The Blindfolded Struggle
The world was pitch black.
Layron stood in the shifting battlefield, the Fallen Arena, his body taut with exhaustion. His breaths came ragged, his muscles burned, and yet—Shion wasn't stopping.
The blindfold over his eyes robbed him of sight, forcing him to rely purely on instinct and Foresight Break. He had used it countless times to predict his enemy's movements, to see seconds into the future—but now, a terrifying flaw had surfaced.
He could see, but he couldn't react fast enough.
"Your technique is useless if your body can't keep up," Shion's voice echoed from the darkness.
Layron clenched his jaw. He could sense the arrows coming, but his arms, his legs—every movement lagged behind what he already knew was about to happen.
Too slow. Too damn slow!
A sharp whistle tore through the air.
Layron twisted too late—an arrow slammed into his shoulder, piercing just below his collarbone. A cry ripped from his throat as he staggered back, boots skidding across the arena's fractured stone floor.
Shion wasn't holding back anymore.
"Struggling already?" Shion taunted, voice moving—no, circling. "You've got the sight, boy. But sight means nothing if your body is still bound by human limits."
Another volley. This time, faster.
Layron ducked. One arrow grazed his cheek, leaving a thin burning line. Another tore through the fabric of his sleeve, embedding itself into the stone behind him.
He tried stepping back, but—
"AGH!"
The next arrow struck just near his elbow, cutting deep. His grip on weakened instantly, his fingers trembling from the shock. His knees buckled.
Damn it… damn it…
His breaths grew heavy, his heart pounding.
His Foresight Break was working—he knew the arrows were coming, but his body wasn't fast enough to respond in time. He was too slow to react, too weak to follow through.
The darkness behind his blindfold felt like it was closing in.
His legs wobbled. The pain, the exhaustion—it was all too much.
Another whistle.
Another arrow.
Layron couldn't move.
THUNK.
Pain erupted in his side. His body gave up, crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
He lay there, his breath ragged, his mind sinking into a void. His fingers twitched weakly, trying to push himself up, but the strength was gone.
The world blurred. His consciousness faded.
And then—
A memory.
---
A Cry in the Dark
There was fire.
There was screaming.
A woman—her arms wrapped tightly around an infant. Around him.
One stepped forward—a towering presence cloaked in darkness. His silhouette was barely visible against the flames, but the gleam of his sword shone mercilessly under the firelight.
Her voice trembled, but she held him close, shielding him with everything she had.
"Please… please, he's just a baby… don't take him…"
Figures moved in the shadows, their footsteps slow, deliberate. They weren't listening.
The figure tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then—without warning—his blade lifted into the air.
The glint of a sword rose into the air.
Layron—still just a child in this memory—reached out, fingers barely able to grasp at the warmth of the woman's hand.
Then—
SLASH.
A scream.
Blood splattered across his tiny fingers.
Then, darkness.
Layron gasped.
The memory yanked him back into the present, his body seizing from the shock. His mind, still spinning, struggled to grasp what he had just seen.
That woman. That voice.
What was that memory?
Before he could question it, something else shifted inside him.
A rush of energy, cold and sharp like lightning, surged through his veins.
The pain faded. The exhaustion disappeared.
His breathing slowed.
And then—everything changed.
---
The Awakening
Layron's body moved before he could think.
He wasn't just predicting the arrows anymore.
He was already reacting.
He twisted, stepping sideways as another arrow flew past—his body moving in perfect sync with the attacks before they even left the bowstring.
Shion's eyes widened.
Layron tore the blindfold from his face.
His irises gleamed with something new —something beyond just foresight.
"That's…" Falkren's mechanical eye flickered. [[That's not Foresight Break.]]
Layron exhaled. His stance was different—his muscles loose, relaxed, yet his presence felt heavier than ever.
Shion's fingers twitched over his bowstring, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched Layron rise to his feet. His breath was ragged, his body covered in bruises and cuts, but something had changed.
The way he stood—loose, but not weak. The way the air around him seemed to bend slightly, as if it were adjusting to his presence.
Falkren's mechanical eye flickered, scanning Layron with renewed focus. The falcon had observed countless warriors rise and fall, had seen generations of Protectors push their limits, but this…
This was something new.
The air shifted. The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then, Falkren spoke.
[[That's not Foresight Break.]]
Shion exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "No… it's something else."
Layron rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers, and for the first time, he didn't flinch.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
His body was alive in a way it hadn't been before—not just predicting attacks, but reacting to them before they even happened.
Falkren's mechanical eye whirred faster, adjusting its focus. [[He's not just seeing the future anymore. He's moving within it.]]
Shion let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Hah. He's moving like a damn veteran. Like he's fought this battle a thousand times before."
Layron's stance had completely transformed. His muscles were loose but coiled like springs, his breath steady, his heartbeat slow and controlled.
It wasn't just Foresight Break anymore.
He wasn't just predicting what would happen.
He was already there.
Falkren's feathers bristled. [[He's not dodging. He's adapting. He's reacting before his conscious mind even registers the threat.]]
Layron shifted his footing slightly—so small, so effortless—yet Shion felt the pressure change.
Like standing too close to a storm before it unleashed itself.
Shion's smirk widened, a rare glint of approval flashing in his eyes.
"Tch. Kid's finally waking up."
Falkren's mechanical eye pulsed. [[No…]]
The falcon spread its wings slightly, sensing the weight of something far greater pressing down on the battlefield.
[[He's breaking through.]]
Layron closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and when they reopened—they were different.
Focused.
No, more than that.
Primal.
Shion felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
Falkren's voice came out almost in a whisper. [[This is… the awakened form of Foresight Break…]]
The falcon's talons dug into the stone, his eye flashing with undeniable certainty.
[[Instinct Break.]]
Layron exhaled.
And vanished.
---
Somewhere Far Away—A Bar of Old Memories
The smell of sake lingered in the air.
House Vaelor sat at the far end of the bar, fingers lightly circling the rim of his untouched drink. The place was dimly lit, filled with the quiet hum of drunken conversations.
The bartender poured another glass, but Vaelor didn't move. His gaze remained fixed on the golden liquid, lost in some distant thought.
Then—
A familiar footstep.
A shadow slid into the seat beside him.
"I'll have what he's having," the newcomer said.
The bartender gave a small nod, pouring another glass.
Vaelor didn't even look up. He already knew who it was.
"It's been a long time, Sensei. And I never thought that you would show up again."
Gramps picked up his cup, taking a slow sip.
"Has it?" he mused. "Feels like yesterday."
Vaelor chuckled, shaking his head. "You and your damn memory. I bet you still remember the first time we drank together."
Gramps smirked. "You spilled your first drink. Said it was an accident. It wasn't."
Vaelor let out a short laugh. "I was testing your reflexes."
"You failed," Gramps muttered, downing another sip.
For a moment, the silence stretched between them.
They weren't enemies in this moment. They were just two old warriors, sharing a drink, caught between the past and the present.
But the weight of reality pressed back in.
Vaelor set his cup down. "You know why I'm here."
Gramps exhaled, rolling the sake between his fingers. "Yeah. I do. This is our regular place to visit right? I guess you still have your habit."
Vaelor's gaze turned sharp. "Then you know this won't end with a drink."
Gramps smirked. "You always did like dragging out a fight."
Vaelor's hand hovered over his sword hilt. "And you always did like fighting impossible battles."
Gramps' eyes met his. "Well, nothing's changed."
The air between them crackled.
For a brief moment, they weren't old men.
They were warriors.
Enemies.
Friends.
Then—
The first strike was thrown.
----