Location: Training Field, Southern ArchenLand
Time & Year: Late Afternoon | 6999 NY
The wind had stilled for a moment, as if the land itself were holding its breath.
Trevor's breathing came in shallow gasps, not from fear but from awe—and maybe something else, something tangled deep in the ribs, behind the sternum. His vision swam slightly from the exertion, but his gaze never left Adam. That faint, brilliant blue glow in Adam's eyes shimmered like starlight over still water, cutting through the dust and light of the battlefield.
It wasn't just the weapon that had changed. It was him. Adam had always been strong, thoughtful—quiet, even in chaos—but now there was something ancient behind those glowing eyes. Something that saw further than the surface.
And yet, as if untouched by the storm around him, Trevor found himself smiling. "Your eyes… they're really shiny, you know that?"
Adam blinked, just once. For a moment his stern composure slipped, and the corners of his mouth twitched. A half-chuckle, tightly held in his chest, escaped like breath in cold air. He reached out without hesitation and pulled Trevor to his feet.
"I've noticed," he said simply.
But then his tone shifted—still soft, but with that subtle edge Trevor always recognized. The kind of tone Adam used when something mattered. Deeply.
"But it's not just my eyes," Adam continued, his brows drawing in slightly as his gaze flicked to the sky, then back to the broken earth beneath their feet. "I don't know exactly what this is… but I can see things. Differently. Shapes… patterns. Like there's another layer to the world underneath the one we walk on. I think…" he paused, adjusting his grip on Canvari, "I think it's Mana. I can see it in its raw form."
Trevor's brow lifted, the gravity of the words slowly sinking in. There was a silence between them—a long one—but it wasn't empty. It was filled with the soft hum of ambient power, the quiet ache of transformation, and something like pride.
Then the spell broke.
"Are you two tired already?" came Darius' thunderous voice, sailing across the field like a drumbeat. There was steel in it, but behind the edge, something else—humor? Or perhaps... approval.
They turned toward him. He hadn't moved much, and yet it was clear he hadn't missed a thing. His stance was firm, his Mana aura calm and vast as a still lake—undisturbed, yet impossible to ignore.
Adam turned back to Trevor, lowering Canvari just enough to gesture. "You good to keep going?"
Trevor made a face, wiping a smear of dust from his cheek with the back of his forearm. "I'm low on Mana," he admitted, half a groan in his voice. "But I can push through a bit longer." A grin tugged at his lips, even through the fatigue. "I didn't even know what 'low on Mana' felt like before today. Funny how fast things change, huh?"
Adam nodded. Not a smile, not a laugh—just a solemn, understanding nod. He knew exactly what Trevor meant.
The moment passed.
And the silence before the storm began to crackle again.
As the echoes of their banter faded into the open field, Darius moved with solemn precision. With a quiet strength, he lifted Baltaçek from his shoulder and planted the colossal hammer-axe into the earth. The impact sent a subtle tremor through the ground—less a show of force, more a declaration of what was to come.
He reached behind the embedded weapon and, using the edge of his hoof, dragged a straight line through the dirt, its length precise, its meaning unmistakable. A boundary. A challenge.
His voice followed, as calm and measured as a carved stone tablet. "Since you've both managed to manifest your Grand Weapons," he began, his eyes sharp beneath the sweeping glare of the sun, "the next part of your training is simple. Push me past this line with the power you have right now… and you'll be ready for the next level."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at the feet of fate.
Trevor's expression morphed instantly—from curiosity to disbelief. His arms flew out, voice rising. "Are you serious?! There's no way we can do that!" His eyes flicked to Darius's massive frame, then to the unmoved line drawn behind him. "You've barely even tried so far, and now you want us to push you back?"
Darius remained still, the wind catching the edges of his cloak like wings preparing for ascent. "I'll keep my word," he replied evenly, one hand lifting in a vow-like gesture. "I won't use reinforcement beyond what I've already shown. I'll remain at low power."
Trevor narrowed his eyes and scoffed, muttering, "Low power or not, it's still practically impossible…" His voice trailed off, but the challenge was already settling into his bones.
Adam, who had remained watchful and still, finally stepped forward. His gaze lingered on Darius—not with fear, but with analysis. His glowing blue eyes flicked from shoulder to stance, measuring, calculating.
"He'll keep his word," Adam said at last, his voice cutting clean through Trevor's doubt. There was weight behind the words, conviction that didn't ask for agreement. It demanded it.
Then, quieter, lower, a shared whisper between brothers-in-arms: "I've got a plan. But I'll need you to cover me… and we'll need a distraction."
A familiar light sparked in Trevor's gaze—not Mana, but that reckless kind of courage only he could carry so effortlessly. "Oh, don't worry. I'll take this seriously," he said, rolling his shoulders back and loosening the tension in his arms.
Then, with a grin that betrayed the weariness he felt but refused to show, Trevor raised his hand. In a shimmer of golden brilliance, his True Maymum Staff burst forth. The bands along its length pulsed with power—no longer spectral or half-formed like the false staffs before. This was the real thing. Solid. Living. Dangerous.
