The courtyard of the Zars estate had never seen so many nobles gathered in silence.
Silence was rare in circles of power. Usually, there were whispers—idle judgments, political wagers, noblemen placing silent bets with veiled glances.
But today, none dared.
Today, Deus Zars would fight his first public duel.
At age seven.
Rows of banners fluttered overhead as the crowd gathered in a semicircle. Zars knights lined the inner ring, their armor gleaming under the Tenrian sun. Nobles in tailored robes took their seats on cushioned benches, murmuring behind fans and glasses of amberwine.
"He's never cast a spell in public."
"Is it true he studies soul theory at night?"
"I heard he once broke a grown man's arm by accident."
"No... not by accident."
Deus stood in the arena's center, eyes closed, wooden sword in hand. Not shaking. Not tense. Just still.
His opponent was a boy of ten — Jerald Durne, second heir to House Durne, a minor noble house with military leanings. Tall for his age, proud, and overconfident. He wore ceremonial shoulder plates and had already begun casting enchantments into his blade.
Deus hadn't spoken once since arriving.
Jerald sneered. "I'll give you one chance, Zars. Yield before I start."
Deus opened his eyes.
They were cold as cut glass.
"Then begin."
The horn blew once.
Jerald rushed forward, roaring as he swung downward.
Deus didn't move.
Until the very last second.
Then — step left, rotate, counterstrike.
The flat of Deus's blade smacked Jerald's shoulder. The boy stumbled, shocked.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Deus turned slightly, repositioning.
Jerald's face reddened. He screamed and unleashed a shallow fire rune, swinging with speed and fury.
Deus ducked.
He stepped in.
And drove his sword into Jerald's chest.
The wood cracked.
Jerald gasped — breathless, dropped to one knee.
The arena went still again.
Blood dripped from Jerald's lip. Not lethal. But humiliating.
The boy was unconscious seconds later.
"Winner:Deus Zars."
Halric raised his hand, but Deus had already turned away, sheathing the wooden sword into his belt loop.
From the high terrace, Duke Stradar rose and clapped once.
Loud. Deliberate.
Others followed. Hesitant applause turned to murmurs of awe.
"He moves like a shadow…"
"Too refined for a child…"
"Dangerous."
Later that evening, in the manor's war room, Thesea Zars reviewed a sealed scroll while her husband drank darkwine.
"Reports say he never blinked," she murmured.
Stradar grinned. "I told you. He's not like other boys."
Thesea closed the scroll. "No. He's not."
A pause.
"Are we afraid of that yet?"
Stradar's smile faded.
"No. Not yet."
Elsewhere – Deus's Private Tower
The swords Antrar leaned against the wall, silent.
Deus sat on the floor, legs folded, staring at a piece of parchment.
It was a sketch.
Lizia Al Gray — drawn from memory. He had seen her once. A fleeting moment. A noble girl with white-gray eyes and a stubborn smirk.
Something about her disrupted his rhythm. She wasn't afraid of speaking first.
She'd glared at him once in the capital.
He still remembered.
He stood, picked up the black blade, and began moving through a slow, spiraling kata — form after form, each one more intricate than the last. His eyes never blinked.
Not even once.
The page with her face burned behind him in the fireplace.
The ashes curled upward.