Suddenly, Rhavas turned his head.

  The movement was sharp, precise, aimed directly at the sliver in the drapes where Arka peered through.

  Thump.

  Arka’s heart leaped, slamming hard against his ribs. It felt as though a cold hand had reached across the distance to squeeze his heart.

  Lord Rahgaras’ eyes locked onto him.

  There was no doubt. The man was not daydreaming while staring out the window. He was seeing something. He saw the small yellow dot amidst the dark green foliage.

  For the first time, Arka saw that face in horrifying detail.

  A hard jawline framed by pitch-black hair slicked back impeccably. Beneath a sharp nose sat a thick mustache that connected to a long black beard.

  And that beard...

  The beard was forked at the end. Like a tuning fork. Or more accurately, like the frozen tongue of a serpent.

  The eyes above that beard narrowed. The pupils were jet black, devoid of emotion, devoid of warmth. It was not the gaze of a human spotting a cute insect. It was the gaze of an apex predator detecting prey within its territory.

  Damn it... damn it... he sees me?! Arka thought in panic.

  His fight-or-flight instinct flared. Arka chose flight. Run.

  Move! Come on, move!

  Arka sent a mental signal with all his might. He yanked the controls of his paper butterfly, forcing it to retreat, to fly away, to do anything but remain there.

  Scritch... scratch...

  Nil. The wings of the origami were snagged tight on the thorny twig of the boxwood shrub.

  The butterfly only vibrated in panic, flapping desperately like a fly caught in a spider’s web. The more Arka forced it to move, the tighter the thorns held its paper wings.

  Inside the room, Rhavas set down his glass. He began to step toward the window. Slow. Leisurely. Savoring his prey’s terror.

  Dead. I'm dead. Caught on the first day...

  Cold sweat flooded Arka’s back on the distant balcony.

  Just as Rhavas’ hand reached out to part the drapes...

  WHOOOOSH...

  The universe intervened.

  A fierce autumn wind suddenly slammed against the palace walls.

  The gust battered the shrub where Arka hid. Branches shook violently. Dozens of dry, brittle maple leaves fell instantly, creating a small storm of red, orange, and yellow.

  Arka’s paper butterfly was torn free from the thorns holding it.

  The lightweight body was swept by the wind, spinning wildly, blending with the dozens of falling dead leaves. Amidst the visual chaos of dying foliage, Arka’s yellow origami became invisible. Perfectly camouflaged.

  Arka let the wind carry it far away, forcibly severing his visual connection.

  Arka gasped, snapping his eyes open.

  "Hah..."

  His body slumped, shoulders dropping drastically as if tons of weight had just been lifted from him. His legs felt weak. He leaned his back against the balcony railing, breath hunting.

  His hand trembled as he wiped beads of cold sweat dripping from his forehead.

  He stared toward the distant palace with a wary gaze. The yellow origami had flown off to god-knows-where, and he didn't care. What mattered was the connection was broken.

  "Insane..." Arka murmured, his voice hoarse.

  He swallowed, recalling the stare of those black eyes and the forked beard.

  "That Uncle is terrifying..."

  The connection was not totally severed.

  The image in his head was now grainy, like an analog TV broadcast with an antenna shaken by the wind. Black-and-white static noise dominated, but Arka could still see.

  The yellow origami landed safely—though slightly crumpled—atop a mahogany table in a spacious garden pavilion.

  There, amidst the dense oak trees bordering the private area, Arka saw him.

  A young man.

  Age likely peer to Arka. His hair was dark blond, plastered flat by sweat to his forehead and neck. He wore a black shirt that had now turned dark gray from being soaked through, clearly molding the hard-working back muscles beneath.

  And in his hands...

  Whoa, Arka thought. Scary toy.

  The young man did not hold a rapier or an aesthetic noble’s sword. He held a Greatsword. A two-handed blade, wide and thick, its weight surely inhumane.

  But in the young man’s hands, the giant iron danced.

  Arka narrowed his inner eye, observing the details of the movement.

  VOOOM!

  The young man swung the sword horizontally. The sound of cleaved air was heavy—not a sharp whistle, but a dull roar.

  He did not stop. Utilizing the momentum of the swing, the youth pivoted his body. His feet executed a perfect pivot, heels crushing the grass beneath as a fulcrum.

  Centrifugal force took over. Body and sword became a single spinning top of death.

  One rotation. Two rotations.

  Then, STOP.

