"I searched for decades," Naze said softly. "Then, during the War of the Scorpion Empire, about a year ago… I found her again."
Ouake's breath hitched.
"She was living quietly, far from the capital. She had two daughters—strong, clever, defiant… just like she was." His voice faltered, a smile flickering briefly. "I didn't want to frighten you. So I stayed in the shadows. But I made sure you never lacked food or training scrolls. Those small gifts, those coins you sometimes found in your belongings… they were from me."
The silence that followed was almost sacred. The twins were too stunned to speak.
Their memories began to connect—the mysterious food when they went hungry, the sudden appearance of martial scrolls, the gold coins when they most needed them. It all made sense now.
Ouake's eyes glistened. "You… you were watching over us?"
Naze inclined his head slightly. "Always."
Tears began to spill freely down Ouale's cheeks. She reached out a trembling hand, touching his sleeve as if afraid he would vanish. "Our mother told us… she said our father was a warrior. That he fought for love and lost everything. She said… he was the bravest man she'd ever known."
Naze's expression softened. "Your mother always saw light in the darkest places."
The twins looked at each other, the truth dawning so fully that it ached. Their faces mirrored the same blend of shock and joy—and then, suddenly, the dam broke. They both ran forward and threw their arms around him, clinging tightly.
"Daddy…" they cried together, their voices trembling with tears and relief.
For a moment, Naze stood perfectly still—as if the world itself had stopped spinning. His breath caught in his throat, and his hands shook before he gently lifted them, resting one on each of their heads. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unsteady, carrying the weight of years lost.
"My daughters… at last."
The fragrance of the flower field surrounded them, the air warm and golden as sunlight slipped through the petals. Time itself seemed to soften. The years of distance, silence, and pain melted into that single, long-awaited embrace.
And for the first time in decades, the Blind Swordsman smiled—not the cold, practiced smile of a hardened warrior, but the tender, trembling smile of a father who had finally found home.
"Daddy, let's go and see Mommy…" Ouake said suddenly, her eyes bright with tears and excitement.
Naze hesitated, his smile faltering. "Would that be right? I don't want to make her sad…" he murmured, his tone uncertain. Beneath the blindfold, his face flushed slightly, as though the very thought of Nymia still carried the same power it once did.
"She speaks about you every day," Ouale said softly. "Even today, before we came here, she sighed and said if you were still with us, life would have been better. She misses you, Daddy."
For a long moment, Naze said nothing. His hand moved to the edge of his blindfold, tugging it slightly as if to hide the flicker of emotion on his face. A lifetime of battles could not compare to the storm rising in his chest now.
At last, he drew in a slow, trembling breath. "Then I must see her…" he said, his voice low but resolute.
"Let's go."
And so, the trio began their quiet journey back home. Ouake and Ouale walked close to his sides, their hands clasped tightly around his arms, unwilling to let him go again. Every step forward felt like the closing of an old wound.
Meanwhile, back in the grand arena, the next match was about to begin. The crowd, however, was restless—half of them whispering, half craning their necks toward the exits.
Word of what had just happened was spreading like wildfire.
"Did you hear? The blind swordsman himself was here—Naze, the emperor's strongest general and arguably the most powerful man in the empire!"
"They say he struck a man down without even touching him."
"And the booth master… he nearly lost his soul to a blood oath!"
The rumour rippled through the stands, shaking even the most composed spectators. But for Naze, already far from the noise and glory of the arena, none of it mattered anymore.
He was walking—not as a legend or a warrior—but as a father, going home.
For the next match, the participants from both schools—the Martial Arts Academy and the Oradonian Order of Mages—were to face off once more, their opponents chosen at random. The tension in the arena was palpable. The earlier matches had stirred the crowd into a frenzy of anticipation; no one wanted the contest to end now.
This round's pairing drew immediate attention: Balt Joe versus Gabriel Ealt.
Balt Joe stepped forward first, his white robe gleaming under the sunlight—pure, unblemished, and trimmed with faint silver threads that shimmered faintly with frost. He was a disciple of the Oradonian Order, a student of the Ice Grimoire. His calm, pale-blue eyes reflected a chilling composure, as though he were carved from the very ice he commanded. Even the air around him seemed colder, mist forming when he exhaled.
Across the stage stood Gabriel Ealt of the Martial Arts School—a stark contrast in every sense. Dressed in dark, light-weight training garments, his stance was loose, fluid, and deceptively calm. The way his feet rested on the ground was almost unnatural—too soft, too deliberate. To the untrained eye, he seemed relaxed, but every martial artist in the stands could see it: the faint ripples of motion that traveled through his muscles, like waves beneath still water.
"Balt Joe, wielder of the Ice Grimoire," the announcer called out, his voice echoing through the arena. "Versus Gabriel Ealt, master of the Flowing Step!"
The crowd erupted with cheers, the sound rolling like thunder.
Balt's fingers twitched, small crystals forming at his fingertips, glinting under the light. "I'll freeze you before you even reach me," he said coldly, his tone filled with confidence.
Gabriel only smiled faintly. "Try it."
The gong rang.
In an instant, ice spikes erupted from the ground, racing toward Gabriel like silver serpents. The air itself shimmered with frost. But Gabriel moved—smoothly, elegantly—each step a blur. His feet barely touched the ground as he weaved between the ice pillars, his movements so light that even the shards of frozen mist seemed to bend around him.
The audience gasped. "He's dancing," someone murmured. "No… he's dodging!"
Balt narrowed his eyes. He swung his arm in an arc, and the ice on the floor liquefied into a sudden flood that surged toward Gabriel's legs before freezing again—an attempt to trap him mid-step.
But Gabriel's body twisted in a blur; he flipped backward, landing softly on one foot. His hands traced an invisible pattern in the air, redirecting the cold wind that brushed past him.
"Impressive," Balt admitted, his breath misting. "But you can't outrun the chill forever."
"I don't need to outrun it," Gabriel replied, his tone serene. "I just need to move faster than your thought."
And then—he vanished.
The crowd rose to their feet, searching wildly. Balt spun, eyes wide as a sharp gust brushed past his ear.
A moment later, Gabriel appeared right behind him, crouched low, his fist glowing faintly with chi.
Balt barely had time to raise a wall of ice before the impact landed.
CRACK!
The barrier shattered like glass. Balt staggered back, frost and dust exploding outward, his robe now torn and blood blooming faintly across his sleeve.
The spectators roared in awe.
The duel was far from over—but one thing was clear: this was no longer a simple match between schools. It was a clash of styles, of philosophies—fluid motion versus absolute control.
And the arena, now trembling with energy, had never felt more alive..