The battlefield was still.
Shattered stone and scorched earth bore witness to the devastating clash that had just transpired. The lingering mist, once a veil concealing Gramps, had begun to clear, revealing the aftermath. Cracks webbed across the ruined ground, and the twisted remnants of the golems slowly reformed, their elemental bodies trembling yet persistent.
Vaelor's smirk faltered.
He had been certain. Certain that the combined might of the five golems would crush his old mentor. Yet now, as the mist unraveled like ribbons, his certainty crumbled.
And there stood Gramps.
Bloodied. Torn. But still standing.
Crimson smeared his face, dripping from his forehead down to his jaw. His coat, once elegant, now hung in tatters, the blackened fabric burnt and shredded. Cuts and bruises lined his arms, his knuckles raw and trembling. And yet — he smiled. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his shoulders heaving slightly with amusement.
"That," Gramps muttered, dragging a hand across his face to wipe the blood from his brow, "wasn't bad."
Vaelor's grip on Vaeloris tightened. The golems loomed at his back, their immense forms once more rising to their full stature. Five unrelenting titans — and yet they hesitated.
For the first time, they felt it.
Not the remnants of destruction. Not the bitter sting of battle. But something deeper.
A lingering force.
Scarlet.
The cursed blade now rested at Gramps' side. Though the old man had sheathed it once more, the air around it still crackled with residual energy. The very ground beneath his feet bore the weight of its presence. Even now, the lingering power of the sword threatened to tear the battlefield asunder once again.
Vaelor exhaled sharply, masking the gnawing sense of unease clawing at his chest. He shook his head. No. This was still his fight. His confidence remained — even if the doubt lingered beneath it.
But before he could utter a single word—
Gramps' voice cut through the silence.
"You're still standing."
Vaelor flinched slightly, but the grin soon returned to his face. "You sound surprised."
"Not surprised." Gramps' tone was calm, almost amused. "Just remembering."
Vaelor blinked. "Remembering what?"
The grin on Gramps' face widened ever so slightly. His gaze — sharp and unyielding — flickered with something distant. Something familiar.
"Your stubbornness," Gramps replied, voice low. "And how much of a damn headache you've always been."
And just like that—
The memory struck.
---
THE FLASHBACK - When Vaelor was young
(Note: Even though he's not old in the past, I prefer calling him Gramps. There's an emotional connection to that name, familiarity that lingers through memories of laughter, pain, and growth. While Vaelor knows him as Tensuke, Gramps is what truly resonates. So, let's go with Gramps.)
The midday sun blazed high in the sky, its warmth cascading over the vast stretch of the training ground. The fields were dry and cracked, bearing the scars of relentless practice sessions. A rhythmic breeze swept across the earth, carrying with it the distant hum of rustling leaves.
Vaelor stood defiantly, fists clenched at his sides. Despite the sweat trickling down his forehead and the dull ache that pulsed through his muscles, his eyes burned with unwavering determination.
Gramps loomed before him, his arms crossed and his face half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hair. Unlike Vaelor, the old man showed no sign of strain. His posture was relaxed, as if the previous hours of sparring hadn't affected him in the slightest.
Falkren perched on a nearby wooden post, its mechanical eye glinting with amusement. [[You're pathetic, kid.]]
"Shut it, bird," Vaelor growled, shooting the construct a glare.
Gramps chuckled, the deep rumble of his laughter sending a wave of irritation down Vaelor's spine. "You've still got a long way to go, Vaelor. Your endurance's decent, I'll give you that. But strength without control? Useless."
Vaelor scowled. "I'm not useless."
"Oh?"
Gramps' hand moved.
Flick.
It was so quick Vaelor barely registered it.
A single finger struck him in the forehead — hard.
The sharp thwack echoed across the field.
Vaelor staggered, clutching his forehead with a yelp. "Agh! What the hell!?"
Gramps grinned, his hand still poised. "You can't even handle a flick to the head. And you dare to talk about becoming the Elite Ruler?"
Vaelor's scowl deepened. "That— That was cheap!"
"Cheap?" Gramps' grin widened. "Boy, you think anyone out there is gonna fight fair? You're lucky I didn't just throw you into the dirt."
Falkren let out a metallic chuckle. [[To be fair, that would've been fun to watch.]]
"Shut it!" Vaelor snapped.
But the pain from the flick was already fading, replaced with a burning frustration. His hands curled into fists, but even so, he couldn't shake the words that had been thrown at him.
The Elite Ruler.
It was all he wanted. The pinnacle. The title that stood above all.
But why?
Gramps leaned down slightly, his voice lowering. "You think strength alone is enough to become the Elite Ruler? Power's just a tool. The real question is… why?"
Vaelor froze.
"Why that title? Why not a Supreme Guardian? Or even a Supreme Overlord? What makes the Elite Ruler so damn important to you?"
For a moment, Vaelor said nothing. The anger simmered beneath his skin, but that wasn't all. Something else lay beneath the surface.
Then—he answered.
"Because I don't want to be a symbol." Vaelor's voice, though young, carried an unexpected weight. "I don't want people bowing to me just because of my strength. I don't want to stand behind walls and give orders."
Gramps narrowed his eyes.
"I want to lead," Vaelor continued. "Not from above, but from the front. I want to face whatever threatens this world head-on. I want people to know that when I stand there, I'm not asking anyone to fight a battle I wouldn't fight myself."
Gramps' expression didn't shift, but something stirred behind his gaze.
"And that's why," Vaelor finished, his voice unwavering. "That's why I'll become the Elite Ruler."
Silence followed. Even Falkren said nothing, the construct's eye flickering with something bordering on curiosity.
Then—
Gramps laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh. One that rang across the field.
"Well, I'll be damned." Gramps wiped his face, a smirk still lingering. "For once, you said something that didn't make me want to flick you again."
Vaelor huffed. "Glad I could impress you."
"Don't get cocky, kid." Gramps reached out, his large hand landing heavily on Vaelor's head, ruffling his hair with a grin. "But I'll give you this. You've got the right idea."
Vaelor blinked.
"And maybe," Gramps continued, "just maybe, you'll live long enough to make that happen."
---
Back to Present
The battlefield returned in an instant.
Vaelor's breath caught as the memory faded. The echoes of Gramps' laughter still lingered in his mind — that grin, the rough hand patting his head, the faint sting on his forehead.
But now, there was no laughter.
Only the looming presence of Scarlet.
And yet—Vaelor's lips curled into a grin.
"Still think I'm that stubborn kid, huh, Sensei?"
Gramps smirked. "Nah. You're worse."
---
TO BE CONTINUED…