  With insane core control, the youth halted the colossal blade abruptly, exactly one inch before it struck the wooden pillar of the pavilion.

  His forearm muscles tensed to the extreme, veins bulging like tree roots to arrest the inertia of such heavy iron.

  Silence. Stability. No vibration at the sword tip.

  The youth regulated his breathing. Hah... Hah... Then he returned to his starting stance. Repeating it again. No audience. No applause. Only him and the pain of training.

  "Wow..." a smile bloomed wide on Arka’s face on the balcony.

  Instant respect grew in his chest.

  "A combat maniac."

  Arka saw a mirror of himself there. He saw the same dedication, the same stubbornness. In the middle of a palace full of pot-bellied politicians afraid of death and leeches drinking blood, there was one "hard worker" forging himself in silence.

  "Making friends with him doesn't seem bad," Arka muttered. "At least he's not the type to cry if told to run laps."

  Arka cut the visual connection. He opened his physical eyes, then immediately scanned the palace complex landscape from the balcony height.

  His brain worked fast, mapping the route based on the sun’s position and the landmarks he had just seen through the paper butterfly.

  "Location... hmmm, two o'clock direction from here. Northeast Pavilion."

  He leaned over the balcony rail, calculating the path.

  "Not too far."

  His finger traced an imaginary line in the air.

  "Down via that emergency stairwell... cut through the kitchen corridor to avoid guests... run behind the guard barracks..."

  Arka’s finger paused at a point, then circled to avoid it.

  "...avoid that main guard post with the CCTV, jump that hedge... and voila."

  The plan was solid. A bit of trespassing, but who cared? He was an invited guest, even if the lowest priority.

  Arka stretched his neck, cracking his joints. His spirit ignited again. Meeting a fellow warrior was far more interesting than eating dessert alone.

  "Yosh," Arka tapped the balcony rail once. "Let's go."

  Hup...

  Arka cleared the chest-high hedge with a single clean jump.

  His feet struck the grass, knees bending deep to dampen the impact, converting vertical momentum into spring force ready to launch him forward.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  His expensive formal suit? Already a mess.

  The collar was askew, buttons might have popped, and his previously neatly combed hair was now disheveled like a bird's nest in a storm.

  Arka didn't care. To hell with aesthetics.

  His eyes instantly locked onto the practice weapon rack at the edge of the pavilion.

  Without reducing his running speed, Arka’s hand snatched two wooden swords—bokken—simultaneously. The movement was fluid, as if picking up a dropped pen, not weapons.

  The Blond Youth, resting with his Greatsword planted in the ground, turned at the noise of Arka’s arrival.

  "Hello, Friend!" Arka greeted, his tone cheerful as if greeting an old buddy at a coffee stall.

  Whoosh.

  Arka didn't wait for an answer. He tossed one wooden sword into the air. The throw was accurate, arching in a parabolic curve toward the youth’s chest.

  Hup...

  The youth’s reflexes did not disappoint.

  He immediately released the hilt of his Greatsword, letting the giant blade remain planted in the earth. His freed hands moved like lightning, snatching the wooden sword Arka offered right out of the air.

  The sound of palm meeting wood was crisp.

  Thwack.

  In that second, Arka grinned wide. His white teeth contrasted with his dust-smudged face.

  "Gotcha."

  Arka gave no pause for introductions or handshakes. His feet pushed off the ground, his body launching low and fast like a guided missile.

  He swung his wooden sword. Not a playful tap. This was a full-power swing, a vertical strike designed to crack a collarbone if not parried correctly.

  In the slow motion of his combat perception, Arka saw the youth’s eyes widen drastically. His dark blue pupils dilated, capturing the shadow of Arka’s descending sword.

  Hehe... shocked? Arka thought mischievously, adrenaline flooding his brain.

  Surprise attack, kid... Don't zone out!

  In the slow motion of his combat perception, Arka saw the young man’s eyes widen drastically. His dark blue pupils dilated, capturing the shadow of Arka’s wooden sword descending to strike.

  Hehe... shocked? Arka thought mischievously, adrenaline flooding his brain.

  Surprise attack, kid... Don't zone out!

  CRACKKK!

  Wood met wood. The sound was not a dull thud, but a sharp, dry explosion.

  Arka felt the vibration of the impact travel from his palm all the way to his shoulder. Hard. His bones ached slightly.

  Heavy! Arka thought, eyes gleaming.

  The blond youth had successfully blocked Arka’s vertical slash. He parried with a horizontal guard above his head, his stance low. The muscles in his arms tensed like steel cables.

