The banquet was over.
The laughter had faded, the cups had been put away, and the immense halls of the ivory castle had gradually emptied. The great doors had closed in a solemn silence, as guests returned to their domains or resumed their duties across the territories of the kingdom.
The Ivory Isles floated peacefully in the immensity of space.
Suspended in the cosmic void, they seemed almost unreal — as if existence itself had decided to offer a refuge of beauty in the midst of infinity. Their immaculate surface reflected the light of distant suns, creating pearlescent glimmers that drifted slowly through space.
That day, the light was different.
Softer.
Almost benevolent.
For the first time in a long while…
the world seemed at peace.
Away from the castle and the bastions, on a vast training platform open to infinity, a silhouette moved.
The terrain was immense. A perfectly flat expanse made of a material resembling the ivory of the isles themselves, but reinforced by ancient seals carved deep into its structure. Runic patterns extended beneath the surface, invisible to the naked eye, yet capable of absorbing forces that could tear worlds apart.
This place had been designed for divinities.
And even they sometimes had to hold themselves back.
At the center of this expanse stood Nihraël.
He was not training his body.
He was training his understanding of the world.
Each movement was a question posed to reality. Each dodge, an answer sought.
He wore a black training outfit, simple and light. No symbols. No royal adornments. Nothing to betray his status as heir.
Only dark fabric following the perfect lines of his body.
His black hair rippled slightly beneath a nonexistent breeze.
His face was calm.
Motionless.
His breathing was so regular that one might have believed he did not even need air.
And yet…
His movements defied all mortal comprehension.
His feet grazed the ground at a staggering speed. With each displacement, his body seemed to vanish and reappear elsewhere, as if space itself hesitated to follow his rhythm.
His arms traced perfect trajectories through the air.
Every gesture was precise.
Every strike measured.
Every movement carried the legacy of ancient martial arts — disciplines so old that even certain divinities had forgotten their existence.
Around him, several identical silhouettes appeared.
Clones.
Perfect copies of himself.
Same posture.
Same gaze.
Same coldness.
They attacked all at once.
Blows rained from every direction.
Fists.
Knees.
Elbows.
Sweeps.
The strikes crossed in a ballet of perfectly synchronized violence.
But Nihraël neutralized them all.
Without hesitation.
Without slowing.
He dodged one strike, intercepted another, then pivoted to counter. His body seemed to know every movement before it even occurred.
The clones vanished the moment they were defeated…
then others appeared.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The world seemed to move around him.
As if reality itself was trying to keep up with his displacements — not by will, but by necessity.
Nihraël felt the presence before he saw him.
Not because Sarvador had made a sound.
But because the air around him had subtly changed in nature.
As if space itself had straightened.
Sarvador stood several dozen meters away.
Motionless.
Silent.
Arms crossed behind his back.
His gaze betrayed neither surprise nor admiration.
He was not watching the way one watches a spectacle.
He was analyzing a phenomenon.
A mechanism.
An equation.
For him, what unfolded before his eyes was not particularly impressive.
It was… interesting.
Nothing more.
The cosmic wind slid softly around his silhouette, making his long dark hair ripple slightly. His face remained perfectly impassive.
After a long moment, he spoke.
« What if we trained together instead? »
His voice was calm.
Almost detached.
The clones vanished instantly.
The air stilled.
The dust raised by the combat movements settled slowly back onto the immaculate ground.
Nihraël went still.
He straightened slowly, then turned his head toward his uncle.
« Training with you? »
His gaze became slightly more serious.
A glimmer of interest crossed his eyes.
« Why not. »
He paused.
« What kind of training, exactly? »
Sarvador advanced a few steps.
His footsteps produced no sound.
As if the ground itself refused to disturb his passage.
« Martial duel. »
He continued advancing until he stood a few meters from Nihraël.
« Hand to hand. »
A brief pause.
« No energy. »
His eyes settled directly on those of his nephew.
« No powers. »
A silence.
« Pure technique only. »
His gaze remained fixed.
Implacable.
« We will see if you have made progress. »
Nihraël gave a slight nod.
Training with Sarvador was worth more than a thousand battles.
He knew it.
Everyone knew it.
Sarvador was, without question, the most formidable warrior he had ever known.
Perhaps the most formidable in all of existence.
Training with him was a rare opportunity. Every confrontation with him revealed flaws that no one else could have perceived.
But there was something else.
