Two days had passed.
Two days of silence, of sweat hitting the dirt, of muscles screaming in ways that words couldn't explain. Abel had spent them training until his body trembled, until the air itself seemed to resist every breath. His hands were raw, his eyes red from lack of sleep—but for the first time in a long while, the exhaustion didn't feel empty. It felt… earned.
The morning of the classification came quietly, like a beast waiting in tall grass.
Mist lingered across the courtyard of the Kyoshi estate, veiling the banners and the polished tiles beneath a sheen of silver dew. Rows of trainees and elders stood in semicircles, their faces still as carved stone. No one dared speak. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
This was not a morning for words.
Abel stood at the back of the gathering, the youngest among those who would soon be measured, judged, and ranked. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Ahead of him stretched the ceremonial arena—a vast stone courtyard encircled by wooden pavilions and silent watchers. At its center, two figures already faced each other.
Yonas Kyoshi and Yulo Kyoshi.
The leader and the vice.
Sun and shadow of the same lineage.
Yonas stood tall — the man… no, the father of the child I was switched with... His skin was bronzed, not by leisure but by a lifetime beneath the unforgiving sky. His chest was carved with strength, his movements sharp and grounded, every motion balanced between power and purpose. His hair, golden and unruly, caught the faint morning light and turned it into molten fire. But it was his eyes—those golden, not typical of a noble, yet not quite blessed either , radiant eyes—that silenced even the whispers of the leaves.
They burned, not with arrogance, but with something heavier: the burden of a man who had seen too much and yet refused to bow to it.
No beard softened his face, only the dark traces of sleepless nights. The kind of fatigue that carves deeper than wrinkles ever could.
And in his hands rested his blade—the Dàdāo.
It was unlike any sword Abel had ever seen.
Longer than most men's arms, curved like a crescent moon drawn from the heavens. The steel was dark, not dull but alive, rippling faintly like the surface of deep water. Along its spine ran fine engravings—ancient symbols etched in gold that caught the light and flared like small suns when tilted. The handle was wrapped in crimson silk, worn smooth by time and use, ending in a bronze pommel shaped like the open mouth of a dragon. Every inch of it spoke of legacy, of a weapon forged not merely for killing, but for carrying history itself.
When Yonas lifted it, the air changed.
A low hum rolled through the courtyard, soft but undeniable—like the sound of a bowstring drawn across the edge of silence. It wasn't magic. It was presence. The kind that made men instinctively step back.
Opposite him stood Yulo Kyoshi, the vice head—his equal in presence, though opposite in every other way.
Where Yonas was flame, Yulo was water.
He carried himself with grace that bordered on arrogance, impossibly tall—two meters of contained thunder and deliberate, his every movement measured to perfection. His skin was slightly lighter, his expression calm and detached. His hair—a deep, lustrous blue—was bound at the nape with silver thread, each strand gleaming like the scales of a serpent under moonlight. Even his short beard was neat, trimmed to a precision that spoke of discipline rather than vanity.
In his hand, he held a Tachi—a long, single-edged sword, the ancestor of the katana, unadorned and plain. Its scabbard was black lacquer, smooth as still water; its hilt wrapped in dark blue cord. No gold, no ornamentation, no flash. Just balance. Simplicity. A blade for those who trusted their skill more than their legend.
When he drew it, there was no hum—only silence so sharp it cut the air in half.
The two men stood across from one another, still as statues.
A breeze moved through the courtyard, stirring the banners, carrying the scent of pine and metal. The morning sun struggled against the mist, spilling light in hesitant streaks.
Abel watched, unable to blink. This wasn't just a duel—it was the world itself holding its breath.
"Symbolic," someone whispered behind him. "A show of strength before the rankings begin."
Symbolic, perhaps. But Abel felt otherwise.
This was more than ritual. The weight of unspoken history coiled between them—years of loyalty, rivalry, and something deeper neither man would ever name.
Then Yonas spoke, his voice deep and steady.
"Yulo," he said, inclining his head slightly, "let us remind them what it means to carry the Kyoshi name."
Yulo's lips curved, just faintly. "Let us remind you, brother, that tradition does not mean stagnation."
The air cracked.
They moved.
Yonas struck first, the Dàdāo arcing down in a sweep that split the mist apart like a storm tearing through clouds. The ground quivered under its passage, dust and dew bursting upward in its wake. Yulo was already gone, sliding to the side with fluid grace, his Tachi flashing once—so fast the eye barely caught it.
Metal met metal.
A thunderclap of force.
The courtyard trembled.
Abel's heart skipped a beat. The clash wasn't just sound—it was sensation. He felt it in his bones, in the pulse beneath his skin. The Dàdāo was weight and gravity, a mountain falling; the Tachi was motion and air, a river splitting stone.
They exchanged blows in silence, save for the music of steel.
Each strike from Yonas roared like wind through a canyon. Each parry from Yulo whispered like silk sliding across glass. Strength against precision. Fury against calm... Fire against water.
The spectators didn't move. Even the younger members, who usually struggled to stand still, were rooted in awe. This wasn't a battle—they were watching the clan's soul being forged anew.
Yonas pressed forward, sweat tracing the lines of his temples. His muscles rippled, his stance wide, grounded. The Dàdāo carved through air with terrifying weight, every swing echoing years of discipline and sacrifice.
Yulo countered with minimal motion, his sword always exactly where it needed to be—no flourish, no waste, only inevitability. His calm bordered on arrogance, his precision almost cruel.
A strike—a feint—a counter.
The rhythm became poetry.
And Abel, from the crowd, felt something ignite inside him.
A spark. A question he hadn't dared ask before.
Could I ever reach that?
Not their strength, perhaps, but that unshakable presence—the kind that bent the air around them.
The wind rose again. The banners strained.
Yonas pivoted, swinging the Dàdāo in a wide arc that shattered the wooden edge of the platform. Splinters flew. Yulo leapt back, his blade flashing, turning the chaos into choreography.
And then, just for a moment, their eyes met, burning and calm.
Between them, an entire history unfolded: rivalry, respect, maybe even love of a kind that only warriors understood.
Abel realized his hands were trembling.
Not from fear, but from awe.
This is what it means to be a Kyoshi, he thought.
Not to be perfect—but to stand unbroken in the face of power.
The mist thickened again as if trying to hide what it had just revealed. The clash of steel echoed, sharper now, closer. Sparks danced where their blades met, small suns bursting and dying in the morning light. The world narrowed to those two figures, the rhythm of their battle like a heartbeat.
Yonas stepped forward—
Yulo parried—
A breath, a blur, and the sound of thunder once more.
Abel couldn't tell who had the upper hand anymore.
All he knew was that the ground beneath his feet seemed to hum with life, with purpose. The fear that had always sat in the hollow of his chest… loosened. If such strength could exist—if such control could be born of struggle—then maybe he wasn't doomed to weakness after all.
Maybe hope wasn't the absence of pain.
Maybe it was learning to move through it.
The final clash of the morning rang out, blades locked, breath against breath.
Neither yielded. Neither broke.
The crowd didn't dare exhale.
And as the sun finally broke through the mist, painting the courtyard in blinding gold, Abel thought—for the first time in years—that the light didn't feel cruel.
It felt like a promise.
To be continued…