The sword pressed against Avin's neck—so close that he could feel the cold whisper of steel kissing skin. One inch deeper, and it would open him clean from throat to spine. The pressure drew a thin bead of warmth down his collarbone. He could smell the metal, taste it in the air—the scent of blood mixing with the faint tang of ozone left by the mana they had both been throwing around.

The guard's arms shook from the force of the strike, the blade still grinding against Avin's skin. Everything around them trembled: the tiles beneath, the air between, even the torches mounted by the academy gate. The entire courtyard seemed to be holding its breath.

And then—time faltered.

The world slowed, not in the ordinary way of fear, but in something grander, heavier, divine. The torches' flames froze in mid-flicker, the drifting dust in the air hung suspended like faint stars. Avin could hear his own heartbeat echo through this silence, slow and deliberate, a drum inside a cathedral of stillness.

He had known this before. That sensation of the world pausing, of reality thinning. He had seen it when Chrono, the God of Time, had cast a glance his way. He had drowned in it once already, when life itself unraveled before his eyes.

But this time, it was not terror. It was recognition.

He did not waste it.

That strange pull rose inside him again—the sharp, instinctive need. It wasn't a conscious thought or a prayer; it was hunger, command, calling. Something deep in his bones reached out, and the air answered.

Behind him, the sword in the black sheath began to tremble. First a hum, faint and metallic. Then a violent shudder that rattled the stones. Energy rippled through the sheath like a heartbeat. The guard's eyes widened, just slightly—he could sense the mana surging.

With a sudden cry of steel, the sword tore free.

It leapt from its scabbard and smashed against the guard's weapon with the force of a falling star. The sound was enormous, a ringing clang that scattered the stillness into shards. The echo ran through the walls, up the pillars, into the air, vibrating through everything alive in that courtyard.

The impact knocked the guard's blade downward, scraping across Avin's neck and gouging the ground instead. A few crimson drops streaked across the stone.

The black sword spun once in the air, light rippling along its edges, then crashed point-first into the ground before Avin.

He didn't think.He just moved.

His hand shot out, fingers closing around the hilt, and the moment he touched it, time resumed its breath. Sound returned in a wave—the rush of wind, the crack of impact, the startled growl of the guard stumbling back.

The energy that surged through Avin when he gripped that weapon was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn't foreign power; it was memory. His muscles remembered the weight, the balance, the exact feel of this hilt in his palm.

This was where the world made sense again.

He drew a long breath and stepped backward, blood dripping from his neck, his chest rising and falling. Then he smiled. It wasn't joy—it was recognition.

The guard steadied himself, lips curling in fury, but Avin was already lowering into a stance that looked lazy, almost careless—yet every angle guarded something vital. His two swords gleamed in the pale light, one gold-lit with shifting halos, the other black as the void between stars.

He stood there, waiting.

"Come on," he said, voice low.

The guard bellowed and lunged, rage turning him clumsy. His sword came down diagonally, burning red in the glow of his aura. Avin raised Leo's blade to meet it. The strike rang out—metal against metal—and he leaned back just slightly, letting the man's full weight press forward. The shift forced the guard's balance to break, his body leaning too far into the swing.

Avin moved before thought could catch up. He twisted at the waist and brought the black sword upward in a sweeping arc. He didn't have time to admire its design—the intricate runes etched across its flat, the faint shadow-glow that made it seem alive. All he knew was that it belonged in motion.

But the strike hit nothing.

The guard vanished into red vapor. The blade whistled through air, meeting only mist.

A thick crimson fog rolled across the courtyard, coiling like smoke around Avin's legs. The visibility dropped to nothing. It was the same trick the guard's brother had once used—a smokescreen of mana. The perfect confusion tactic.

Avin chuckled under his breath. "Bad idea."

He closed his eyes and listened.

Even through the muffled air, the world spoke to him: the faint drag of a boot on cracked stone, the steady inhale of breath. There—off to his left, a half-step away.

He shifted his stance without opening his eyes. His left foot anchored, toes turning toward the sound. The golden sword in his right hand began to hum, the rings along its blade spinning faster and faster until they blurred into a continuous band of light.

Avin twisted his grip as if preparing to throw a spear. Every muscle in his body coiled. Mana surged from his core, into his arm, and into the weapon. The halos around the sword vibrated faster still.

Then he threw it.

The motion cracked the air apart. The sword shot forward, leaving behind a trail of burning gold. The explosion of compressed wind ripped a hole straight through the mist, a spiral tunnel of clarity carved in its wake.

A heartbeat later, the fog dispersed entirely, scattering like ash.

The guard stood revealed, half-turned, a line of blood running down his cheek. Behind him, the sword was embedded deep in the wall, its halo flickering as if taunting him.

Avin grinned. "I won't miss next time."

The guard screamed. His eyes bled red, his veins lit blue, his muscles swelled under his armor. The air around him warped. He had gone berserk.

He charged, his aura flaring in a blaze of crimson fury. Each footstep cracked the tiles beneath him.

Avin felt the rhythm of those steps—but another sound broke through, softer, irregular.

A stumble.

He turned his head just slightly.

Sylas was down on one knee a short distance away, the ground scorched around him. His opponent loomed above, mid-leap, spear pointed straight for his chest.

Avin didn't hesitate.

He reached inward again, toward the hum that tied him to the sword still lodged in the wall. It vibrated once. Twice. Then burst free.

The blade spun through the air, whistling past debris and stone until it reached Sylas.

Sylas's eyes widened, and at the last instant he lifted his hand, catching the hilt mid-flight. The sheer momentum dragged him sideways, yanking him out of the path of the falling spear. The weapon stabbed into the stone instead, sparks bursting out in all directions.

Sylas rolled with the motion and ended up beside his own sword, the black weapon Avin had sent still trembling in his hand.

Without even thinking, he hurled it back.

The sword cut a gleaming arc through the courtyard, returning home.

Then Sylas kicked off the ground, retrieving his weapon and diving once more at his opponent.

Avin saw all of it from the edge of his vision—the sword spinning toward him like a dark comet.

But it wasn't fast enough.

The berserk guard was already upon him, eyes wild, blade raised high. Avin could see the rippling mana tearing through the man's arms, hear the hiss of his breath.

He didn't panic.

Avin extended his senses again, splitting his focus—half on the returning sword, half on the one in his hand. His mind stretched thin, holding both presences at once.

He poured everything into that link.

The spinning sword accelerated, the air around it warping, a thin whistle rising to a scream.

The guard's sword descended.

The black blade struck first.

It speared through the guard's palm—the same hand gripping his weapon—bursting out the other side in a spray of blood. The force twisted the man sideways. He grunted, staggering, rage cracking into pain.

Avin didn't waste the opening.

He shifted his stance, both hands gripping Leo's sword. Mana flared around him, flinging loose dust into spirals. He spun with all the strength left in him, twisting from the hips through the shoulders into a full sweeping strike.

The blade came for the guard's neck.

It was perfect. Precise. Final.

And then—

"STOP."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.