Morning crept over the ruins quietly, painting the broken stones in pale gray light.
Arion stayed still in the shadows, listening.
Boots.
Metal.
Voices.
Two mercenaries walked through the upper level of the ruins, their silhouettes sharp against the rising sun.
"Any sign of the kid?" one asked.
"No. Captain's been missing since last night too."
Arion's breath slowed.
The man he killed—that was their captain.
The second mercenary spat.
"Forget him. The employer wants us back by tomorrow. Says we wasted too much time already."
Arion leaned closer, staying against the walls.
Employer?
"You think the village raid was worth the trouble?" the first mercenary muttered.
"It wasn't about worth. Orders were clear—'burn the place, leave no witnesses.' Probably wanted to scare the surrounding settlements. These nobles love making examples."
Arion's jaw tightened.
So that's what his village was—
an example.
"Anyway," the mercenary continued, "We're leaving by nightfall. Anyone left behind stays behind."
They moved on, boots scraping stone.
Arion waited until their voices faded completely before letting himself breathe normally again.
He was lucky.
If they stayed one more day, he would've eventually been found. His body was too weak to run again. His injuries weren't fully healed. And he had nowhere else to go.
But luck wasn't something he could rely on.
Not anymore.
---
He stayed in the ruins.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Then months.
No one returned.
No one searched.
No one cared.
The ruins became his home, his shelter, and his training ground.
He drank from a small stream downhill.
He foraged berries and roots.
He used the mercenary's knife to sharpen sticks, cut branches, and build a small makeshift shelter between two collapsed pillars.
Every night he fell asleep from exhaustion.
Every night he woke in the blue world.
Every night he fought the boy.
And every single time—
he lost.
---
But losing changed too.
In the first week, Arion barely survived a dozen strikes.
He dropped his sword constantly.
His stance broke every other move.
The boy punished every mistake ruthlessly.
But slowly—
very slowly—
Arion adapted.
Week 2:
He learned how to hold the sword correctly.
Not tight.
Not loose.
Just right.
Week 3:
He learned foot placement—
his front foot pointing at the target,
his back foot angled for balance.
Week 4:
He blocked five strikes in a row before failing.
The boy's criticism never softened.
"Your shoulder rises too high."
"You breathe too loud."
"You overcommit."
"Your wrists are stiff."
"You hesitate."
Arion hated him.
But he also relied on him.
Because in three months, the ruins had never once offered him comfort—
only the blue dueling ring did.
Not because it was safe.
But because it was structured.
He wasn't running.
He wasn't hiding.
He wasn't helpless.
He was learning.
And as his training sharpened, the ruins reflected it.
His swings cut cleaner air.
His steps landed quieter.
His reactions turned faster.
Every morning, Arion felt a little more like someone who had purpose.
Every night, he felt a little less like a scared boy.
---
The sword changed too.
Barely—
subtle—
but Arion noticed.
The rust remained, but the blade looked… straighter.
The cracks faded slightly.
The faint shimmer inside grew stronger.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know how.
But the sword seemed to respond to his growth.
Not magically.
Not dramatically.
Just… faintly.
Like something sleeping, turning in its rest.
---
Three months later
Arion stood in the ruins at sunrise, shirt drenched in sweat, breathing hard.
He held the sword out in front of him, one hand on the grip, the other guiding the back of the blade.
The stance felt natural.
Not perfect.
Not expert.
But his.
He swung once.
The blade cut smoothly.
No wobble.
No tremor.
The echo of the boy's voice came to him.
"Elbows in. Don't flare them."
"Lower your center of gravity."
"Eyes up, not down."
Arion smiled faintly.
He was starting to understand.
He sheathed the sword—if it could be called a sheath, really just tying the broken leather grip to his belt.
Then he exhaled.
Tonight, he felt it.
The dream-ring would change.
There was a heaviness in his chest, a certainty he couldn't explain.
Tonight would be the decisive duel.
---
Night fell quietly.
Arion lay down inside his makeshift shelter.
His muscles ached, but not painfully—
they ached from effort, not from fear.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep took him instantly.
---
He opened them to the blue world again.
But it wasn't the same.
The ground felt firmer.
The air felt colder.
The horizon looked sharper, like the world had been refocused.
The boy stood waiting, sword already drawn.
But this time—
he wasn't relaxed.
He wasn't in a teaching stance.
He was in a dueling stance.
Proper.
Formal.
Serious.
Arion's throat tightened.
The boy's expression was calm, but his eyes…
they held a faint gleam.
Interest?
Recognition?
Expectation?
"You have improved," the boy said quietly.
Arion lifted his sword.
"Enough to beat you?"
The boy didn't scoff or mock him.
He simply answered:
"Let us see."
He stepped forward—
not testing,
not gentle,
not measuring Arion's basics—
but attacking.
A clean downward strike came at Arion's head.
Arion blocked—
correct angle,
correct pressure,
correct footwork.
The impact pushed him back half a step—
but didn't break his stance.
The boy's eyebrows lifted slightly.
Arion struck next.
A diagonal cut—controlled, intentional.
The boy parried easily, but didn't counter immediately.
"You've learned discipline," the boy said.
Arion snorted.
"Learned it from losing hundreds of times."
The boy's blade flicked forward.
"Then perhaps you are ready to lose differently."
Arion stepped in—
not retreating this time—
and the clash of their blades echoed across the dream-ring.
Strike.
Block.
Parry.
Counter.
For the first time, Arion lasted longer than a few seconds.
Longer than a few moves.
Longer than a beginner.
He wasn't equal.
Not even close.
But he was fighting.
The boy pushed aggressively, sword moving like water—
fluid, deadly, perfect.
Arion blocked—
barely—
used the same wrist angle the boy had corrected him on months ago.
Then he stepped sideways—
using footwork the boy drilled into him through failure.
And for the first time—
Arion saw an opening.
Small.
Short.
Barely there.
He struck.
The boy twisted—almost too late.
Arion's blade grazed his shoulder.
A shallow cut.
Barely a scratch.
But a hit.
A real hit.
The boy froze.
Arion's lungs strained.
His arms trembled.
But his eyes stayed locked on the boy.
The boy touched his shoulder where the blood formed—
dark blue, not red.
He looked up.
"Good."
Arion swallowed.
"Is… this enough to move on?"
The boy lifted his blade.
"No.
But this is the first time you earned my full strength."
Arion's pulse spiked.
Full strength?
Before he could respond—
The boy vanished.
A blur.
A shock of wind.
A slash Arion barely dodged.
The real duel had begun.