The sky over the plains was a bruised purple, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the low, rhythmic thrum of thousands of marching feet. This was before the world broke—before the crimson pillar of magic tore through the clouds and before the violet arc of Noa's blade redefined the horizon. In the eye of this gathering storm, two men stood as the tectonic plates of their respective nations.
Kaelen, the Royal Knight Captain of Crimvane, stood with his boots sunk deep into the churned earth of his ancestors. Facing him was Demor, the Crown Prince of Aurelyth, a man whose very presence commanded the space around him like a gravitational well.
They were isolated in a pocket of unnatural stillness, two predators who had found their match amidst a sea of lesser men. Neither knew of the monster currently making its way toward the flank; they didn't have the luxury of looking away.
Step.
Step.
Their first movements were synchronized with a lethal, haunting perfection. Their eyes remained locked, a silent, desperate conversation of steel and intent passing between them that no words could ever capture.
THUNNGG!
The collision of their swords sent a physical shockwave through the air, a violent ripple that swept the dust and rising red mist away from them in a jagged, expanding circle.
Kaelen gritted his teeth so hard he could feel the vibrations rattling his very jaw, his muscles corded like iron cables as he fought a losing battle to hold the line. Demor, however, remained chillingly serious, his face a mask of clinical detachment. There was no strain in the Prince's features, only a cold observation of Kaelen's limits. He knew the Crimvane captain was operating on a lower gear—that the strength gap between them was a canyon Kaelen was trying to bridge with nothing but pure, sacrificial willpower.
With a sharp, barking grunt, Kaelen surged upward, attempting to shatter the lock. Demor didn't resist the shove; instead, he flowed with it, his boots sliding across the red mud with a predatory grace that defied the weight of his armor. Before Kaelen could even begin to reset his stance, Demor's hand tightened on the hilt of his massive broadsword.
[Weight Authority]
"Khueh!"
A strangled sound escaped Kaelen's throat. In a heartbeat, his blade felt as though it had been tethered to the peak of a falling mountain. The sudden, artificial increase in mass dragged his arms down with a force that threatened to snap his collarbones, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat.
Demor's counter-strike followed instantly, a blur of silver that moved faster than logic allowed. Kaelen barely managed to twist his body in a frantic, instinctual jerk, the Prince's blade carving a shallow, steaming line across his shoulder-guard. The sheer force of the blow sent Kaelen skidding backward, his boots carving deep, jagged furrows into the earth.
"You endured that?" Demor's voice was a low resonance that seemed to vibrate through the ground itself, carrying a hint of genuine surprise. "Better than I thought."
Is that a skill? Kaelen's mind raced, his arms still numbed by the impossible weight that had just vanished.
As the background of the war began to dissolve into the screams of a thousand men being erased by Noa's violet light, the duel intensified.
Clang-Clang-Clang
Kaelen lunged, his movements becoming a desperate, high-speed blur. He rained a barrage of slashes upon Demor, each strike a testament to the decades of discipline he had poured into becoming a royal knight.
He utilized the refined swordsmanship of the Royal Knights, a style he had polished through thousands of repetitions to compensate for his lack of skills. It was more precise, more practiced than any knight in the realm—perhaps even more refined in its execution than Noa's own Formless Sword, for it was built on the foundation of a mortal who had nothing else to rely on.
Though he suffered minor cuts where Kaelen's speed found an opening, Demor weathered the storm with a stoic efficiency. He was an eclipse of the old world, a king-in-waiting who treated the battle like a somber, sacred ritual. As Kaelen's aura-coated blade whistled through the air, Demor reached out and gripped the very air itself.
[Sound Sever]
"?!!"
The world went mute. For Kaelen, the cacophony of the war—the distant explosions of Noa's slashes, the rhythmic clatter of armor, even the frantic drumbeat of his own heart—vanished instantly. The sudden sensory void was like being plunged into the crushing depths of a lightless ocean.
What just—
He swung his blade at the space where Demor should have been, but the Prince had already shifted, moving with a silence that was more terrifying than any roar. Without the auditory cues of footsteps or the whistle of a blade to guide his instincts, Kaelen was fighting a shadow.
"You Crimvane people won't win this war," Demor's voice entered Kaelen's mind, cold and final.
Thud!
A soundless impact slammed into Kaelen's ribs. Demor's gauntlet struck with the force of a battering ram, the weight of the Prince's skill making the blow feel as though a castle wall had collapsed upon him. Kaelen was sent tumbling through the mud, his vision flickering like a dying candle.
He rolled through the filth, gasping for air that felt thin and cold, and looked up to find Demor standing over him, looking down with an expression of grim, hollow pity.
Why isn't he using any skills?
Behind his calm expression, Demor felt a nagging confusion. He couldn't understand why a man in Kaelen's position was being so conservative with his abilities.
As Demor stepped forward to deliver a finishing blow, Kaelen did the unthinkable: he didn't swing his sword. He let it hang limp, and for a split-second, the Prince's eyes flickered with a genuine spark of confusion.
