While Ash cultivated in silence atop a sky-piercing peak, the world of Neyru was a battlefield blanketed in chaos and tension. The skies above the Grand Throne Room thundered with the weight of war, yet within its gilded walls, an even greater pressure loomed: uncertainty.
The shimmering golden barrier still held, a radiant shield between Neyru and the invading Devil fleets. Throughout the realm, defensive lines stood tall—pillars of light and steel, forged through blood and determination. But for all their strength, one question haunted the empire's finest minds.
"Has anyone uncovered why the Devils invaded?" Emperor Vaerion's voice boomed across the hall, cutting through the murmurs like a sword through silk.
Silence fell. Eyes turned toward Selvira as she rose from her seat, her tone cool and calculating.
"Father… I believe it's the Ilyron Dominion. They've been silent for far too long. The timing, the coordination—it's too perfect. Could they have allied with the Devils?"
This accusation stemmed from her and the other two princesses' most recent mission. They were tasked to keep an eye on the Ilyron Dominion. However, during that time, Ilyron was too quiet.
The room tightened. Vaerion's jaw clenched at the name of Ilyron Dominion. This was because Lord Graff, is his old rival and former ally.
Eight thousand years ago, the Neyru Empire and the Ilyron Dominion stood united bound by blood and ancient vows. But in one fateful expedition to a forgotten realm, an artifact was uncovered… and a grudge was born. Vaerion claimed it. Graff never forgave.
His silence now spoke volumes.
"Fine," Vaerion said at last, his voice steeled. "Maintain our lines. In a few months, we'll take the fight to them."
Then he turned to Selene, the Imperial Instructor.
"How are our young ones faring?"
Selene bowed slightly, her face calm.
"Exceedingly well. All with Supreme talents have reached Early Core Formation. Toran and Joren have broken into Middle Core. At twelve, they surpass even the pace set by the Crown Prince."
Vaerion allowed himself a rare smile—cold and sharp.
"Good. In the next decade, they must reach the Spirit Foundation realm. When they do, I will show them what it means to be heirs of Neyru."
----
Six months later.
Ash's eyes fluttered open atop the lonely peak.
The world was quiet. Cold wind brushed his silver hair as clouds swirled beneath him. After six months of uninterrupted cultivation—supplemented with high-grade elixirs—his core had solidified to its peak. His body radiated a pressure that bent the air, yet his mind remained calm. Clear.
But he knew.
He was not done yet.
{Trial Thirteen – Master the Blade}
The voice echoed, ancient and firm.
Ash stood, drawing his blade from its sheath. A soft hum resonated from the steel, like it, too, was eager.
The world shifted.
When the light faded, Ash stood barefoot on dewy grass, a river flowing calmly beside him under moonlight. Lanterns flickered along the edges, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.
Across the river sat a middle-aged man cross-legged, floating above the water like a reflection given form.
The man opened his eyes—and the world felt heavier.
He locked eyes with Ash and observed him.
'Eh? Just elite talent? But his foundation is Perfect.... I wonder what she sees in this brat.' He thought to himself before he spoke.
"So, you've finally made it." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of millennia.
Ash blinked.
"…Yeah. I guess I have. Who are you?"
The man smiled.
"Kelton. Or to most, the Endless Swordsman."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Endless, huh? Who gave you that shitty title?" he asked, sitting casually on the riverbank.
Kelton's brow twitched. He looked the boy over—young, wild hair, sharp silver eyes, and a mouth that didn't know when to shut up.
"You wouldn't understand. Your backwatered galaxy is barely on the star maps."
Ash perked up. "Backwatered? That's news."
Kelton sighed. "This trial will be your last—for now. Your goal is to master the sword. And unlock your sword aura."
Ash tilted his head. "What exactly is this 'sword aura' thing? I've heard about it, but no one ever really explains it."
Kelton raised a brow. "Sword aura is the first true mark of a swordsman. It's more than strength—it's will. The essence of your blade given form. When you truly understand your own sword, when it becomes a part of you... it answers back. The aura strengthens your strikes, empowers your intent. It's divided into five stages—the first is just a whisper of what's to come."
Without warning, Kelton vanished and reappeared behind Ash, his long sword now drawn.
"Now, watch closely," he said, lifting the blade with fluid grace. "I'll show you everything—from foundation to mastery. Once. Only once."
Ash nodded, sharp-eyed.
His Eyes of Infinity kicked in.
Suddenly, time seemed to slow.
He didn't just see the sword techniques—he understood them. Each arc, each transition, each pivot of Kelton's body unraveled like an open book. The trajectory of every movement played out in his vision before the blade even finished moving.
His mind surged with data. Patterns. Sequences. Flaws.
By the time Kelton sheathed his sword and turned back, Ash had already stepped forward.
Steel in hand.
And moved.
The blade cut through the air with a whistle. He tore through the basic forms with elegance and terrifying precision. His foundation, built from recursion and relentless discipline, elevated his movements to the divine.
Kelton watched in stunned silence as Ash transitioned—seamlessly—into the intermediate techniques.
It wasn't perfect at first. But as Ash's recursion activated, syncing his learned patterns with raw observation, he quickly adjusted. Every pass grew smoother. Stronger.
The boy wasn't just mimicking.
He was innovating.