The hall was silent.
Only the sound of a young, haggard boy's breathing broke the stillness. It was hoarse and forced—more wheezing than breathing. Each inhale scraped against his throat like sandpaper. His nose was no longer functional, twisted grotesquely like a crumpled parchment. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and metallic, coating his tongue and teeth. Every breath came with a price: pain so sharp it made his vision flicker.
The masked man holding him lost patience.
With a grunt, he released Solvane—flinging him like a rag doll across the polished stone floor. His body skidded, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken pride.
Solvane was certain he was dead.
But the sound of his own breathing—shallow, broken, defiant—assured him he still lived. Pain wrapped around him like chains, binding every limb, every thought. But beneath the agony, something else stirred.
Anger.
It simmered in his gut, rising like bile. Anger toward the masked man, whose cruelty was methodical. Anger toward his grandfather, who watched with cold detachment. And most of all—anger toward his father.
Solvane didn't know why, but he was standing again.
His legs trembled, barely able to hold his weight. His spine screamed in protest. But he rose, drawn by something deeper than instinct. There was something about the look in his father's eyes that unsettled him. It wasn't rage. It wasn't disappointment.
It was disgust.
That look pierced deeper than any blade. His father wasn't angry—he was repulsed. As if Solvane's very existence was a stain on the family name.
Solvane staggered toward his sword. His fingers, swollen and bruised, reached for the hilt. They felt foreign, detached from his body. He gripped it with both hands, but it slipped again, clattering against the floor with a hollow ring.
He picked it up once more, using every ounce of strength to hold it straight. The blade trembled in his grasp, reflecting his fractured resolve.
The masked man tilted his head.
"You still don't get it, do you?" he said, voice. "You're fighting like someone who wants to prove something. Maybe you're chasing your father's approval. Or maybe, deep down, you think you won't die because he's here."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His presence was suffocating, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.
"Bury those useless thoughts. No one will save you today. I assure you."
Solvane looked up.
His eyes widened.
His father's expression shifted—from disgust to indifference. As if even contempt required too much effort.
Immediately, a cold chill crept into Solvane's heart. It wasn't just fear—it was abandonment. The realization that he stood alone, not just in this fight, but in the eyes of the man who had once called him son.
Don't fight to win, the masked man said, voice now a whisper. Fight to survive.
Solvane's grip tightened.
His blade rose.
The masked man smiled beneath the porcelain mask.
"Now… let's get onto round two, shall we?"
He moved—not with speed, but with inevitability. Solvane braced himself, but his body was slow, sluggish. The masked man's fist collided with his ribs, and Solvane felt something snap. He didn't scream. He couldn't. The pain stole his breath before it could become sound.
He staggered back, coughing blood, but he didn't fall.
Not this time.
He swung his sword, wild and desperate. The masked man dodged with ease, stepping aside like a dancer avoiding a clumsy partner. Then came the counter—an elbow to the jaw that sent Solvane spinning.
But he didn't drop the sword.
He gritted his teeth, ignoring the blood, the broken bones, the humiliation. He swung again, this time lower, aiming for the legs. The masked man blocked it with his shin, then kicked Solvane in the chest, sending him crashing into a pillar.