Saturu sat in the deep silence of his chambers, the stone walls seeming to absorb the chaotic energy still humming in his veins. His new frame, that of a twelve-year-old, felt both alien and frustratingly limited. He flexed a hand, watching the faint purple-blue aura dance at his fingertips—the lingering echo of the Divine Authority he had been forced to unleash. The phrase "give us your power" echoed in his mind, a chilling mantra from the thing that had worn his stepbrother's face. Who was "us"? The question was a hook in his thoughts, a tether to a conspiracy far deeper than simple family politics. But answers were a luxury for later. The immediate, tangible problem remained: the notched, rusted blade from the lake was a useless piece of scrap. To survive, he needed a true spiritual weapon, a conduit that could channel his power without shattering.
His path led him again toward the palace library, a potential trove of knowledge on spiritual smithing or the clan's hidden armories. But as he turned a corridor, a figure leaned heavily against the wall, blocking his way. It was Kaon. The twisted, malevolent fury was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out weakness. He was pale, trembling, his eyes wide with a terrified, dawning recognition of what had happened to him and what Rael had done to end it.
"Rael," he whispered, the name a fragile, broken thing. He couldn't hold Saturu's gaze. "Father… Lord Kaito… he demands your presence. At the training grounds. Now." The words held no threat, only a bone-deep, contagious fear. It was the tone of a man sending another to his doom. Saturu merely nodded. This was a summons, not an invitation. The patriarch's judgment had come.
The training ground had been transformed into a stage for a formal execution. Lord Kaito stood on a raised platform, his expression a mask of cold, detached authority. Flanking him were four senior enforcers, their auras sharp, disciplined, and utterly devoid of mercy—the clan's professional problem-solvers. From a shadowed archway, the maid Lin watched, her face a mask of anxiety, her newfound loyalty a thread about to be severed.
"The weakling returns, somehow changed," Lord Kaito's voice cut the air, devoid of any familial warmth. "A disgrace does not simply erase itself through… unnatural means. You will demonstrate this power. Fight them. Prove you are worthy of the Plum Blossom name, or be pruned from the family tree." A common, unadorned sword was tossed onto the dirt at Rael's feet. The message was clear: fail this test and be eliminated.
Rael bent and picked up the blade. It was serviceable, but little more. He felt the four enforcers advance as one, their killing intent a chilling, professional wave. This was not the chaotic rage of possession; this was the cold, precise intent of a sanctioned culling. He would not give them the spectacle of the Divine Authority. He would not reveal his hand. Instead, he reached inward, past the raging power, to the bedrock of his being: the precise, economical swordsmanship that was the true legacy of the Warrior of Blades.
He became a whisper in the wind.
As the first enforcer lunged with a textbook thrust, Saturu didn't meet it with force. He sidestepped minimally, his own common blade a silver flicker that tapped precisely on the man's wrist. A sharp, numbing shock disarmed the enforcer, his sword clattering to the ground, his face a picture of stunned disbelief. The second and third attacked in unison, their movements synchronized. Saturu dropped low, his smaller stature now an advantage, his sword a blur of minimal, perfect motion. He didn't slash or stab; he parried and deflected, using their own momentum and weight against them, his movements a silent, deadly dance that spoke of a lifetime of combat experience. He was not fighting to kill, but to educate, to show them the absolute chasm between their polished skill and his refined, lethal art.
In the space of a single breath, he was past them. He stood suddenly before Lord Kaito, the fourth enforcer frozen mid-step, his confidence broken. Rael looked his stepfather in the eye, the common blade held with a casual, dismissive grace.
"I do not need to prove my worth to you," Saturu said, his young voice layered with an ancient, undeniable weight. "The question you should be asking, Lord Kaito, is whether you are worthy of me."
He did not wait for a reaction. He turned his back on the most powerful man in the estate—a gesture of supreme, absolute disregard—and walked away. He left behind a stunned silence, the seeds of doubt sown in the enforcers' minds, and a cold, seething fury in his stepfather's heart.
Back in his chambers, the silence was different. It was no longer heavy with uncertainty, but charged with purpose. The first move had been made. The war within the clan was now declared. He looked at his hands. The library would have to wait. A common sword would not suffice. His path was clear. He needed to leave, to find a worthy teacher, to understand the nature of the "us" that sought his power. He would find Kayon.