That morning, the sky above Grand Aurelis looked like a sheet of frozen glass. clear, beautiful, yet fragile with unseen tension. A light wind swept across the training grounds, carrying the scent of metal and dust, as if even the earth knew that blood might once again touch its surface that day.
The stone arena where aspiring heroes trained was filled with whispers that never became words. Everyone stood at a distance, forming an empty space in the center. an altar for two names.
Arga.
Kafka.
Two boys from the same orphanage. Two paths now crossing like blades that refused to bow.
Arga stood first. His posture was straight, his gaze sharp, the sword in his hand reflecting the morning light like a fragment of the sun forced into stillness. Something about him had changed. He was no longer just the leader of the hero squad. He was a storm waiting for a reason to descend.
Kafka stood several steps Infront of him.
Without a weapon.
Without a roaring aura.
Just a boy with a wound in his chest that had never truly healed.
"Draw your weapon," Arga said, his voice flat yet heavy, like a stone placed slowly upon someone's chest.
"I don't want to fight you," Kafka replied.
"That wasn't my question."
Silence crept in like fog.
Arga moved first.
He was fast. not like the wind, but a lightning that already knew where it would strike. His sword split the air with a sound almost too faint to hear, yet the vibration reached the bone.
Kafka barely reacted in time. He dodged half a second too late, and the tip of Arga's blade grazed his shoulder.
A thin red line bloomed across his cloth, followed by blood dripping slowly to the ground.
Not deep.
But enough to declare dominance.
Arga gave no pause. The next strikes came in a relentless storm, like stones falling in the dry season. Each swing was not just a test of strength, but a demand.
"Bring it out."
"Bring out your power!" Arga shouted.
Kafka stepped back again and again. He dodged, deflected with his bare hands, twisting his body to avoid full blows. Yet it was clear. He was outmatched. Arga was faster. Stronger.
Adam laughed from the edge of the ring.
"That's it? Where's the demon?"
Gilbert crossed his arms, expression blank. He watched like a wall that did not care whether the world before him collapsed or not.
Beside him, Antonio smiled, his eyes narrowing like a cat waiting for a mouse to emerge.
Azuna observed Kafka with scientific interest. As though the figure in the center was not a human being, but a phenomenon to be learned.
"Stop!" Elara cried.
Nadia stepped forward, her bow half-raised.
Yogi and Rina tried to move closer as well, but Arga's aura made them hesitate. An invisible pressure protect the ring, like the air before lightning struck.
"Arga, enough!" Mr. Rahmat shouted.
But Arga heard no one.
Or perhaps he did and chose not to care.
One heavy swing forced Kafka to his knees. Dust rose into the air. Arga's sword stopped a breath away from his throat.
"Why are you holding back?" Arga asked soft and disappointed.
"Don't you know how to use that blood ability?" He pointed his sword towards Kafka's face.
Kafka panted.
"I don't know how."
"Liar."
The blade pressed closer.
"If you won't bring it out," Arga continued, his voice turning cold as forged steel dipped in ice water, "I'll force you."
He pulled his sword back.
Then without warning, he leapt away from Kafka.
Toward the support squad.
Toward the pale faces standing there.
Elara screamed.
"Arga, don't!"
Time fractured.
Everyone moved too late.
Except one.
Kafka.
He didn't know how his body moved so fast. He only knew one thing. He did not want to see anyone hurt again.
He flashed forward like a shadow torn free from its owner. He appeared Infront of Arga, blocking the sword with a rusty dagger from his pocket which now he uses in phis trembling hand.
A sharp clang rang out.
Arga's eyes widened.
That speed, it was not normal.
But their strength was different.
Arga pushed with full force. Kafka was thrown back several steps. The sword swept again, this time cutting deep into Kafka's arm.
A heavy gash.
Blood flowed like a fountain.
Its red fell to the ground like petals forced to bloom too soon.
Arga stared at him.
"See?" he said sharply. "You think you're strong? You're nothing but a burden."
The words were more than insults. They were knives slipped into old wounds.
"You've always been like this," Arga continued, his voice rising. "Soft. Quiet. As if you're innocent. But that's exactly why everyone looks down at you. You think you can do everything alone? You think you don't need my help?"