The light of the fading sun caught on its golden rings, turning the weapon into a torch of defiance in the coming dusk.
"False staffs won't cut it anymore," Trevor said, eyes locked on Darius as he lowered into his stance. His voice held none of the earlier sarcasm—only clarity. "Let's go all out."
The wind rolled softly across the field, catching the tips of the tall grass and sending ripples through the earth like a breath inhaled before a storm. The line in the dirt behind Darius remained untouched, stark and stubborn—a boundary that had yet to be crossed.
Trevor and Adam exchanged a single nod, brief and charged. The kind of nod that meant I trust you to know what I'm thinking. No plan needed to be spoken aloud.
Trevor moved first. With a burst of speed and confidence that felt nearly reckless, he rushed toward Darius, the True Maymum Staff sweeping wide like a golden arc of sunlight. It glinted in the dying light, humming faintly from the mana woven through it. The staff wasn't just a weapon—it was his heartbeat made visible.
Darius pivoted with ease, his body a blur of precision and patience. He sidestepped Trevor's approach, unreadable as ever.
But Adam was right behind.
Silent.
Deliberate.
The Canvari staff spun in a cyclone of motion behind him, the three segments rotating like celestial bodies orbiting a central star. As he reached striking distance, Adam's grip shifted—fingers curling around the segments just so. The weapon extended with a smooth, serpentine snap—the chains elongating, links locked tightly like sinew and bone made steel.
ZZZKSHHK!
The end of the staff cracked through the air and grazed Darius' cheek, a single clean cut drawing a thin line of red.
Darius blinked.
A hit.
The first.
He raised an eyebrow, his voice smooth and strangely pleased. "Impressive."
But there was no time to reflect. Trevor was already repositioning. His footwork had improved—less erratic, more measured. In one fluid motion, he planted his staff into the ground and shouted, not with bravado but with clear, calm command:
"MAYMUM'S STAFF: STRETCH!"
The True Staff shimmered and obeyed.
With a sudden lurch, it extended—like a spear driven by the air itself—growing longer than logic should allow. It lunged toward Darius like a silver lash.
But Darius was already moving. With a grunt, he brought Baltaçek up in a smooth arc, the heavy weapon humming with restrained Mana.
CLANG!
The strike landed against the extended staff and held firm. Sparks flew from the contact, rippling green and gold.
The force of the block echoed in Trevor's arms. He slid back a few feet, feets digging furrows in the earth, and yet—he didn't fall.
Not this time.
He grinned through gritted teeth, sweat stinging his eyes.
"We're pushing him."
Adam stepped forward, twirling Canvari again, the three segments now rotating independently like blades in a storm. His expression was unreadable, but his thoughts were loud in the stillness of his focus:
'That hit... he let it happen, didn't he? Or did we actually break through? No—no second-guessing now. The plan is in motion. Trust Trevor. Trust the timing.'
And the line in the dirt remained untouched.
But no longer unthreatened.
As Darius pivoted to deflect Trevor's staff once more, something subtle shifted in the atmosphere—a sudden pull in the mana currents that caused even the seasoned warrior to pause.
He felt it before he saw it.
A prickle at the edge of his senses. A sudden hush in the wind. The world inhaled.
And then he saw it.
Adam, standing a few paces off to his left, no longer charging, no longer weaving through the fight—just standing. One hand raised. One eye closed. The glow from his Arya pulsing in a steady rhythm against his chest like a second heartbeat. And above his palm, a sphere of Mana—roiling, heaving, alive—grew with terrifying purpose.
Its mass churned, a raw storm of pressure that warped the air around it, tugging at the grass, causing the debris around the field to lift from the earth in tiny defiant spirals.
Trevor, breathing hard from his last strike, barely caught the sight. His heart skipped.
"Oh no. He's actually going for it."
The voice that broke the silence was not a shout, not a roar—it was calm. Measured. Unyielding.
"MAXIMUM OUTPUT: Mana Blast."
Darius' expression tightened. His instincts shouted for movement, but he remained rooted. Not because he doubted his speed—but because he wanted to see if they could really do it.
The orb launched.
A comet of blue-white force howled across the field, its edges crackling like lightning pulled from the belly of the sky. It raced toward Darius faster than thought, faster than intent, faster than the speed of light—pure will given form.
Then came the impact.
The ground beneath Darius cracked open. A violent, deafening shockwave tore outward, flattening the tall grass in every direction and sending a pillar of dust and flame into the sky like a volcanic exhale.
The valley swallowed the sound and hurled it back in echoes.
Nothing could be seen.
Only the roar of wind.
And then, stillness.
Only a faint golden haze remained in the air, drifting downward like the remnants of a dream.
As the cloud of dust thinned, the battlefield emerged once more.
There—at the heart of it—stood Darius.
His great hammer Baltaçek was embedded in the earth, buried deep from the force of his block. One knee rested in the dirt. Cracks radiated from where he knelt, and his cloak, once pristine, was singed at the edges. His breathing was heavier now.
But he was smiling.
Not the polite, formal smile of a teacher or superior.
No.
This was something deeper. Something almost boyish. Something proud.
