Dawn broke gently over Celestis Rise, golden rays spilling across its towering walls, casting a divine glow that shimmered like fire-kissed stone. The citadel stirred beneath the warmth of morning light, but the clash of wooden swords had already pierced the air long before the sun's ascent. Training had begun anew.
Dren stood tall at the heart of the field, his sharp eyes scanning the ranks of fresh recruits. His very presence commanded attention—unyielding, ever-watchful. Around him, seasoned Hunters moved with purpose. Some observed in silence, others attended to their tasks, their minds tethered always to the rhythm of combat.
The steady cadence of practice strikes echoed through the compound. The recruits were immersed in weapon mastery drills, each one learning to wield arms tailored to their innate combat instincts.
"If you ever hope to bond with a weapon," Dren barked, his voice thunderous and unwavering, "you must prove—right here—that you are worthy of wielding one!"
He strode through the ranks like a storm cloaked in flesh. "Worth is earned here," he continued, "and it is defended on the battlefield—with your life and your honor!"
From across the field, another voice rose—cutting, bold.
"Weaklings and cowards have no business touching a Hunter's weapon!"
Dexter.
He stepped forward, voice loud enough to make the air itself tremble. His gaze was locked on Dren, challenging, deliberate.
The training ground fell still. Wooden blades froze mid-swing. Shields hung limp in stunned hands. All eyes turned toward the confrontation.
A smirk curled on Dexter's lips—predatory, mocking. "What do you say, Dren?" he called. "Spar with me. Let these fresh bloods see what happens when a fraud dares to wield a Hunter's weapon."
Dren didn't flinch. His expression remained carved from granite.
"I have no intention of sparring with a beast," he said, flatly, voice cold as honed steel.
"Resume training," he commanded.
No one moved.
Instead, the crowd thickened. Recruits and veterans alike formed a ring around the two men, breathless and drawn in, like moths to a fire. The tension swelled—dense, electric.
"You refuse me," Dexter said, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "But they disagree." He gestured to the encircling crowd. "They want to see what real Hunter weapons can do."
Dren's tone cut sharper now, like a blade in warning. "I said—return to training."
But a young recruit stepped forward, voice hesitant yet resolute.
"Our apologies, Commander... but—we would be honored to witness a true Hunter's duel. We've only heard stories."
Dexter grinned, triumphant, savage.
"So, Dren," he said, "will you defend your honor… or turn away like a coward?"
For a heartbeat, time hung still.
Dren studied the faces surrounding him—wide-eyed, breathless, hungry for spectacle. Then his gaze returned to Dexter. This wasn't a mere challenge. It was a trial. A question of strength. Of leadership. Of dominance.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice the whisper of a blade sliding free from its sheath.
He reached behind him and drew Rift with his right hand—one half of his legendary twin blades.
Dexter raised a brow, amused. "What's the matter? Too scared to draw the other?"
"This is a sparring match," Dren replied coolly. "Besides… I only need one to deal with you. Drawing Rift and Rend for a mutt like you would be a disgrace to their craft."
A murmur ran through the crowd—equal parts awe and anticipation.
Dexter laughed. It started low, then rose—raw and bitter, echoing through the still morning air.
"What's so funny?" Dren asked, eyes narrowing.
"Oh, it's just… amusing," Dexter said, voice slithering into something venomous. "Pathetic, even—how the weak mistake their survival for strength. They start to believe in their own little delusions."
He stepped forward then, the laughter vanishing, replaced by grim finality.
"In any case," he said darkly, "shall we begin?"
Dexter reached behind him and unhooked Valkyris—his Hunter weapon. Twin axes, forged jagged and cruel, joined by spiked chains that glinted hungrily in the morning sun. A weapon designed for devastation. Just like its wielder.
He twirled them with terrifying grace, the chains rattling like a serpent coiling before a strike. The air itself seemed to recoil. The recruits held their breath.
Dexter had taken the Hunter's Trials in the same year as Dren, Kael, and Lyria. Even back then, his pride had been volcanic—unyielding and loud. He believed himself peerless. Invincible. The embodiment of strength.
And in truth, few dared to argue.
He'd grown up in the western wastelands—alone. Orphaned at six. His parents slain by beasts of the deep wood. Most children would've shattered beneath such loss.
But not Dexter.
He hadn't wept. He hadn't grieved. Instead, he'd stood before the smoldering wreckage of his life and whispered words colder than steel:
"It was always meant to be their fate. Weaklings die. That's the rule. The strong rule this world. That's the truth."
Words not from a battle-hardened man—but from a six-year-old boy.
His father's brother had taken him in, out of pity. Tried to raise him as his own. It ended in blood. The man was found dead. Murdered.
No one proved anything. But those who knew Dexter kept their distance from that day on. There was something in his eyes—feral, unsettling. Like the echo of something that should never have survived.
That same fire blazed now.
As he spun Valkyris, chain dancing in the air, light caught on its wicked edges, the recruits around them stood frozen, silent.
This was no longer a spar.
It was a reckoning. A clash of philosophies. Of histories. Of two men molded by pain—but shaped in utterly different fires.
They stood beneath the rising sun, steel and fury drawn.
Was this just a duel for pride… or did Dexter crave something deeper?