Everblood Ascendant

The arena was silent.

A breeze drifted across the stone floor as Caelan and Rian stood at opposite ends, swords drawn, tension rippling like a stormcloud between them. The Virelith Clan gathered around the elevated arena, watching with baited breath. No one spoke.

Not even the wind dared to whisper.

Rian grinned arrogantly, raising his sword. "I'll give you one last chance, brother. Drop your weapon, bow your head, and I might leave you with your pride intact."

Caelan said nothing at first. He held his twin blades loosely, golden eyes locked on the brother who had once meant the world to him. The brother who pushed him off a cliff.

His voice came, low and steady.

"Funny," Caelan said. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Rian's smirk faltered.

Within a heartbeat, both figures vanished from sight—

Clang!

Steel met steel with a blinding flash, sparks flying as their swords collided in the very center of the arena. The sound cracked like thunder across the grounds, and the force of it kicked dust into the air.

Gasps echoed through the watching crowd.

Rian was the first to break away, snarling as he launched forward with a flurry of strikes. His movements were clean, practiced—clearly the product of years of elite training.

But Caelan blocked them all. Not with effort, but ease.

His eyes remained calm. Focused. Testing.

(So this is Level 15 Bronze?) Caelan thought as he shifted his stance, deflecting another blow. (Then what does that make me?)

The power coursing through him still felt new—like a fire he was only just learning to wield. But with every clash, every movement, he felt it rising.

(I'm faster. Stronger. My reactions sharper. It's not just instinct. It's like my body knows how to fight.)

He ducked a sweeping slash and pivoted behind Rian in a flash, his blades tracing silver arcs in the air.

The clash resumed, faster and fiercer.

Below the arena, murmurs broke out.

"Is that really Caelan?"

"How is he keeping up?"

"I thought he was Level 5?"

Lord Theron narrowed his eyes. "That is not the strength of a Bronze beginner."

Indeed, in Elarion, the difference between levels within a stage wasn't minor. A Level 5 Bronze Warrior couldn't match a Level 15 one. Each level represented hours of training, breakthroughs in aura control, and mastery of technique. The difference was like night and day.

And yet Caelan was fighting evenly.

No—he was beginning to overwhelm.

Rian's face twisted in frustration as Caelan pushed him back, strike after strike gaining force. The arena floor cracked beneath their feet. The ringing of steel grew more frantic, more desperate.

Rian shouted, aura flaring, and unleashed a wide arc of energy.

But Caelan met it head-on.

Golden light shimmered faintly around his blades as he twisted through the air and came down with a powerful counterstrike.

Clang!

Rian staggered, barely blocking.

His feet skidded back.

Caelan didn't let up.

(This is it. This is the power I was given. Not to run from my past, but to conquer it. To rise above those who tried to bury me.)

With a sharp breath, Caelan launched into a final flurry. Each move was precise, honed. His swords blurred as he broke through Rian's guard with a clean strike to the shoulder, disarming him.

Rian fell to one knee, panting, sword clattering away.

Silence.

Then Caelan stepped forward, one blade raised—but he paused.

For a moment, the entire clan thought he would finish it.

But instead, Caelan turned the blade and brought the hilt down gently against Rian's neck. Not enough to knock him out—just enough to send a message.

"Death is too easy for you," he said quietly. "Live with your shame. Live with knowing that I survived, and that I came back stronger."

He turned away as the clan watched in stunned silence.

Lord Theron stared at his son—the one he thought lost forever.

And for the first time in many years, the future of the Virelith Clan felt uncertain.

Because something had changed.

Caelan Virelith had returned.

And he was no longer the boy they once knew.

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