A quieter thought.
More personal.
Nihraël wanted to show him.
To show him how much he had progressed.
To show him that he was no longer the child he had once been.
« Very well. »
They positioned themselves facing each other.
A strange silence settled.
As if the world itself was watching.
Two beings.
Two reflections.
Two wills capable of making the universe tremble.
The air seemed to contract slightly.
Then —
The combat began.
Nihraël vanished.
His speed surpassed all measure.
His body materialized before Sarvador in a fraction of an instant.
One strike landed.
Then a second.
Then a third.
His attacks chained together with terrifying fluidity.
Every blow was precise.
Every movement perfectly calculated.
He used techniques drawn from ancient martial arts — some dating back to eras so distant that even the divine archives held no record of them.
His footwork was incomprehensible.
His displacements seemed to ignore the classical laws of movement.
At times, he struck without even touching the ground.
As if space itself served as support for his attacks.
He was…
Alive.
His face remained calm, focused.
But deep within him, a silent exhilaration had awakened.
How long had it been since he had faced someone capable of following his rhythm?
His blows grew faster.
More precise.
More unpredictable.
The training isle trembled slightly beneath the succession of impacts.
Silent shockwaves propagated through space.
And yet…
The ground did not crack.
The ancient seals engraved into the structure of the Ivory Isles absorbed every vibration, every shock, every fluctuation of power.
Without those protections…
the isle would have exploded at the first exchange.
Of course, neither of them was truly using their strength.
If they had…
even these legendary isles would not have been enough to contain the confrontation.
Then it happened.
Deep within Nihraël, something stirred.
Not a thought.
Not a decision.
Something older.
Something that did not belong to him.
The Seal.
It had sensed Sarvador's presence from the beginning. But now, as the combat intensified, as their bodies moved closer and further in a rhythm that resembled something ancient and unspoken, the Seal began to press.
A slow, deliberate pressure.
Like a tide rising beneath still water.
It did not scream.
It did not rage.
It simply… suggested.
Whispered without words.
An impulse, cold and precise, directed at the figure moving before him.
At Sarvador.
Nihraël felt it clearly.
The urge to stop holding back.
To stop pretending this was merely training.
To reach beyond the limits they had agreed upon and show what lay beneath.
Not out of anger.
Not out of hatred.
Simply because the Seal recognized something in Sarvador — something ancient, something familiar — and it wanted to reach it.
Nihraël did not let it.
He contained it the way one contains a river with bare hands — not by force alone, but by will. By the absolute refusal to be moved.
His breathing remained even.
His face remained still.
No one watching would have seen anything.
But inside, the effort was immense.
And somewhere beneath that effort, almost imperceptible, was something Nihraël had no name for.
A flicker.
Not curiosity.
Not admiration.
Something quieter than both.
He buried it immediately.
And attacked again.
Sarvador, for his part, remained perfectly calm.
He moved with economy.
No unnecessary motion.
Every dodge was minimal.
Every parry exact.
He read the attacks before they were even launched.
As if he already knew the outcome of every sequence.
His eyes analyzed everything.
Every muscular movement.
Every variation in rhythm.
Every fluctuation in space.
The blows rained down.
Nihraël used an infinite variety of techniques.
A range of styles accumulated across centuries of learning.
But nothing seemed to work.
He attacked the left flank.
Then the right.
A feint.
A rotation.
A low strike followed by an ascending elbow.
Sarvador parried everything.
Always.
Without apparent effort.
He was always in the right place.
Always at the right moment.
Always… one movement ahead.
Nihraël analyzed.
Corrected.
Adapted.
Every second of combat allowed him to adjust his attacks.
But even so…
Sarvador was not even breathing harder.
His gaze remained calm.
Almost distant.
As if he were observing an academic exercise.
Then —
Everything stopped.
Nihraël did not see the blow coming.
He did not feel it coming either.
He understood it a fraction of a second too late.
And that fraction was everything that separated Sarvador from the rest of the world.
The fall was brief.
His back struck the white ground of the training terrain in a dull impact. The wave moved through the ivory surface, absorbed immediately by the ancient seals engraved into the structure of the isle.
The infinite sky of the Ivory Isles stretched above him.
Calm.
Motionless.
As if nothing had happened.
He lay there for a moment, eyes fixed on the immensity. His body felt no real pain — this kind of impact was nothing to him — but the evidence remained.
The combat was over.
