The Aftermath of Victory
The crowd dispersed slowly, murmurs still buzzing through the academy yard. Layron remained standing in the center, his grip firm around his wooden sword—not trembling, not exhausted. Just steady.
His heart pounded, but not from strain. Not from fear.
From exhilaration.
He had won. Not by brute strength. Not by sheer luck. Not even by Anya's interference.
But by understanding.
Rael's glare burned into him from across the training ground, his wounded pride evident in his clenched fists. But Layron barely acknowledged it. His mind was elsewhere—racing with thoughts far more compelling.
"You begin to see the truth now, don't you?"
Zorthaal's voice, deep and deliberate, echoed within his mind. Layron exhaled, steadying himself.
He wasn't sure if he was scared anymore.
It had felt natural—like the guidance had been his own all along. He had used no magic, no supernatural ability. Only knowledge. Only insight.
"Control the mind."
Layron whispered the words under his breath, repeating them as if tasting their weight. The thrill still lingered. The power of seeing the world clearer than before.
For once, he wasn't walking in anyone's shadow.
---
Anya's Suspicion
When Layron stepped into the house, Anya was already waiting.
Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You fought today," she said flatly.
Layron sighed, shutting the door behind him.
"It wasn't a big deal."
Anya's gaze sharpened. "You dodged Rael's attacks perfectly. You've never done that before."
Layron forced a smirk. "Maybe I learned something."
Her eyes didn't waver.
"From who?"
A chill ran down his spine.
For a split second, he hesitated.
Anya caught it.
His mouth opened, but no words came. The weight of her question pressed against him. Then, like a lifeline, the voice slithered in.
"Do not lie. But do not reveal."
Layron steadied himself.
"I just watched people fight," he said simply. "I started noticing patterns."
That wasn't a lie.
Anya frowned, her expression skeptical, but she didn't push further.
"Be careful," she muttered before turning away.
Layron exhaled slowly.
That was close.
Too close.
"You are learning," Zorthaal murmured. "Caution is key. Strength is not just about battle—but about control."
Layron's fingers twitched.
Control.
He liked the sound of that.
---
Lessons from the Dark
That night, Layron lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
His thoughts were restless.
Something about today felt different.
He felt different.
Stronger. More capable.
"...Are you still there?" he whispered into the darkness.
Silence.
Then—
"Always."
Layron swallowed. His pulse quickened, but this time, not out of fear.
He hesitated. Then, finally, he asked:
"What are you?"
A chuckle. Low and patient.
"Does it matter?"
Layron frowned.
"It does to me."
A pause. Then, the voice spoke again—calm, steady.
"I am you, Layron. The part of you that was always meant to be."
Layron turned onto his side, staring at the wall.
"...Then why am I only hearing you now?"
"Because only now… have you begun to listen."
A shiver ran down his spine.
But it made sense.
Hadn't he always wanted this? To be stronger? To understand?
And now he did.
Zorthaal had given him nothing. No magic. No unnatural power.
Just clarity.
Layron closed his eyes.
"I want to learn more," he admitted.
A hum of approval.
"And you will."
The darkness felt less empty that night.
---
The Second Test – A Dance of Shadows
The academy training grounds pulsed with tension. Students crowded in a ring around the sparring area, their whispers blending into a low hum of excitement.
Layron exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he gripped the wooden sword. His body still ached from the earlier fight with Rael—but this?
This was different.
Saren stood across from him, calm and composed. Taller. Stronger. Sharper.
A fighter in every sense of the word.
No arrogance. No taunts. No wasted movement.
Layron swallowed. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.
I don't stand a chance.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Begin."
Saren moved.
A blur of motion—then—
CRACK!
Pain erupted in Layron's ribs before he even saw the attack coming. His body lurched backward, feet scrambling to stay upright.
The world tilted. His lungs burned.
A second strike followed instantly—this time slamming into his shoulder. A shockwave of pain rattled through him.
The crowd murmured.
"Saren's too fast."
"Layron's completely outmatched."
"This is over before it even started."
Layron staggered, heart pounding.
I can't keep up.
"Because you are trying to," Zorthaal's voice murmured, smooth as silk.
Layron sucked in a breath.
"You chase his speed, but speed is nothing without purpose," the voice continued. "He is not simply moving—he is predicting. Reading you. Anticipating your mistakes before you make them."
Another strike.
Saren's foot dug into the dirt as he lunged, sword swinging toward Layron's ribs—
"Now. Duck."
Layron's body moved before he could think.
