since drawing his sword that night, Lucas felt something other than pain.
He felt pride.