The training sword sheared the night air, halting with pinpoint precision. Vicktor lowered the blade, aborting his next swing.
Too quiet. He was always the last person haunting the training grounds at midnight, usually executing exactly ten thousand repetitions. Tonight, he stopped his count at seven thousand. Am I growing weaker, or just lazy? He had started at six in the evening, exactly as he always did.
He tilted his head toward the cloudless sky. The full moon hung solitary and brilliant. Then, its edges began to recede. A suffocating expanse of pitch blackness drew across the lunar surface, accelerating the cycle into a premature, localized new moon. The darkness detached from the sky and descended, pooling into a human silhouette before him.
"Can you see me?" The voice was smooth, carrying a rehearsed, theatrical cadence.
The moonlight snapped back into existence, illuminating the courtyard. The void that had eclipsed the sky now clung tightly to the figure standing before him—a man swathed entirely in obscuring black cloth. Not a sliver of skin showed.
Vicktor's strained wrists instinctively snapped his blade up into a guard. "Who are you?"
An instructor's test? Or a real intruder?
"Rank Nine, Vicktor Vulivar, correct?" The stranger patted the hilt of a sword at his waist. "Care for a duel?"
He knows my rank. He must be associated with those people from last month.
"I beat you cowards before. I'll do it again."
Vicktor lunged, driving his weight into a downward cleave. Steel rang against steel as the man parried with effortless grace.
"Oh, Sword and Body aura at your age?" The man's tone was infuriatingly patronizing, like a zealous missionary indulging a stubborn child. "They said you were talented. Let's see what else you can do."
Vicktor unleashed a flurry of strikes, his heightened senses pushing his body to the limit. Sparks cascaded in the dark. The stranger absorbed every blow, countering with clinical, measured deflections.
"Is that it?" The man flicked his wrist, sending Vicktor skidding backward across the sand, intentionally granting him space to breathe.
"Well, your foundations are solid, but—"
"I swear!" Vicktor roared, his temper fraying. "If one more person talks about my foundations!"
He launched himself at the unguarded target, channeling his fury into a devastating horizontal sweep aimed straight for the chest.
The man stepped back, but only a fraction. Vicktor's blade bit the cloth, but slid off. A meager bead of crimson welled on the black fabric.
Too shallow. Is he wearing armor underneath?
Vicktor gritted his teeth, attempting to muscle the blade deeper, but it refused to bite. The stranger casually clamped a gloved hand over Vicktor's wrist and tossed him away like a ragdoll.
"Again," the man instructed, adopting a rigid, deeply practiced stance.
Desperation clawing at his chest, Vicktor pivoted and slashed perpendicular to his first strike. The result was identical: a mere scratch.
"No edge alignment. You didn't even try to thrust," the stranger recited, his tone ringing with absolute, rehearsed certainty. "I heard that the Vulivar Patriarch adopted you, yet you swing with the standard War God Style. Did the Devastating Flame Sect teach you nothing?"
Vicktor gasped for air, glaring.
"I wondered why you only ever cut the air. Your instincts make up for bad footwork, but you just swing as hard as you can." A sudden burst of kinetic force blasted from the man, shoving Vicktor back another yard. "I take it back. Your foundations are a joke. You don't even realize that hitting a target twists the blade. I'm wearing nothing but cloth."
The blade twists?
The realization hit him. The chaotic aura churning around Vicktor abruptly stilled, settling into a cold, monk-like focus. He adjusted his grip, feeling the microscopic shift in the weapon's balance.
He surged forward. This time, he didn't fight the resistance; he cut through it.
The blade sheared cleanly through the dense black fabric. The man stumbled, his rehearsed composure shattering as Vicktor's perfectly aligned edge bit deep. The stranger tried to parry, but his weak, improper grip failed. With a sharp crack, the man's sword-guard broke, and Vicktor's blade carved a deep path across his chest.
The fight was over.
Vicktor dropped his weapon, exhausted. Most. Difficult. Fight. Ever.
A rustle of sand sounded behind him. Vicktor whipped his head around. The man he had just cut down was standing perfectly upright, his posture relaxed. The deep gash was gone.
"How?" Vicktor wheezed.
Sighing, the stranger unwound the black bandages concealing his head. Beneath the theatrical shadows lay a remarkably young, disarmingly friendly face, no more than four years older than Vicktor himself.
