Chapter 19 - Chapter 19- The Dance of Steel

Helios and Bow strolled through the bustling streets of Tharvos, enjoying a rare day off from the punishing Colosseum training. Merchants called out their wares, children darted between legs, and the scent of roasted meat and sea air mingled together. Bow laughed at some street performer juggling knives, but Helios's attention was caught by a small crowd gathered near a clown performing in the town square. The clown twirled and flipped a pair of wooden bats with impossible dexterity, flipping them over his shoulders, under his legs, and catching them with ease. Each trick flowed into the next, quick and fluid, leaving the audience clapping and cheering. Helios's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark igniting in his mind. If a clown can move sticks like that… why not a sword? Later that evening, back in his modest room, Helios closed the door and drew his father's sword from its sheath. He started slow, carefully flipping the blade over his shoulder, letting it spin off his forearm, then catching it midair. The first few attempts were clumsy, sometimes the sword slipped, sometimes it twirled too far, but he didn't stop. Step by step, motion by motion, he repeated the tricks he had seen earlier, imagining the blade as an extension of his own body. With each pass, his hands moved a fraction faster, his grip firmer, his eyes sharper. The room echoed with the faint metallic ring of the sword striking the floor or brushing against his arms. Hours passed, but Helios didn't notice. He was lost in the rhythm, learning the dance of the blade in silence. Though he couldn't yet match the speed of the clown, each rotation became smoother, each bounce more controlled. By the end of the night, he was spinning, catching, and redirecting the sword with growing confidence. The tricks weren't perfect, but the foundation was set. Helios paused, breathing steady, eyes focused on the sword in his hand. A faint smile appeared on his lips. One day, I'll be able to move faster than even I can track. Over the next few days, Helios returned to his private practice with renewed focus. The twirling, bouncing, and flipping of his sword were no longer just tricks, they were becoming extensions of his own instincts. He experimented with angles, spins, and wrist movements, learning how to redirect momentum from one strike to the next. At first, the motions were purely aesthetic, flips and spins that had no real offensive value, but slowly, Helios began integrating precise strikes into the flow. A sword bounced off his shoulder, then arced downward, slicing an imaginary opponent. A spin redirected the blade across his forearm and out, creating openings that no standard attack could anticipate. He discovered that by combining speed with unpredictability, he could make his swordplay confusing and mesmerizing. One moment, he moved with flawless, classical elegance; the next, he unleashed chaotic spins and rebounds, forcing his movements to blend beauty with lethality. By nightfall, his room had become a blur of steel. The air hummed with the energy of his sword's motion. Helios's strikes began faster, yet controlled, each bounce, each flick, each spin calculated to flow seamlessly into the next. He realized that the trick wasn't just speed or strength, it was rhythm. By mastering the rhythm, he could manipulate the battlefield, dictating how opponents reacted even before they saw his next move. Pausing, he caught the blade midair and held it upright, sweat dripping from his brow, chest heaving. His reflection in the window showed a man changing, no longer just a swordsman, but a creator of a style uniquely his own. This is just the beginning, he thought. A style that's elegant, deadly, and unpredictable. One that no one has seen before. Helios sheathed the sword, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Tomorrow, he would return to the training grounds, and this time, he wouldn't just fight, he would show glimpses of the style that was slowly, deliberately, becoming entirely his. The next morning, Helios picked up a wooden sword instead of his father's blade. It was lighter, safer, and allowed him to experiment without the pressure of risking his real weapon. Bow had already begun his own training, laughing and smashing through targets with his brute force, but Helios slipped quietly into the arena for his own session. At first, he moved cautiously. Wooden sword in hand, he spun, flipped, and bounced it off his shoulders and arms, testing angles, speed, and rhythm. A fellow trainee stepped in, curious. "You're just playing with that stick?" the man jeered, flexing and swinging a heavy wooden sword. Helios didn't answer. He simply twirled the sword around his wrist, letting it rebound off his own body, then sent it arcing toward his opponent with precise timing. The man struck, expecting a predictable block, but Helios shifted mid-spin, redirecting the strike harmlessly, and followed with a quick snap of the sword that