Not because he no longer had the strength to continue.
But because Sarvador had decided it.
A faint breath left his lips.
He rose slowly, passing a hand through his black hair to push it back.
Across from him, Sarvador still stood.
Motionless.
Calm.
As if he had not even moved since the beginning.
Nihraël's gaze rested on him for a moment.
He had not expected to win.
Never.
Not against him.
But that had never been the point.
He did not count the falls. He counted what he learned between each one.
An angle poorly calculated.
A hesitation.
An infinitesimal variation in the way Sarvador shifted his weight.
Details that no one else would have noticed.
Details that, one day, might matter.
He rose completely.
Without a word.
They resumed their positions.
And the combat began again.
The result was identical.
Again.
And again.
Hours passed.
The distant sun turned slowly around the suspended isles, casting moving shadows across the training ground.
Strikes followed strikes.
Dodges.
Parries.
Nihraël adapted his techniques, modified his rhythms, changed his approaches.
But the outcome never varied.
A moment always arrived.
A single instant.
An almost imperceptible movement from Sarvador.
Then —
The fall.
Every time.
And yet, Nihraël continued.
Because each defeat revealed something.
A poorly calculated angle.
An opening.
An error in reading his opponent.
Gradually, the combat transformed from confrontation into study.
A silent dialogue between two warriors.
When they finally stopped, several hours had passed.
Silence fell back over the terrain.
The cosmic wind slid softly around the ivory isles.
Sarvador observed his nephew for a moment.
Then he spoke.
« What do you intend to do now? »
His voice was calm. Almost indifferent.
« Return to the front? »
A brief pause.
« Or explore the world? »
Nihraël took a few seconds before answering.
His gaze rose toward the infinite space surrounding the isles.
Then he said simply:
« Both. »
Sarvador raised an eyebrow slightly.
« Really? »
Nihraël nodded.
« Yes. »
His voice remained calm.
Natural.
As if he were stating something obvious.
« As I always have. »
Sarvador's gaze settled on him with quiet interest.
He was observing.
Analyzing.
Then Nihraël slowly turned his body toward the immensity of space.
Before them, the universe stretched in all its depth.
Galaxies.
Stellar clusters.
Currents of cosmic energy.
Everything seemed minuscule from the heights where the Ivory Isles floated.
After a long silence, Nihraël opened his hand.
A sphere of energy appeared in his palm — not summoned, but simply there, as if it had always been waiting for this moment.
It vibrated softly, emitting a brilliant, almost solar light. The orb turned slowly upon itself, like a tiny star captive to his will.
The cosmic wind made his black hair ripple slightly.
His gaze remained fixed on the orb.
Silent.
As if he were observing something beyond that simple energy.
After a moment, he spoke.
« I have located someone. »
Sarvador turned his head slightly.
« Who? »
Nihraël answered:
« A young Kōyōjin. »
A brief pause.
« A sacred general. »
Sarvador's eyes gleamed with mild interest.
« Interesting. »
Nihraël raised his hand toward the immensity of space.
The energy orb vibrated more intensely.
Its light became almost blinding.
Then —
He released it.
The movement was so swift it seemed unreal.
The sphere shot through space like a falling star, leaving a luminous trail behind it before vanishing into infinity in a fraction of an instant.
Silence returned.
Nihraël then turned toward his uncle.
« They are stationed in another region of the universe. »
His gaze was calm.
But a darker gleam was taking shape within it.
« The rumors about them are… promising. »
He paused.
« Their army seems interesting. »
His words were simple.
Almost neutral.
But their meaning was clear.
« I intend to attack them soon. »
Sarvador listened with a detached ear.
As if this kind of announcement were ordinary.
He inclined his head slightly.
Then said:
« I hope this young general will know how to entertain you. »
A brief silence.
« And that this massacre will be worth the effort. »
His eyes settled on Nihraël.
« You who seem to appreciate the darkest of paths. »
Nihraël held his gaze.
For a brief instant, something vibrated between them.
An invisible intensity.
Like a silent flame.
Then Nihraël looked away.
He gazed once more at space.
But this time, his gaze seemed to lose itself far beyond the visible stars.
As if observing something that only he could see.
He did not answer.
He simply looked at the stars — as if the answer was already written there, in a language only he could read.
The silence fell back over the Ivory Isles.
And beyond them…
the universe continued to expand.
Immense.
Indifferent.