Newfear

Thian: "Swordmaster?… What does that mean?!"

Satheron cast a sideways glance at his son, as if weighing his readiness to grasp what he was about to hear. Then, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

Satheron: "It is not a medal pinned to your chest, but a curse carved into your very bones. It is not bestowed... it is seized by the blade. To become a 'Swordmaster,' being the strongest is not enough… you must be the last one standing.

There are ten of the greatest swordsmen in each kingdom, each one honing their skill through blood and sweat, each one wielding a blade that has witnessed the fall of hundreds. The rule is simple…

You must defeat them all, one by one, without rest, without pause. There is no room for error, for error means death. There is no room for fear, for hesitation creates an opening, and an opening brings the end. There is not even room to fall to a single knee, for a Swordmaster does not kneel.

But that is not all…

After every duel, your fallen opponent is not carried away. Their body remains before you, their empty eyes staring, as if their soul refuses to depart until you, too, are defeated. You cannot look away. You cannot ignore them. Because a Swordmaster is measured not only by his skill, but by his ability to face the eyes he has extinguished.

With each battle you survive, the bodies of the fallen line up behind you, forming an unerasable legacy, a shadow that stretches further with every step forward. You do not carry their swords... you carry the weight of their gazes, the echoes of their final breaths, the silence they leave behind. With every opponent you defeat, your weapon does not grow… but something else does. Something unseen, yet felt.

And in the end, when a warrior reaches the tenth, he is no longer just a fighter. He has crossed the boundary between man and beast. His name becomes a blade that cuts through conversations before it is ever drawn in battle. His mere mention becomes a burden upon the shoulders of those who dare to speak it. A Swordmaster is not the one who wields ten swords… but the one who holds ten unfinished stories... because he is the one who placed the final dot in each of them."

He lifted his gaze to Thian, his expression heavy, as if casting the weight of those events into the present.

Satheron: "Ervin did not simply defeat them… he broke them. He did not fight for the title... he fought as if the sword was an extension of his soul, as if he was searching for something in every strike he delivered. As if he was trying to prove something… something only we, who witnessed him that day, could ever understand."

He paused for a moment, observing his son's expression before continuing.

Satheron: "But that is not all. Do you want to know when he truly became king? Not when he sat on the throne, but in the battle of 'The Final Melody.'"

Ronissa raised an eyebrow with subtle interest, while Cyril lifted his gaze toward him. He had heard this story before, but he knew that hearing it from his father gave it a different weight. As for Thian, his brows furrowed as anticipation crept into his voice.

Thian: "The battle of The Final Melody?…"

Satheron smiled, but it was not a smirk of mockery or pride... it was the smile of someone who had witnessed something unforgettable.

Satheron: "When Ervin ascended the throne, not everyone was convinced of his right to it. He was young, idealistic... too much so for a world ruled by beasts wearing the masks of kings. And there was one man who decided to declare it outright… Duke Ragnar River. A man who had bowed to seven kings before him, yet refused to kneel before the boy who became king. He did not travel to Dreamcrown to pledge his allegiance. Instead, he remained in his province in the far west, claiming that Irvin did not deserve the throne."

Thian clenched his hands, drawn into his father's words.

Satheron: "When Ragnar River was declared an enemy of the crown, he sought the support of Evalyn and Atheria. But all he found were closed doors. And when word reached King Irvin, he did not grow angry, nor did he threaten, nor did he send an army. Instead, he did the one thing no one could have predicted."

He raised his glass, took a small sip, then placed it back on the table before continuing.

Satheron: "He ordered only two battalions to be assembled. Nine hundred. No more. And with them, he marched westward, toward the plains of Arkith.... where Ragnar's armies awaited, six full battalions, over two thousand men, more than twice his own forces."

He paused for a moment, as if the scene was unfolding in his mind's eye.

Satheron: "Imagine it, my son. A young king, in his first year of rule, facing an army that dwarfed his own. And its leader? A man who had fought in dozens of wars. But Irvin… was not just a boy with a sword. He was a storm walking on two legs."

The flickering light in the hall reflected in his silver eyes as he continued, his voice growing heavier.

Satheron: "In that battle… Irvin alone slew seventy men."

Thian let out a quiet gasp, and for a brief moment, silence gripped the entire table. Even Ronissa, who had been scoffing moments ago, could not hide her reaction to the story.

Satheron: "When the fighting ceased… there was only one sound left in the plains. A strange melody, faint, yet echoing everywhere. It is said that the soldiers did not know where it came from, as if the land itself was playing it… And in the midst of it all, Irvin stood atop the corpse of Ragnar River, his sword plunged deep into his chest.

And with that melody… their victory was declared."

Satheron fell silent, staring at his glass for a moment before lifting his gaze to his son, who sat in stunned silence, struggling to process what he had just heard.

Satheron: "Do you think anyone would dare question a king who carved his glory by the sword?"

Satheron gazes at his son, Thian, with eyes that bear the weight of decades of knowledge and experience. Then, he speaks in a calm voice, yet one that carries the echoes of history.

Satheron: "And from that moment on, Irvin spoke his famous words...

Reaching the top requires swimming in blood."

