Ten years had passed since Ash was reborn into this world.
In that time, he had grown under the quiet warmth of his noble—but powerless—family. His days were filled with swordless training, silent meditation, and listening to old stories by the hearth. His mother, with her gentle hands and noble grace, taught him manners and melodies. His father, ever stern but kind, taught him survival, strategy, and self-control.
But even in this peaceful life, Ash always knew his time of hiding would run short.
Now, dressed in a tailored tunic bearing his family's modest crest, he stood before the grand stone gates of the Royal Sword Academy—the place where the kingdom's future heroes were forged.
Massive towers loomed overhead, their banners fluttering with the emblems of the great noble houses. The air hummed with the pressure of magical power. Sword spirits shimmered faintly beside their wielders—floating symbols of honor and prestige.
And Ash… had none.
He arrived alone. No entourage. No glowing Light Sword. Just him.
And silence followed him like a shadow.
---
The moment he stepped onto the training grounds, whispers began.
"Who is that?"
"A baron's son? I thought they didn't even have real swords in the borderlands."
"He's probably a charity case. The academy accepts one or two every few years to look generous."
Their words cut deeper than any blade.
Ash kept walking, his boots clicking against the marble floor. He remembered his father's last words before departure: "Hold your power, Ash. Even a candle is feared in the dark."
He bowed before the headmaster, received his room assignment, and was shown to a plain stone dormitory wing—far from the noble elite who lived in towers blessed by sword spirits.
---
Training began swiftly.
In the open courtyard, boys and girls summoned their Light Swords with graceful arcs, the weapons materializing in elegant flashes. Sword spirits hummed in the air, watching, whispering to their wielders.
Ash stood silently at the back of the group. He made no move to summon anything. His Light Sword slept deep within his soul—and his Dark Sword, deeper still.
He couldn't risk it. Not yet.
So he pretended.
He fumbled during sword stances. Took longer to respond in spell theory. Let his mana flicker like a dim candle. To the instructors and students, he looked like what they expected:
A disappointment.
---
The bullying began soon after.
Rovik Laren, son of a high-ranking duke and a favored academy prodigy, took special interest in Ash. His Light Sword gleamed like sunlight, and his entourage followed him like dogs with gold collars.
One day, during sparring class, Rovik sneered at him from across the field.
"Come on, Baron Ashenfield. Show us that famous sword of yours. Or don't you have one?"
Laughter erupted from the students around them.
Ash, breathing slowly, kept his gaze low.
"He probably carries a wooden stick at home and calls it a sword," another noble girl giggled.
"Enough," Ash muttered under his breath, the air around him trembling faintly.
But Rovik wasn't finished. He stepped forward, eyes full of mockery, and pushed Ash hard in the chest.
"What are you gonna do, Border Boy? Cry?"
Ash stumbled, caught his balance, and stared. Not with anger—but with cold stillness.
If I unleashed it now… one breath, one word, and your Light Sword would tremble in fear.
But he didn't.
Instead, Ash straightened his tunic, dusted himself off, and replied with a quiet voice:
"No. I just don't waste my sword on insects."
Rovik's expression froze. For the first time, the laughter around him stopped.
Ash walked away.
The stone beneath his feet quivered ever so slightly.
Only the sword spirits noticed—and in that moment, they stirred.
Not in mockery.
But in warning.
---
In the depths of his soul, two blades slept—one of light, one of darkness—waiting.
Waiting for the day when Ash would no longer hide.
And the world would finally tremble.
---