"Well done," the man said, though the phrase felt stiff, completely deviating from his script. It was then Vicktor noticed a faint streak of yellow powder dusted over the seamless black cloth where the wound had been.
Witch.
Vicktor tightened his trembling grip on his hilt.
"Curious how my injuries vanished?" The young man held up a small pouch, pinching a bit of golden pigment. "It's this. But it does much more than mend flesh."
Before Vicktor could react, the stranger closed the distance, grabbed Vicktor's jaw, and shoved a pinch of the powder into his mouth.
Vicktor gagged, his knees buckling. But instead of collapsing, a sudden, searing warmth flooded his veins. His exhaustion evaporated. Energy. Pure Energy.
"Why didn't you kill me?" Vicktor demanded, his mind sharpening, though he remained too straightforward to suspect layered motives.
"People with numerous talents, people with great minds, and once-in-a-generation geniuses," he continued, slipping comfortably back into his rehearsed cadence. "Our organization seeks out all of them to give them a chance to serve the greatest purpose known to man." He smiled, a practiced but feverish expression. "And your unmatched genius in the sword makes you qualified to join us."
The recruiter paced, his voice swelling with genuine devotion. "All the instructors of the sword are weak here, don't you think? The Academy is soft; you won't find any swordsmen greater than the Advanced Rank here—though that includes me as well, for reasons of maintaining my humanity to best do my job as a recruiter."
He stopped, gesturing grandly. "But the organization is different! It is filled with those willing to trade sanity for strength; all members reach the Expert Rank in less than six months, the Saint Rank in two years, and the King Rank in ten. And if it's you, you might reach the Emperor rank by then. What do you say?"
"'Unmatched genius'?" Vicktor stared at him. How can that be if I can already think of...
The image of Cedric was a solid light in his head.
"...someone better than me?!" he screamed, in a genuine proclamation of abhorring displaced recognition.
The recruiter chuckled, a light, melodic sound that didn't match his soured expression as he pulled the black bandages back over his features. He didn't seem surprised; rather, he looked as though he were watching a predictable performance.
In a blur of motion, the man was inches away. He grabbed Vicktor's hands. Cold, heavy metal pressed into Vicktor's palm.
"We will return in a year," the man said with a playful lilt in his voice. "It would be favorable if you came willingly. But perhaps if you grow strong enough, you'll get the option to choose, once again." He tapped the object he had just pressed into Vicktor's hand. "If you use that on your sword, it will never dull."
Vicktor looked down at the rectangular slab of obsidian-colored material. The Black Hand?
"A card?!" Vicktor snapped, his patience obliterated. "I don't want this!"
He tried to fold it in half. First with brute strength, then channeling his aura into his grip. The dark metal didn't even bend.
What is this? He looked up to throw it back, but the courtyard was empty. The man had vanished into the shadows.
"Hmph." Vicktor hurled the indestructible card into the dirt and turned toward the dormitories. I need to bathe. Then meditate.
Silence reclaimed the training grounds. When two of the three presences had finally departed, the last one detached itself from the deep shadows of the academy walls.
Arthur stepped into the moonlight, his cold eyes fixed on the spot where Vicktor had fought.
Vicktor Vulivar. Arthur analyzed the data. As the second-best fighter in our year, and the only student capable of fending off an intruder solo, he has been compared to Cedric constantly. It's natural he would develop a rivalry. The motive to attack me was present. But there is absolutely no way he is the Ash Mage.
Arthur paced over the scuffed dirt. I've scoured the archives for any precedent of a mage wielding both sword aura and the Deathly Aura. No reputable document mentions such a feat since the Human God, two millennia ago. Therefore, my ability to use sword aura is an anomaly. Which means Vicktor—who strictly wields elemental aura—lacks the capacity to be the assassin.
Assuming his straightforward, meat-headed personality as a fact would be foolish, but every observation I've logged confirms he isn't the perpetrator.
Arthur knelt, his fingers brushing the cool earth. He picked up the discarded black rectangle.
More importantly...
He ran his thumb over the faint text inscribed on the card.
What is the "Black Hand"? And what kind of staggering resources does it possess to casually hand out pure Arcanite as a gift to children?