WHOOSH—
The wooden blade sliced through the air just inches above his head.
The gasps from the crowd barely registered.
"Good," Zorthaal whispered. "Now, pivot—left foot first."
Layron obeyed. His body twisted just as Saren swung again—and the attack missed by a hair's breadth.
A flicker of confusion crossed Saren's face.
Layron's eyes widened.
Did I just dodge that?
"Yes. And now we begin."
Saren pressed forward, unleashing a flurry of rapid strikes—but Zorthaal was speaking now.
"Right. Now back. Now sidestep—duck—parry!"
Layron's wooden sword rose, deflecting the incoming blow at the exact moment Zorthaal commanded it. The impact sent vibrations through his arms, but he held firm.
His movements were no longer his own—yet they were.
He wasn't thinking. Just listening. Just obeying.
Saren narrowed his eyes, adjusting his stance.
"He's reading you now," Zorthaal hummed. "So… let us disrupt the rhythm."
Saren struck again—an overhead swing, aiming to crush Layron down.
"Dodge left—now feint."
Layron dropped to the side, his sword flicking out at the last second—barely missing Saren's wrist.
Not to hit. But to mislead.
Saren instinctively shifted back—off-balance for just half a second.
"NOW—FLIP OVER HIM."
Layron's body reacted instantly.
He planted his hands into the dirt and vaulted over Saren's back—
Gasps rang out from the crowd.
Layron landed behind him, heart racing.
Saren spun fast, his stance sharp—but Layron was already moving.
"Leg sweep. Strike his ribs!"
Layron twisted low, sweeping his leg in a perfect arc—knocking Saren's footing loose.
A sharp grunt escaped Saren as he stumbled.
Layron didn't let him recover.
His sword lashed out—striking Saren square in the ribs.
CRACK.
Saren staggered back, eyes wide.
The crowd erupted.
"Did… did Layron just hit him!?"
"That was insane!"
"Where did he learn to move like that?!"
Layron's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something else.
Excitement.
Zorthaal chuckled.
"You feel it, don't you? The rush. The clarity. The power."
Layron swallowed hard.
He did.
He had never fought like this before. Never moved like this before.
Every attack—every dodge—every strike—it had all been perfectly executed.
Not because of strength. Not because of magic.
Because of understanding.
Because he had listened.
Saren exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
He wasn't done yet.
"Good," Zorthaal purred. "Then let us take it further."
Saren lunged forward—twice as fast as before.
"Counter. Roll under his guard—strike his leg."
Layron obeyed.
He dropped low, rolled beneath Saren's outstretched arm— and in a flash, his sword struck Saren's thigh.
Saren grunted, stepping back.
"Perfect. Now, take control."
Layron's stance shifted.
He wasn't just defending anymore.
He was leading.
Saren swung again—desperate, pushing harder—but Layron was already ahead of him.
Every step. Every movement. Every mistake—Zorthaal saw it all before it happened.
Layron vaulted off the ground, flipping over Saren's head—twisting midair.
His sword came crashing down as he landed—aimed straight for Saren's exposed shoulder.
CRACK!
Saren stumbled back, breath ragged.
Layron stood tall.
No pain. No fear. Just control.
Silence.
Pure, stunned silence.
Then—cheers.
"Layron won!?"
"What was that movement?! That was insane!"
"That looked like a damn warrior's technique!"
Saren let out a slow breath, looking at Layron with something different in his eyes.
No mockery. No dismissal.
Recognition.
Layron's fingers flexed around his sword.
His ribs still throbbed. His arms ached.
But none of that mattered.
Because he had seen it.
Not just the attacks. Not just the movements.
The truth behind them.
He had fought—not by brute strength. Not by chance.
By knowledge. By clarity.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips.
"You see now, don't you?" Zorthaal whispered, voice dripping with satisfaction.
Layron inhaled deeply, a strange sensation settling in his chest.
It felt good.
The thrill of control. The sensation of being one step ahead.
He wanted more.
And Zorthaal… knew it.
---
A Choice Foretold
That night, the voice came again.
"You understand now, don't you?"
Layron sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped.
"I think so."
"You are awakening."
Layron's pulse quickened.
"To what?"
A soft chuckle.
"To what you were always meant to be."
For a moment, Layron said nothing.
Then, in a whisper—
"...I want more."
The darkness around him seemed to listen.
"You will have it," Zorthaal promised. "In time."
Layron exhaled.
The path before him had never been clearer.
No matter where it led.
---
End of Chapter 4