The dust from the shattered Obsidian Monolith had settled, but the heavy silence in the Clan Training Square remained.
The Third Elder sat on his high chair, his face a mask of twisted fury. He had planned to humiliate Kaelen today, to kick him out of the clan so his own grandson could inherit Kaelen's father's estate. But instead, the "cripple" had destroyed a testing stone worth ten thousand gold coins.
"The... The stone must have been weathered by the rain," The Third Elder announced, his voice straining to sound authoritative. "It was already cracked inside. Kaelen simply got lucky."
A ripple of relief went through the disciples. 'Of course. It was luck. How could trash break the stone?' They clung to this explanation because the alternative—that Kaelen was a monster—was too terrifying to accept.
"However," the Elder continued, a cruel glint returning to his eyes, "Luck cannot save you in a real battle. The second stage is Combat Weaponry."
He waved his hand. "Disciples, choose your weapons from the rack!"
It was a chaotic scramble. The disciples rushed to the weapon racks lining the arena. They grabbed the shining steel swords, the heavy battle axes, and the polished spears. Everyone wanted the sharpest, lightest, and most balanced weapons to gain an advantage.
Jareth grabbed a beautiful Blue-Steel Sword. He slashed the air, listening to the sharp swish sound. "Perfect," he grinned. "With this, I can slice through rock."
Kaelen didn't run. He stood by Uncle Hwan, calmly fixing his sleeve.
"Young Master, hurry!" Hwan whispered frantically. "All the good swords are being taken! You will be left with nothing!"
"The weapon does not choose the master, Uncle," Kaelen replied softly. "The master gives meaning to the weapon."
He walked slowly to the rack. By the time he arrived, it was empty. Only empty hooks remained.
The disciples snickered.
"Too slow!"
"He has to fight with his bare hands against swords? He's dead."
Kaelen looked past the empty rack to a pile of junk in the corner—discarded weapons deemed too old or broken for use.
He knelt and pulled out a sword.
It was hideous. The blade was blunt, chipped in three places, and covered in thick, orange rust. The handle was wrapped in rotting leather that crumbled as he touched it. It looked more like a jagged metal stick than a sword.
"He picked the Scrap Sword!" Jareth laughed loudly. "If you hit someone with that, it will shatter in your hands!"
Kaelen ignored the laughter. He held the rusted blade horizontally at eye level. He ran his long, pale fingers along the rough, corroded metal.
'You have been neglected,' Kaelen thought, feeling the cold vibration of the metal. 'People see rust and call you useless. But rust is just the armor of time. Underneath, your iron heart still beats.'
In his past life, Valerius had wielded the Heaven-Severing Divine Sword. But he knew that a true Sword Emperor could cut the sky with a blade of grass.
He turned to the center of the arena.
"First Match: Kaelen vs. Torian!"
Torian was a burly disciple known for his brute strength. He wielded a massive Double-Handed War Axe. He stepped into the ring, swinging the heavy axe as if it were a toy.
"Surrender, Kaelen," Torian grunted. "My axe is heavy. If I slip, I might chop you in half. I don't want to kill a cripple."
Torian wasn't evil; he was just arrogant and dismissive.
Kaelen looked at him. "You hold your axe too tightly, Torian."
"What?"
"Your knuckles are white," Kaelen explained calmly, holding his rusted sword loosely, the tip pointing at the ground. "A weapon is an extension of your arm, not a prisoner. If you choke it, it cannot breathe. If it cannot breathe, it cannot kill."
"Stop talking nonsense!" Torian roared. He felt insulted. "I'll show you how it breathes!"
BOOM!
Torian charged. He leaped into the air, bringing the massive axe down in a vertical chop intended to crush Kaelen's skull. The force was terrifying; the wind whistled around the blade.
The crowd screamed. Hwan covered his eyes.
Kaelen didn't move. He watched the axe descending.
In his eyes, the movement slowed down. He saw the shift in Torian's shoulder. He saw the imbalance in his footwork. He saw the trajectory of the axe.
'Too much force. No control. He is a child playing with a hammer.'
At the very last second—when the axe was inches from his hair—Kaelen took one small step to the left.
Whoosh!
The axe slammed into the ground where Kaelen had been standing, smashing the stone tiles and sending dust flying.
Torian, carried by his own momentum, stumbled forward, trying to yank his axe out of the ground.
This was the opening.
Any other fighter would have stabbed Torian in the back. It would have been an easy kill.