[Blade Projection]
In that microscopic gap between breaths, Kaelen's other, empty hand surged forward. Pure, condensed aura erupted from his palm, manifesting as a shimmering, translucent blade of solid blue light. It was an imprint of his soul, a weapon born of pure, unadulterated will. He didn't just swing it; he projected it forward like a lance of divine spite.
The surprise was absolute. Demor, prepared to deflect a physical blade, found himself staring at a streak of luminous energy aimed directly at his throat. Somehow, the knight captain of Crimvane had manifested a weapon using nothing but his own aura. He threw his head back with a desperate, instinctual jerk.
Plshhh…
The projected blade grazed his neck-guard, carving a glowing line through the royal steel and drawing a spray of crimson blood. Demor's eyes widened, his calm facade finally cracking into a snarl of royal fury. He pivoted, the aura blade whistling past his ear like a vengeful spirit.
But Kaelen was a man possessed. With his physical sword in his left hand and his manifested blade in his right, he became a whirlwind of light. He conjured blades that flickered in and out of existence, striking from angles that defied the geometry of traditional swordsmanship.
"What is this? Your skill?" Demor asked, his eyes betraying a desperate curiosity.
"Skill?" Kaelen looked at his own hand, his voice dipping into a tone of bitter disappointment. "I've never had one. Never."
He… doesn't have skills? The surprise inside Demor's mind doubled.
He could not fathom how someone without a prestigious family name or a single innate skill had risen to the rank of Knight Captain.
Demor's hand reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of Kaelen's glowing projection.
[Weight Authority]
"Uhrr…"
Kaelen's arm suddenly dropped as if he were holding the weight of a castle. The projected blade, despite being made of light, was an extension of his aura—and Demor's skill recognized it as an object. The sudden downward pull nearly dislocated Kaelen's shoulder, his knees buckling under the artificial gravity once more.
"Get up," Demor commanded, his voice returning to its icy, royal calm even as blood trickled down his neck. "The Unblessed Mortal." He had found a fitting nickname for the cursed knight who fought with nothing but grit.
Kaelen gritted his teeth, his aura flaring as he forced himself back to his feet, but the world suddenly tilted on its axis.
[Sense Hijack]
Kaelen's vision spun violently. The ground felt as though it were sloping at a forty-five-degree angle, and the sky seemed to be crashing down toward his head. His inner ear screamed in protest as his sense of balance was completely dismantled by Demor's rare skill.
He tried to strike, but his projected blade swung wide, missing the Prince by feet. He felt like a drunkard trying to fight a god.
Wh-what the hell?
Demor moved in, his steps silent and terrifyingly precise. He didn't even use his sword; instead, he delivered a series of brutal, calculated strikes to Kaelen's joints. A kick to the knee, a palm strike to the elbow, a shoulder-check that felt like being hit by a landslide.
Kaelen was being systematically dismantled, his [Blade Projection] flickering and dying as his concentration shattered under the sensory assault.
"You have spirit, Kaelen of Crimvane," Demor said, his voice cold and final. "But spirit alone does not hold a kingdom when the foundation is rot."
Demor raised his broadsword high, the steel catching the dim, bloody light of the setting sun. Kaelen looked up, his eyes hazy with pain. He tried to summon one last spark of aura, but his core felt like an empty well.
[Rule Breaker]
Demor blurred. He ignored the friction of the air and the inertia of his massive frame, appearing instantly in Kaelen's guard. The flat of his blade slammed into Kaelen's chest with the force of a tectonic shift, throwing him backward through the air.
Thud!
Kaelen hit the ground hard, his physical sword held in a white-knuckled grip even as his armor dented and his breathing came in ragged, bloody sobs. The world was a blur of red mud and gray sky. He tried to push himself up, his arms shaking violently, his fingers clawing into the earth.
Get up. Get up. Get up DAMMIT—he screamed inside the silence of his mind.
He tried again, but his strength had finally reached its limit. The fire of his aura had gone cold, leaving behind only the smoldering embers of a defeated man. Demor walked toward him with lethal precision, his sword ready to execute the opponent he had finally broken. Kaelen didn't look at his killer; instead, he looked up at the bruised sky in a helpless, silent plea.
Please… just one chance… one of those skills. Just one… to prove myself. I will do whatever you want.
He cried in desperation toward the heavens, but only a long, mocking silence awaited him, save for the steady footsteps of the man coming to end him. Kaelen continued looking, waiting for a miracle that didn't come.
Then, something snapped.
He gritted his teeth, his mouth filling with the copper taste of his own blood, and his helpless eyes burned with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
You won't answer? Alright then… I will win on my own and prove my worth myself.
His frozen fingers shifted around his sword's handle, slowly increasing his grip until the leather groaned.
Get up. GET UP YOU IDIOT! He didn't scream to the heavens anymore; he turned that fury inward, screaming at his own failing body.