  But Arka had not come to match strength. He came for a speedrun.

  "Don't zone out, Handsome! Round one isn't over!"

  Arka pulled his sword back, rotated his wrist, and converted the retraction momentum into a horizontal slash aimed at the ribs.

  Whoosh!

  The Blond was startled. He was accustomed to a slow, heavy Greatsword. Arka’s light, slippery attacks were outside his algorithm.

  He jumped back, his footwork messy. His heel hammered the grass, nearly slipping.

  Swish! The tip of Arka’s sword swept the air, mere inches from his black shirt.

  Slow! Arka screamed internally.

  Arka gave him no room to breathe. He stepped forward, pressing into his opponent’s personal space.

  The barrage began.

  CLACK! CLACK! CRACK! THWACK!

  Arka went berserk. His wooden sword became a blur. He attacked from every rude angle. Left, right, shoulder, knee, then a feint thrust to the neck.

  The rhythm of Arka’s attack was chaotic and wild, like heavy metal played at 2x speed.

  The Blond was overwhelmed. His face was tense, sweat flying every time he jerked his head to dodge the wooden tip. His footwork lagged. He retreated, retreated, and retreated. His legs crossed awkwardly, out of sync with the speed of Arka’s hands.

  BUT—and this made Arka grin even wider—he wasn't getting hit.

  The youth held on.

  Even though his steps were like a drunkard's, his hands were solid. His defensive instincts were monstrous. He parried every one of Arka’s fatal strikes at the very last second.

  CRACK!

  Arka slashed toward the thigh. The Blond slammed his sword down, blocking.

  Arka spun his body, sending a spinning kick—no, a feint—followed by a slash to the head.

  The Blond ducked rapidly, his wet blond hair sweeping against the tip of Arka’s sword.

  Crazy... Arka thought, adrenaline pumping hard in his ears. His reflexes are no joke!

  This was fun. This was far more fun than training with Grandfather.

  Arka could see those dark blue eyes. Initially shocked, now starting to focus. Starting to heat up. There was a fire burning there. The same fire that burned in Arka’s chest.

  "Come on!" Arka laughed openly, his voice clashing with the sound of colliding wood. "Don't just be a wall! Hit back!"

  Arka jumped again, this time a high leap, preparing a sledgehammer blow from above. He wanted to see how strong the youth’s knees were against the load.

  "Hold this if you can!"

  Amidst his breath roaring like a steam locomotive, Arka saw it.

  The corner of the youth’s lip lifted. He smiled.

  Not a mocking smile, but a smile of enjoyment. The smile of a madman finally finding a worthy playmate. His previously messy stance became solid. His lagging footwork transformed into an efficient dance.

  He began to counter.

  CLACK! CLACK! WHOOSH!

  Every time Arka attacked, his wooden sword was blocked with millimeter precision. Even now, the Blond started inserting counterattacks between Arka’s breaths. The tip of his wooden sword grazed Arka’s cheek, leaving a stinging scratch.

  Damn, Arka thought, jumping back to maintain distance. He adapts so fast. If this keeps up, my stamina will run out first.

  The fight became equal. Arka was no longer dominating; he was trading blows.

  Arka’s eyes narrowed sharply. I have to find an opening. There must be a bug in his defense system.

  Arka lunged forward again, this time targeting the side of the head.

  THWACKKK!

  A hard impact occurred right beside the youth’s right ear.

  Arka saw it. A micro-reaction.

  The youth’s eyes narrowed drastically, his brow furrowed, and his head tilted slightly away from the source of the sound. Not from physical pain, but from... noise.

  Hoo?

  Arka was curious. He tried attacking the same area again. A feint to the stomach, then pulled up, striking beside the left ear.

  CLACK! THWACK!

  The response was the same. There was a subtle twitch on the Blond’s face. He flinched slightly every time the two woods collided hard near his ear canal.

  Hehehehe... Arka grinned wickedly inside. Sensitive to loud noises, are we... Noble ears really are different, so delicate.

  Arka wasted no time. The opportunity was right before his eyes.

  He took a deep breath, focusing all his power into a single "acoustic" attack.

  Arka jumped, feigning a strike to the shoulder, but at the last second, he diverted his sword to slam into his opponent’s blade right beside his right ear.

  CRACKKKKK!!!

  The sound shattered the air, loud and deafening.

  "That's it!"