grazed the man's shoulder. The trainee stumbled, confused, unable to read the sudden flow of unpredictable strikes. Helios switched seamlessly between elegant, precise cuts and chaotic, spinning maneuvers, making the simple wooden sword feel like a deadly extension of his body. "Whoa… what kind of style is that?!" the man gasped as Helios sent a rebound strike bouncing off his own forearm, then thrust forward in a clean, decisive line. The wooden sword tapped his chest with the speed of a real blade, enough to make him stumble back in awe. Helios didn't pause. Every motion flowed into the next, unpredictable yet controlled, rhythmic yet deadly. By the end of the spar, the man was disarmed, off-balance, and panting, completely unable to counter. Helios stood calmly, wooden sword held upright, a faint smile on his face. Bow, watching from the sidelines, whistled low. "Finally… you're doing more than just practicing. That's insane, Helios." Helios lowered the sword, sweat glistening on his brow. "It's not finished," he said quietly. "But this… this is my own style. One day, I'll make it impossible to predict." And for the first time, he felt it, the thrill of a creation that was entirely his own, ready to be tested in the arena for real. The clang of wooden swords and the shouts of sparring fighters filled the training grounds as Helios practiced his maneuvers, twirling the wooden sword across his arms and shoulders. Bow had just finished a particularly brutal exercise and was resting nearby, wiping sweat from his brow. Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the air. The training halted instantly. Everyone turned toward the source, and Helios' eyes narrowed. They saw Halo, standing over a group of young women, smirking with cruel amusement as he tossed them aside with little effort. Helios' grip tightened on his sword. "I'm not trying to be a white knight or anything," Helios said calmly, stepping forward, "but I think you should just leave them alone." Halo laughed, loud and sharp, his eyes glinting with arrogance. "Or what? You're going to stop me? You? Please… don't make me laugh. These girls are just distractions, and frankly, they make the pit more entertaining." Before Helios could respond, a shadow fell over Halo. A figure, tall and imposing, cloaked and obscuring their face, stepped forward. Halo froze, his smirk fading slightly. "You're such a disappointment," the voice said, low and cutting. "You will never be on the same level as your older brother. Never." Halo's shoulders slumped, his chest tightening with suppressed frustration. His smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. Without a word, he turned to Helios, eyes burning with rage. "You… YOU THINK YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT TO DO?!" Halo yelled, advancing aggressively. "I'll make sure you regret ever opening your mouth!" The training grounds fell silent, every eye on the brewing confrontation. Helios stood his ground, calm, his wooden sword poised, not to strike yet, but ready if Halo decided to make good on his threat. Helios spent the afternoon sparring with Bow and a few of the other warriors, the clanging of wooden swords and the shouts of exertion filling the training grounds. Sweat dripped down his face, but his focus never wavered; he was slowly refining his new style, weaving unpredictability into each movement, testing spins and flips with precision. Amid the laughter and banter of the group, a young woman from the corner of the training grounds ran up, panic etched across her face. "Excuse me! Has anyone seen my friend? She… she's gone! We can't find her anywhere!" Helios glanced at her for a brief moment, raising an eyebrow. "Gone? Huh… that's not really my problem," he muttered to himself, though a flicker of concern crossed his expression. Bow noticed and smirked, nudging him. "Don't tell me you're gonna sweat over every little thing." Helios shook his head and turned back to the sparring, letting the moment pass. Later that evening, Helios returned to his room, brushing off the day's exhaustion. As he pushed the door open, he noticed a folded piece of paper resting on his desk. Curiosity piqued, he picked it up and read the words scrawled across it: "If you want your friend to stay alive, meet me in the arena tomorrow. If you're not there, she suffers. If you do come, I'll only humiliate you. – Halo" Helios' grip tightened on the paper. He stared at it, jaw tight, debating silently. The girl… she means nothing to me. I don't owe anyone my life for her. But… letting her die just isn't right. A slow breath escaped his lips as his mind settled. "Fine," he muttered to himself, setting the paper down. "I'll fight. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Let's see how my new style holds up… and maybe teach that arrogant fool a lesson he won't forget." The fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. Tomorrow, the arena wouldn't just see Helios fight, it would witness the birth of a sword style entirely his own.