Then, as Demor watched in stunned silence, the knight who should not have been able to twitch stood up. His body shook with the agony of broken bones and torn flesh. Kaelen gulped down his own blood and gritted his teeth even tighter, as if he were in a physical wrestling match with his own soul. He was fighting his limits, pushing back against the very concept of 'impossible'.
"What the hell are you?" Demor asked, his voice laced with a growing fear of Kaelen's sheer will. He lunged forward, intending to finish it once and for all.
Clang!
His blade, aimed at Kaelen's neck, was blocked by the knight's sword, Kaelen's other arm bracing the steel from behind. Though he managed to block the strike, his body was still a ruin, and he was forced back several steps by the impact.
"AAAHHHHHHH!"
THINNN!
Ignoring the pain, Kaelen stepped forward and fought back, his eyes overflowing with a lethal intensity. Demor was surprised tenfold. Somehow, Kaelen had risen through sheer power of will and was now forcing a stalemate.
But, it's not enough.
Demor launched his next strike, intending to kill, utilizing his [Weight Authority] and [Rule Breaker] in a combined, unstoppable assault.
Clang!
"ENOUGH OF YOUR SKILLS!"
Kaelen coughed out a spray of blood, but Demor's attack was reflected yet again. The scream that tore from Kaelen's throat didn't match his handsome face; it was the roar of a beast. His features were a mask of leaking gore, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild—perhaps from a lack of breath, or perhaps from a pure, unadulterated anger toward the silent sky.
[Blade Projection]
Kaelen manifested another weapon in his right hand with the absolute last dregs of his aura. He had already been pushed to his limit; now, he was the one pushing the limit away to make room for his survival.
Demor launched his next attack, and Kaelen met it with twin swords—one of steel radiating blue, and one made of pure, shimmering blue light.
"Kwah!"
This time, it was Demor who was thrown back. Suddenly, something inside Kaelen shifted. His muscles began to move with a precision that transcended all his training. His senses flared, his awareness becoming sharper than any human should be capable of managing.
And yet… it wasn't a skill.
It was as if the world itself had decided he was a character worth noticing, worth giving a chance. His body, his will, his aura—all were being amplified by something unseen, something that recognized him as a protagonist in his own right.
The one who was bound by a mundane fate… rose, and the world itself seemed to bow to the will of the steadfast knight.
---
Meanwhile, inside the command tent, Vionette's vision was suddenly flooded with urgent system windows.
[Notice! The user has acquired the skill: Crown of Accumulation (Unique).]
[It has been detected that Thought Communication is no longer required. Commencing optimal pathing...]
[Activating: Crown of Accumulation.]
[Notice! Skill Thought Communication has been consumed by Crown of Accumulation.]
[Notice! Thought Communication has been sacrificed to evolve user Noa Ravel's skill: Echo Reclamation.]
[Evolution of Echo Reclamation is currently impossible. Seeking alternative trajectory...]
[Notice! User Noa Ravel has acquired the skill: Phantom Phrase (Rare).]
[Notice! Individual Kaelen Veythorne has fulfilled the conditions to reach 'Existence'.]
[Notice! Individual Kaelen Veythorne has obtained a Fable Mark.]
[Notice! Individual Kaelen Veythorne's Existence Value has increased from 0 to 10.]
[Notice! Individual Kaelen Veythorne's attributes have increased exceptionally.]
Vionette's eyes widened in shock as she processed the messages.
What is this? The hell is going on? And what's Kaelen doing? Even Noa doesn't have this thing called 'Fable Mark'.
She began to read the lines again, trying to grasp the cosmic weight of what Kaelen had just achieved.
---
Clang!
Kaelen fought back with both swords, his movements a blur of divine violence. At times, he would throw one blade into the air, attacking with both hands on the other before catching the first without missing a beat. His strength and speed had increased exponentially, but he didn't even notice the change. He saw only one thing: the win.
What just happened?
The roles had reversed in a heartbeat. The one who had been overpowered was now the predator. Kaelen now possessed the raw strength to match his peerless swordsmanship, while Demor remained the same.
Plshhh.
Demor was cut by the manifested blade once again. Blood sprayed, and though Kaelen was also taking minor hits, he didn't slow down. He was a machine of war.
MORE! EVEN MORE! Kaelen pushed himself into the red.
CLANG!
He attacked with full, unrestrained force. Now, the only one left standing was Kaelen—the man who had been kneeling in the mud just moments before. Demor's blade was thrown wide as he failed to parry the sheer momentum of Kaelen's assault.
As the Prince stood frozen in confusion, trying to comprehend how his world had been turned upside down, Kaelen took a long, ragged breather and let his mouth curl into a small, weary smile.
"Didn't I tell you?" He brought his sword to rest against Demor's neck with a heavy, final thud. "I will prove myself."
Demor looked up at Kaelen in genuine, soul-deep surprise. The man with no skills was now the one looking down upon him. The pride that usually filled the Prince's mind was gone, replaced by a trembling realization.
Sliin~
The sound of the blade being sheathed swept away with the wind. Kaelen, the Unblessed Mortal, had won.