But Kaelen didn't stab.
He flicked his wrist. The rusted sword moved in a strange, beautiful arc. It didn't look like an attack; it looked like a calligraphy brush stroke.
Clang!
The flat side of Kaelen's rusty blade tapped gently against Torian's elbow.
It was a light tap. But it hit the "Funny Bone" (the ulnar nerve) with surgical precision.
"Argh!" Torian yelled. His arm instantly went numb. His grip failed, and he let go of the axe handle.
Kaelen spun the rusty sword in his hand. He stepped in close—inside Torian's guard.
He placed the tip of the blunt, rusted sword against Torian's throat.
"You died three times in the last five seconds," Kaelen whispered.
The arena froze.
Torian was sweating profusely. He looked at the rusty metal touching his neck. Then he looked at his axe, stuck in the ground behind him. He hadn't even seen Kaelen move.
"How...?" Torian gasped, clutching his numb arm. "My axe... it's stronger than your scrap metal."
Kaelen lowered the sword. He looked at Torian not with triumph, but with the strict eyes of a teacher.
"The axe is strong," Kaelen agreed. "But you are not. You rely on the weight of the steel to do the work for you. You forgot that the true edge is not on the metal..."
Kaelen tapped his own temple.
"...it is here."
Torian stood there, stunned. For the first time, his arrogance shattered. He looked at Kaelen, really looked at him, and bowed his head.
"I... I lost."
Kaelen nodded. He didn't gloat. He turned and walked back to the edge of the ring.
He walked past the stunned crowd, past the furious Third Elder, and stopped in front of the weapon rack.
He didn't throw the rusted sword back into the junk pile.
Instead, he took a piece of cloth from his pocket—a rag he used to wipe sweat—and gently wiped the dust off the rusted blade. He treated the piece of scrap metal with more respect than the disciples treated their expensive steel swords.
"Thank you," Kaelen whispered to the sword. "You fought well."
He placed it gently on the rack, giving it a place of honor it hadn't seen in years.
Uncle Hwan was weeping again, but this time, he was smiling through the tears. He ran over. "Young Master! That was... that was beautiful! Like a dance!"
Kaelen smiled weakly. His hand was trembling slightly behind his back.
The Dragon Blood Body was strong, but using such precise muscle control and "Eye of Insight" consumed a lot of mental energy. He was tired.
"It is not over, Uncle," Kaelen said, his eyes shifting to the platform.
The Third Elder was standing up. His face was purple with rage. Kaelen hadn't just won; he had lectured the clan's disciple on swordsmanship. It was a slap in the face to the Clan's instructors.
"Enough tricks!" The Third Elder roared. "This... this soft fighting proves nothing! Kaelen, since you are so skilled, you will skip the preliminaries."
The Elder pointed a shaking finger at the corner of the arena where a dark, brooding figure stood.
"Your next opponent is Garret."
The crowd gasped.
Garret. The Rank 5 Apprentice. The genius. The one who had already mastered the "Iron-Breaker Sword Art".
Garret stepped onto the arena. He didn't look angry like Jareth or brutish like Torian. He looked cold. Professional.
He drew his sword—a magnificent blade that shimmered with a cold light.
"You surprised me, Kaelen," Garret said, his voice level. "You have learned some strange techniques. But tricks don't work on absolute power."
Garret pointed his sword at Kaelen.
"Pick up a weapon. A real one this time. Because I am not going to hold back. If you use that rusty stick against me... I will cut it, and you, in half."
Kaelen looked at Garret. He felt the sharpness of Garret's Qi. This was a real threat.
Kaelen didn't go back to the rack. He looked around the ground. He saw a small, thin bamboo stick that had fallen from a decoration flag.
He picked it up. It was flimsy. Green. Fragile.
"You want me to use a weapon?" Kaelen swished the bamboo stick. It made a sharp whipping sound.
"This will do."
"You are insulting me!" Garret's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You want to fight my steel sword with a twig?"
"Metal is hard, but it is brittle," Kaelen said, his voice echoing the wisdom of an ancient era. "Bamboo is soft, but it endures the storm. Come, Garret. Let me show you the difference between a sword that kills... and a sword that rules."
The wind picked up, rustling Kaelen's hair. He stood with a green twig in his hand, facing the strongest warrior of the younger generation.
And for a moment, to the eyes of the terrified onlookers, the bamboo stick in his hand seemed to cast the shadow of a colossal dragon.