  The Blond’s reaction was instant. His face grimaced, his head reflexively turned away from the discomfort of the explosion. His visual focus broke for a fraction of a second.

  That was enough.

  Arka lowered his body as fast as a shadow. He dropped his center of gravity.

  His leg swept viciously across the grass.

  THUD!

  Arka’s shin slammed into his opponent’s off-balance ankle.

  "Eh—?!"

  The Blond’s balance collapsed. His body flew backward. His defense was wide open. His forehead exposed without protection.

  Arka did not waste gravity. As he rose from his sweep, he swung his wooden sword in a cruel overhead motion.

  THWACKKKKK!!!

  The solid wood kissed the Blond’s forehead with hard love.

  "GAAAAHHHH....!!!"

  The scream echoed, ruining the "cool swordsman" image built earlier.

  The youth threw his wooden sword onto the grass. He rolled, both hands clutching his forehead which now throbbed red, as if his frontal skull had just cracked. He curled up on the ground, groaning in pain like a child who had slammed into a door.

  Arka stood over him, panting, but his laughter exploded freely.

  "HAHAHAHAHA....!"

  Arka pointed at the writhing youth with the tip of his wooden sword, wiping sweat from his own forehead with a wide grin.

  "Still a rookie."

  Arka dropped his butt onto the grass, sitting with legs stretched out beside his victim.

  His breath still hunted, but the satisfied smile refused to leave his face. He turned his head, staring at the abstract art piece he had just painted on the noble’s face.

  Ouch... Arka thought, half pity, half pride.

  The Blond was still busy rubbing his throbbing forehead. Arka observed the injury with clinical interest.

  It wasn't just a regular bump.

  There was a red rash spreading quickly, and right at the point of impact, the color began to turn black. Dark purple. In the center of the trauma, the skin was slightly torn. Capillary lines had burst, forming a red spiderweb pattern leaking a little fresh blood.

  Your forehead is hard too, the wood even made a sound earlier, Arka commented internally.

  The Blond lowered his hands briefly, then turned.

  His eyes were sharp. That gaze was full of annoyance, pain, and wounded pride. His lips were pressed tight, holding back curses likely inappropriate for a palace environment. He looked pissed off half to death.

  Seeing that honest sulking expression, Arka’s defenses crumbled.

  "HAHAHAHAHA..."

  Laughter exploded again. Arka held his stomach, laughing freely without a shred of guilt.

  "Sorry, sorry... your face is just so sour," Arka said between laughs.

  He calmed his laughter into a wide, friendly smile. Arka extended his dirty, calloused right hand toward the youth.

  "Arka."

  The Blond stared at the hand for a moment, then at Arka’s face. He snorted softly, still annoyed, but he knew the fighter’s etiquette. When it's done, it's done.

  He accepted Arka’s hand. The grip was strong, rough, and warm.

  "William."

  William... okay, good name for someone who just got bonked, Arka thought.

  Arka pulled his hand back, then leaned back, supporting himself on both hands on the grass. He looked up, staring at the afternoon sky turning orange above this overly manicured palace garden.

  "The air here is too spoiled for training..." Arka remarked suddenly.

  William turned, his (uninjured) eyebrow raised.

  Arka plucked a blade of grass, playing with it in his fingers. "The wind is blocked by walls, the ground is too flat, the atmosphere is too... sterile. No pressure."

  He looked at William seriously.

  "Go up to the mountain. Nature’s soul feels stronger there... You get the feel faster. You need a place that wants to kill you so your instincts sharpen."

  William fell silent for a moment, digesting the words. He slowly stood up, brushing grass from his black trousers, then winced slightly as the blood in his forehead throbbed again.

  "Which mountain?" he asked flatly.

  Arka stood up too, patting the seat of his trousers. He pointed toward the eastern horizon beginning to darken.

  "Oh, me? A small mountain east of the Iron Mountain range. The Temple of House Sagara..."

  William’s hand movement stopped.

  Those dark blue eyes stared at Arka with a different look. No longer as a sparring partner, but as someone recalling important information.

  "House Sagara, is it?" William murmured softly.

  "Yeah. My name is Arka," Arka answered.

  He looked at Arka from head to toe—seeing the messy suit, the roguish attitude, but the lethal sword technique earlier. The puzzle pieces fit.

  "Hmmm... Arka Sagara?" he guessed.

  Arka shrugged, putting both hands in his trouser pockets casually.

  "Yeah," he replied lightly. "Why? Want to ask for a refund on iodine?"