Because as he slowly lifted his gaze and looked behind him… the line he had drawn was broken.
And he now stood a full step beyond it.
'They did it.'
A whisper in his thoughts. Half disbelief, half awe.
He rose slowly, flexing one shoulder to loosen the tension in it. His muscles ached faintly, not from pain—but from the truth of effort well spent.
Just a few paces ahead, Adam and Trevor lay sprawled on the earth, the toll of the battle having finally caught them. Both were unconscious—not wounded, but emptied. Drained of mana. Drained of motion.
Their limbs were tangled awkwardly, one of Trevor's arms thrown across Adam's chest, Adam's fingers still faintly curled around a thread of mana that had not fully dissipated. Their breathing was deep. Peaceful. Dreamless.
As if they had gone not to sleep—but into a moment of rest too pure for the waking world.
Darius walked toward them, his heavy steps careful, his towering figure casting a long shadow in the twilight light. He stood above them, arms crossed, and for the first time, let his proud smile remain.
From the edge of the training grounds, Kopa stepped forward. His face was unreadable, but his voice was not.
"I've never seen anything like it," he murmured, eyes fixed on the two boys. "They managed a coordinated strategy, pushed a Hazël back, and pulled off a Maximum Output without prior mastery. That... that shouldn't be possible."
Darius didn't look away from the sleeping figures.
"It isn't," he said.
There was a long pause before he added, softly:
"But they've done it anyway."
A breath of wind passed through the field, stirring the dust, fluttering the edge of Trevor's cloak where it lay on the ground. The last light of day bled over the horizon.
Kopa looked up. "What now?"
Darius exhaled deeply, his gaze sharp and warm at once.
"Now?" He paused, as if weighing the words carefully. "Now they begin the real training."
He looked down again—at the wolf, and at the monkey—two boys, sound asleep on the battlefield they had just conquered.
"This is only the beginning."
_______________________
The wind cut like a blade through the broken battlefield, whistling low across the highland ridges and dancing through the shattered remains of weapons embedded in the snow. White clouds of frost swirled at ankle height, caught in the footprints and furrows carved by battle.
Kon stood at the center of it all—chest rising and falling like the last bellows of a dying forge. His breath came in sharp gasps, forming short-lived ghosts in the air before vanishing into the cold. Snow clung to his feets, his shoulders, the ends of his matted hair. Yet his grip was steady.
In his hands gleamed two swords, their design elegant and lethal—twin blades, curved slightly like scimitars but at the same time shaped like Katanas, each one humming faintly with a golden-yellow aura that shimmered along their length like threads of sunlight caught in steel.
He had done it.
Through pain, through silence, through every grueling second of sparring under the stern, relentless gaze of Talonir—he had reached the threshold. The blades pulsed softly now, not with heat, but with presence. As though they recognized him at last.
And across from him, like a monument carved into the wind, stood Lord Talonir.
His arms were crossed, feathered cloak catching the current like the wings of a waiting hawk. His face was stone—yet not unmoved. In his gaze shimmered something distant, like a memory, or perhaps approval veiled behind pride too old to name.
"Took you long enough," Talonir said finally.
His voice was calm. Clipped. But the subtle shift in its weight—its texture—was not lost on Kon. The approval was not loud. Not generous. But it was real.
Kon didn't answer immediately.
He couldn't.
Every muscle in his body ached. His legs trembled slightly beneath him, the cold biting deeper now that the heat of battle was gone. One knee threatened to buckle. But he gritted his teeth and stayed upright.
Not for show. Not for pride.
But because he had earned this.
The twin swords of the Kaplan Clan—his clan—had not come to him through fury or desperation. They had come through restraint. Through precision. Through an understanding of Mana that was beginning, only just beginning, to stir inside him.
A small smile ghosted across his lips, crooked and tired. The kind that comes not from arrogance, but relief. He didn't say it aloud, but it echoed in his head anyway:
' I did it. Finally.'
The snow, as if recognizing the moment, began to fall softly now. Gentle. Slow. A white curtain lowering over a stage just exited.
Talonir's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned his head slightly, scanning the surrounding field—ruined and marred by their session. His voice came again, quieter this time.
"Those blades were never just weapons."
His eyes returned to Kon.
"They're an extension of your will. Your identity. You forced them out today by sheer will, but eventually… you'll learn to call them with a whisper."
Kon didn't respond, but something in him stirred at those words. A whisper... It felt so far away from the roaring storm it had taken just to bring them forth today.
But maybe...
Maybe someday.
The wind picked up again, howling briefly between the cliffs above.
Kon finally let his arms fall to his sides, the blades still in hand. He didn't release them yet—not out of stubbornness, but reverence. For the first time, he felt what it meant to be a Kaplan.
Not just a son of Orin.
Not just a shadow of the name.
But himself.
His Mana. His blades. His path.
With his vision blurring from fatigue, Kon's legs finally gave way, and he collapsed into the snow, barely conscious. But as he slipped into unconsciousness, the smile never left his face.
Talonir watched him silently for a moment, then moved forward, his hand resting briefly on Kon's head in a gesture of acknowledgment. "You really do have your father's eyes," he whispered.