His eyes study Thian's face, measuring the impact of the words, observing the faint tremor of realization as their true meaning sinks in. They are not mere words recorded in history books but a law etched in the blood of those who dared to reach beyond what fate had granted them.

Then, he adds, in an even quieter tone, one laced with an unspoken warning:

Satheron: "But the real question is not whether you are willing to swim... it's whether you are prepared to survive in those bloodstained waves.

That's why people called him... the killer whale. "

Thian did not answer. He merely lowered his gaze, realizing that he would never look at King Irvin the same way again.

Blatir, known for his sharp personality, sat leaning back in his chair, as if everything around him was of no concern. He appeared to be in his fifties, with features that revealed the harsh experiences of life. His long red hair cascaded elegantly over his shoulders, like fiery waves swaying with each movement. His gray eyes, glowing with a sharp gleam, watched everything with a gaze filled with mystery and concealed disdain. The tips of his fingers slowly traced the edge of his glass, as if that movement was the only way he could express his inner displeasure, while observing King Irvin, who was surrounded by nobles speaking as though the world revolved around him effortlessly.

Blatir: "Look at them... they haven't stopped talking since they sat down. If I were in the middle of that, they would have finished their meal in silence, without a single filthy word escaping their mouths."

Talia, sitting beside him, quietly lifted her glass and stared at the liquid within it as if contemplating her thoughts reflected in it. Then, she spoke in a measured tone, free of flattery.

Talia: Father, their view of you will not change as long as you continue to pursue the throne at any cost, ignoring the chosen royal system.

Blatir stopped tapping and slowly placed his glass on the table. He turned toward her and leaned slightly, making his words sound like a whisper that sliced through the air with the sharpness of a blade.

Blatir: "Twenty years... twenty years of service, of carrying this kingdom on my shoulders, of pushing its economy forward, while others, nothing but scoundrels who appeared out of nowhere, bastards without lineage, and yet... they sit on the throne while I continue bowing to them."

His eyes burned with a latent fire, not just anger, but something deeper, something like a rooted hatred, a sense of betrayal that had never died. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his words before speaking them, then continued in a low voice, heavy with bitterness.

Blatir: "More than eighteen percent of the kingdom's economy, its wealth, its strength... was mine. From my name. From my effort. And yet, I sit here, watching, while others toy with our fates as if they were a game."

Talia did not respond immediately, only gazed at him with calm eyes, as if seeing something beyond his words, beyond his tone. Something more than ambition... a deep wound that had never healed.

Blatir sat still, silent, but the tension in his fingers gripping the edge of the table was enough to reveal the storm raging inside him. His eyes followed the progress of the event with little real interest, while the empty laughter and pleasantries flew around him like distant noise that meant nothing to him. But something... those fake smiles, the disregard, the way no one had bothered to even look his way as if he were just furniture in the corner... all of it was enough to shatter the last thread of self-control within him.

Then, without warning, he stood up. It was not just a simple rise; it was a movement that carried with it a decisive, cutting decision like a sword's edge. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor echoed, making it seem like a heard stab in the midst of the noise. Some heads turned toward him, some in surprise, others in apprehension, but no one dared to say anything.

Blatir, in a firm and dry voice: "Let's go, we are leaving."

Talia, who had been watching everything with her cold eyes, did not move immediately. She fixed her gaze on him for a moment, as if trying to read what was going through his mind. Dion, on the other hand, appeared more confused, his eyes shifting between his father and the guests, as though looking for an explanation for this sudden decision.

But Blatir gave them no time to question. In silence, without debate, both stood up, forced to follow his decision. Dion tried to hide his confusion, while Talia kept her neutral expression, though she could sense that this moment meant something greater than it appeared.

Before leaving, tradition had to be observed.

They approached the table where King Irvin was talking with Lucas, but as he noticed their approach, he lifted his eyes to them calmly.

Talia and Dion, in a measured voice with a slight bow of respect: "Your Majesty."

Irvin paused for a moment in his conversation, then nodded lightly to them, but his gaze carried silent appreciation, as if acknowledging their status without the need for words. It was not disdain, but a delicate balance between royalty and mutual respect.

Irvin, calmly and politely: "Talia, Dion... I hope you enjoy the evening."

It was not pretentious, but the tone of a young king who understood the importance of everyone in the hall, even those who might be considered potential adversaries.

Then they moved towards Felix, who noticed their departure but showed little interest.

Dion, with a diplomatic smile: "We wish you happiness, Felix."

Felix, coldly and with a shallow smile: "I appreciate that."

Finally, they approached Isabel, the bride, who was engrossed in another conversation, barely noticing their presence.

Talia, with feigned calm: "Congratulations, Lady Isabel."

But Isabel showed no significant interest, only raising an eyebrow slightly, as if hiding behind that gesture a carefully concealed disdain. She maintained her polite smile, but did not bother to respond, continuing her conversation as if their presence was not worth more than a passing moment in a crowded hall.

And so, they left. Their steps were quiet, but they carried more than words could describe. It was not merely leaving the hall... it was a withdrawal from a scene in which they had long felt they were nothing more than secondary figures.

Dreamcrown – In the Royal Palace Garden

Talia returned to reality as she sat there in the tea circle. She rested her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed intently on Isabel, as though she were paying attention to the subtle details she was hiding.

The fresh memories from the night before floated through her mind.