Kafka said nothing.
Blood continued dripping from his arm.
Each drop felt like a countdown to something within him.
He wasn't angry.
He didn't hate.
There was only sadness, vast and deep as a shoreless sea.
"I never wanted… to be seen," he whispered.
The wind stopped.
As if the world held its breath.
The falling blood no longer dropped straight down.
It trembled midair.
Stopped.
Then rose.
Like small crimson birds discovering their wings.
Everyone stepped back.
Kafka stood slowly. The blood from his arm flowed upward, spiraling, condensing. Within seconds, two thin, curved daggers formed, gleaming like a bleeding sunset full of regret.
The aura that radiated from him was neither heat nor cold.
It was pressure.
Silent, suffocating pressure.
Adam fell silent, sweat pouring down his face.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow slightly.
Antonio's grin widened.
Azuna tilted her head, intrigued.
Arga smiled.
"Finally."
He raised his sword. Golden-white light flared along its blade, pulsing like a second heart grown from steel.
"I won't hold back," he said.
They moved at the same time.
Two streaks of light. Gold and crimson, collided at the center of the field.
The explosion of mana shook the ground. Stones cracked. Wind blasted outward from the impact like the forced breath of a dragon.
Their movements were nearly impossible to follow. Arga struck straight, disciplined, absolute. Kafka moved in arcs, like ink dancing in water. unpredictable, fluid, yet deadly.
Every clash of sword and blood-dagger sent sparks and crimson fragments scattering.
The earth fractured.
The air trembled.
Several students below Rank B were pushed back by the shockwave alone.
"This is enough!" Mr. Rahmat shouted.
But neither heard him.
Arga slashed downward. Kafka blocked, the blood along his dagger splintering outward into a thin shield. Arga's holy light burned its edges into red vapor.
Kafka countered with a cross-cut. The tip of his dagger grazed Arga's arm, leaving a thin line that immediately reddened.
For the first time.
Arga's blood touched the ground.
Their eyes met.
There was no orphanage in that gaze.
No memories.
Only two powers refusing to bow.
They leapt again.
And then,
A third figure appeared between them.
Mr. Rahmat.
One hand caught Arga's blade.
The other seized Kafka's blood dagger.
The collision of three forces detonated with a deafening blast.
Everyone below Rank B was thrown back like dry leaves in a storm.
Gilbert raised a shield to protect the nearby students.
Antonio stepped back, stance ready.
Azuna conjured a thin wall of ice to shield herself and others.
At the center of the vortex, Mr. Rahmat gritted his teeth.
His right hand burned under Arga's light, skin blackening in places.
His left was deeply cut by Kafka's blood blade. His own blood flowed freely.
"Enough!" his voice boomed, louder than the explosion before it.
The energy faded.
Arga and Kafka were thrown in opposite directions.
Mr. Rahmat panted, but remained standing.
He turned sharply toward the trio of overseers.
"Are you here to supervise, or to watch these kids kill each other?"
No one answered.
Arga tried to step forward again.
But someone stood before him.
Elara.
Tears streamed down her face.
"Why?" her voice broke. "What are you trying to prove? That you're stronger? That he's weaker? What is all this for?"
Arga fell silent.
His gaze trembled for a brief moment.
But he did not answer.
He sheathed his sword.
And walked away.
His steps were heavy.
Yet no one dared to stop him.
***
Four days passed like wind storming down the mountain.
At Mr. Rahmat's insistence, the hero squad and the support squad were no longer separated.
They trained together once more.
But the air between them felt like a winter that refused to leave.
Arga led the next expedition with an expressionless face. His commands were short. Precise. Cold.
He did not speak beyond that.
No one dared approach him.
Kafka returned to training as usual. The wound on his arms and chest had healed, but the distance between them had not.
Elara tried to smile at both of them.
Nadia shot her arrows harder than usual.
Yogi and Rina trained in silence.
Beneath the ever-majestic, ever-indifferent sky of Grand Aurelis, two stars that once walked side by side now orbited on different paths. too close not to see each other, too far to ever touch again.
And between them, the cold grew.
Slowly.
Silent.
Like ice spreading across the surface of a lake, waiting for the right moment to crack once more.
~To Be Continued ~