The stone arena rang with the clash of steel and the hum of spellbound wards.
Dozens of students filled the spectator seats, buzzing with anticipation. In the center, a circular dueling platform shimmered under a containment barrier, inscribed with glyphs that adjusted intensity based on mana output.
This was no class trial.
This was the Sword Combat Ranking Match.
And Karl was walking straight into it.
Raiven paced just inside his shadow, quiet but coiled.
"Your body knows this fight. Even if your mind doesn't remember how."
"I don't plan on drawing dragonfire," Karl muttered under his breath. "Just a blade."
"Then show them why that's more than enough."
Across the ring stood Rhys Calderon, a ranking swordsman from the third division.
Upper-tier.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and quick on his feet. His Soulbind was sealed for this duel—Academy protocol for non-bonded matches.
Rhys smirked as he twirled a sleek dual-edged longsword.
"Didn't think the Veilmarked needed swords. Afraid to roast the arena?"
Karl simply adjusted the sheath on his back and stepped into position.
No reply.
Only calm.
That's what unsettled Rhys the most.
From the viewing tier, Aeris leaned against the railing, arms folded, eyes locked on the platform. Her stag, Thalorien, flickered faintly beside her.
"He's going to surprise them."
"He always does."
The gong rang.
Rhys moved fast—sweeping low with a feint and following with a rising slash, aiming to catch Karl mid-adjustment.
But Karl didn't adjust.
He moved.
One fluid sidestep—barely a twitch—and Rhys's blade carved through air.
Karl's own sword was out in the same breath.
A blacksteel relic with silent glyphs now awakened by his touch.
The strike came with no glow, no mana surge.
Just precision.
Steel met steel.
And Rhys staggered.
The crowd murmured.
"Did he just…?"
"That movement. It was like he predicted the angle."
Rhys recovered quickly and went on the offensive, striking from multiple angles with practiced speed.
Karl deflected each blow with calm control—redirecting, turning momentum against him, steps so sharp they left impressions in the mana dust.
Then came the counter.
A shoulder pivot. A half-turn. A blade tap.
And Rhys's sword flew from his grip.
It landed behind him with a clang.
The fight was over.
But Karl didn't sheathe his weapon.
The blade glowed faintly now—only visible to those attuned.
And someone else noticed.
From the upper platform, a guest instructor stood behind the barrier, hands clenched tightly around the rail.
Instructor Saelen, a master in ancient martial arts and part-time war history lecturer.
His eyes narrowed as he watched Karl return to a resting stance.
"That form…" he muttered.
"That's not standard technique."
A fellow instructor leaned toward him. "What do you mean?"
Saelen's voice was tight.
"That was Veilblade style. The first stance of the Six Echoes."
In the dorm corridor later, Karl unsheathed the blade in private.
No one else around.
The glyphs carved into the metal were whispering.
Not words.
Not commands.
But memory.
Raiven materialized beside him, gaze heavy.
"That blade… was forged for the Veilbound. And it remembers your hands."
"Then it's not just a weapon."
"No. It's part of your legacy."
Aeris appeared beside the dorm archway. She said nothing at first, only stared at the sword in his hands.
Then:
"You're not just good with it."
Karl glanced at her. "I trained long before I bonded with Raiven."
"That's not what I meant."
She walked closer, eyes serious.
"That style you used… it doesn't exist anymore. Not formally. I've seen illustrations. Old dueling scrolls. You moved like someone who created the technique, not learned it."
Karl exhaled slowly, tension pressing at his ribs.
"Then maybe I'm remembering something I never should've forgotten."
Aeris nodded once.
"You're going to attract more attention now."
"Let them watch."
From the shadows of the courtyard, a student in red and black robes watched Karl silently from behind a pillar.
A war sigil flickered faintly beneath his collar.
He didn't speak.
But he knew that blade.
He'd seen it once before—on a battlefield inside a forbidden dream.
And it had burned everything.