The illusory figure of Naze that emerged from that disc plate did not simply stand there.
It moved—with the same deadly efficiency the real swordsman was known for.
The phantom blade flashed once.
Swiiiii—swiiiii—
Four strokes, clean and silent. The image didn't even pause long enough for the air to catch up to the sound.
Then the figure turned, the ghost of a smile on its face—soft, reassuring, familiar. The same smile Nymia had seen at the door that very dawn and even in the past before his return.
And in the next breath, the image dissolved—pulled back into the small disc in her palm, as if it had never been more than light and memory.
The room went still.
Nymia slowly looked up.
The cyclops assassins were still standing. Not a scream, not a twitch—just mouths parted, expressions frozen in disbelief.
There were swordmanships and there were swordmanships, and this was done by the magical version of the real man, who knows just how terrifying the real man would be.
Then—
Thud.
One head hit the floor.
Then another.
THUD—THUD.
All four heads rolled toward her feet, eyes still wide. Nymia staggered back, hand over her mouth, a gasp caught between terror and stunned relief.
Even while gone… Naze had protected them.
He had not lied. Danger would always follow them.
Nymia dropped to her knees and pulled her daughters into her arms. The three of them trembled together—finally releasing the breath they had been holding since the door opened, tears shaking out of them all at once.
They cried until the worst of the fear melted.
Only then did Nymia speak, her voice low but steady, the kind of tone only a mother with something to protect could have:
"We have to warn your father. The empire is in danger."
The girls didn't argue.
No jokes. No hesitation.
Just quick, urgent nods.
They ran into their rooms, grabbing what little they owned—clothes, food, the wooden carvings their father made, the scrolls he left for them—packing with the frantic precision of children who finally understood what "running" meant.
Nymia stood in the doorway, staring once more at the lifeless bodies on the floor.
Her husband was the strongest man she knew.
But even the strongest sword breaks if it stands alone.
Today… they would stop being the weakness the enemy sought.
They would stay where he can protect them and not be vulnerable to those looking to capitalize on his weaknesses.
And the real Naze would not be facing the coming storm unaware. Within minutes they got on the road, heading towards the arena of region four where the competition was reaching its ending stages.
———————————
Back on stage, the roar of the crowd had not yet faded. The martial arts school now led with two victories to the single win of the Oradonian Order.
It was unthinkable.
The Order had been the favourite, the supposed masters of mystical warfare—yet here they were, trailing behind ordinary fighters who wielded muscle, instinct, and discipline instead of incantations.
Whispers rippled through the stands. Surprise. Doubt. Admiration.
Adebi Monta stepped off the arena, her body still aching but her face radiant. The moment her feet touched the stone floor, her teachers and classmates rushed around her—some laughing, others crying. A circle of pride.
"Unbelievable!" one of them shouted.
"You did it, Adebi!" another screamed, half in tears.
Their joy was contagious. The martial artists' section of the audience erupted in chants again—
"Adebi! Adebi! Adebi Monta!"
It was as if the entire coliseum had caught fire with exhilaration.
But high above them all, seated in his gilded throne carved into the stone balcony, Emperor Josh Aratat watched with calm satisfaction. His golden mantle shifted slightly as a gentle breeze cut through the noise.
It was not an ordinary breeze.
It was sharp, deliberate—carrying a faint tremor, a rhythm he recognized instantly.
His lips curved. Without looking at anyone, he turned his head toward the shadowed edge of the royal platform.
"Where have you been?" the emperor said quietly.
The governor beside him, Raphael MacNelly, blinked in confusion. Around them, royal guards stiffened, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.
But before anyone could act, the air shimmered—and then a man stood there.
Or rather, appeared there—without footsteps, without sound, like a ghost stepping through the folds of air itself.
Every noble in the emperor's section gasped. Some even rose to their feet in disbelief.
Because there was only one man in the entire Nazare Blade Empire who could move like that.
The Blind Swordsman.
Naze.
His breezing coat barely stirred, his face calm, sightless eyes hidden beneath a faint cloth band. Yet the energy around him—the stillness—was suffocating. Even the guards bowed instinctively, blades lowered.
Naze inclined his head respectfully.
"Forgive my lateness, my emperor," he said, voice quiet yet firm. "I... reconnected with Nymia."
A few courtiers exchanged curious glances, but Emperor Josh's reaction was not one of reprimand. Instead, a rare smile spread across his weathered face.
"Really?" the emperor said, almost cheerfully. "That's good news. I've told you not to spend your days dying alone, Naze. Glad to hear you finally listened."
Naze was caught off guard by the warmth. The corner of his mouth lifted—just slightly.
"She's fine," he replied, "but... I fear I may have brought danger upon her. Something is stirring, my emperor. I can feel it in the air. I can't see it, but... it's close. I wish to stay near you until we leave. I believe we must depart as soon as the competition ends."
The emperor studied him for a moment, expression thoughtful. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back.
"You're being paranoid again," he teased lightly, though his tone carried a faint edge of worry. "Still... your instincts have saved me more times than I can count."
He turned his gaze back to the roaring arena below, where the next fighters were stepping onto the stage.
"Thankfully, we're down to the last two matches," he continued. "Once the victor is decided between the Oradonian Order and the martial arts school, we'll prepare to move. This tournament…" —he paused, eyes narrowing— "has given me much to think about. Strength, strategy, loyalty—perhaps the empire's future lies not just in power... but in heart."
Naze stood quietly beside him, every nerve on edge, though his face betrayed nothing.
Far below, the sound of the next drumbeat echoed through the arena.
And somewhere, far beyond the coliseum walls—unseen—danger was already on the march.