A few hours ago.

Ezra moved slowly through the forest, the weight of silence pressing against his shoulders. The canopy above smothered the moonlight, leaving only faint streaks of silver cutting through the leaves. Every step echoed unnaturally, as though the woods themselves were watching him.

Ahead, a dull red glow seeped between the trees. It pulsed faintly, beckoning him closer.

Ezra's gaze sharpened. He knew what lay at the heart of that light.

The sword.

But simply finding it was not enough. To claim it, he would have to enter its domain—the mental realm where nothing but pure swordsmanship held meaning. No mana, no tricks, no borrowed strength. Only the edge, only skill.

Daelen had once fought for two whole days inside such a trial before the blade acknowledged him. Even then, he had barely survived.

Ezra stepped into the clearing.

At its center rose an altar of black stone, its surface veined with crimson lines that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air around it was heavy, charged, as if reality itself bent toward the blade sealed within.

He approached without hesitation.

Drawing a dagger, Ezra sliced his palm. Blood welled and dripped onto the altar.

The stone answered instantly.

Crimson light surged across its carvings, flooding the cracks and symbols in a violent blaze. The glow rose like fire, wrapping around Ezra in a suffocating shroud.

His vision blurred. His body staggered. Consciousness slipped from his grasp like sand through open fingers.

And as the world collapsed into red, the boy's lips curved faintly.

It begins.

—————————-

Elsewhere…

Just outside another dungeon gate, far from the chaos within, the night air was thick with damp earth and the faint stench of blood.

Marcus kicked at a loose stone and smirked.

"Dalen, why so serious all the time? Come on, lighten up a little. This is our third dungeon run already—we're leading ahead of everyone else! Don't you think that's worth a laugh?"

Lyria crossed her arms, her expression calm but sharp.

"According to the ranking board, we really are at the top now. Just one more successful clear, and the first place is ours."

Evelyne wrinkled her nose, brushing a strand of hair back.

"Anyway, let's move on quickly. The smell of those monster corpses is still clinging to my nose."

Marcus laughed, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

"Haha, she's not wrong."

But Dalen didn't join in.

He stood a little apart from them, his eyes narrowed, his thoughts heavy. The system's warning still echoed in his mind—your life is in danger. For three raids, nothing had happened. Yet the unease refused to fade.

For fifteen hours they had been diving deeper into dungeons. The hidden guards he had arranged—stationed by his father's orders—had been lurking nearby all this time. But now, he knew he couldn't keep them here any longer. They had other duties.

"It's time," Dalen thought grimly.

With a flick of his fingers, he gave a signal.

From the shadows of the trees, several cloaked figures stirred and slipped away silently, their presence vanishing like mist. The oppressive weight in the air lightened as they disappeared into the forest.

Only two men remained.

They stood close behind Dalen, silent and unmoving. Their pressure was palpable, sharp enough to slice through stone. Both were peak Rank 6—his personal guards. Unyielding, unshakable.

That gave him some comfort. But not enough.

Dalen exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as the unease twisted deeper inside him.

"I hope… nothing happens," he muttered under his breath.

The night wind carried his words into the silence.

—————————

A boy stood outside an old temple, his skin darkened by the relentless sun. He looked no older than fifteen, arranging rows of small idols on a wooden stall—statues of gods and goddesses carved from brass and stone.

When he finally finished, a man approached with booming laughter.

"Hahaha! Shivam, my boy—you've done it! You're the state topper in your board exams!"

Behind him, drummers beat their instruments in celebration, and sweets were handed out to the gathering crowd. People cheered and congratulated Shivam, yet he only gave them a faint smile before returning to his work.

It wasn't surprising to him. He had always been first—first in studies, first in competitions, first in everything. This victory was nothing new.

"Brother," Shivam said at last, handing the stall keys to the older man. "It's your turn to look after the shop. I need to leave for my physics coaching."

His elder brother chuckled warmly. "Go, go. You should focus on your studies."

Taking the scooter keys, Shivam felt a quiet gratitude. His brother had raised him ever since his mother died when he was a child and his father abandoned him. Life had been cruel, but under his brother's care, it had become bearable—almost peaceful.

But happiness never lasts long.

That evening, the news broke across every screen and radio:

"Breaking news. At 4 PM today, a massive explosion struck near the Durga Temple. Officials confirm it was a terrorist attack. Casualties are estimated at over one hundred. The situation remains critical."

Shivam's breath stopped. Panic surged through him as he ran through the streets. But when he arrived, the temple grounds were already cordoned off. Ambulances rushed the injured away, smoke and fire rose into the sky, and the cries of the grieving filled the air.

His hands shook. His body refused to move. His mind shattered.

And then—

The flames dissolved. The smoke vanished. The world cracked apart into silence and void.

A voice echoed inside the darkness.

"Who are you?"

Ezra's eyes snapped open. His grip tightened around an invisible hilt. His voice wavered, then steadied.

"I… I am Ezra Celestrian."

The voice laughed.

"Liar. You are not Ezra. That boy's fate was already sealed. He was meant to die."

From the shadows stepped a figure, human in shape but carrying an aura that bent the very air around him. A blade shimmered in his hand, gleaming with unnatural brilliance.

Ezra's own sword materialized in his grasp. He leveled it at the figure.

"Listen," he said coldly. "I don't care what you believe. Whether I'm human, devil, demon, or god—it has nothing to do with you. What matters is this—"

He raised his weapon, the steel humming with intent.

"—I'm very good with a sword. And I'm going to break you until you give me that blade. The blade that can kill the monster. Understand?"

Without another word, Ezra lunged forward, steel clashing against steel as the mental realm shook with the force of their duel.

The clash rang out like thunder inside the void. Sparks burst as blades scraped against each other, the sound sharp enough to split the silence.

The figure moved first—his sword a streak of silver. One slash cut the void itself, carving open the darkness like fabric torn apart. Ezra twisted aside, the strike grazing his cheek as air hissed from the force.

Fast.

The man blurred forward, footwork flawless, his blade weaving arcs too precise for an ordinary eye to follow. Each strike flowed into the next—overhead slash, sudden thrust, sweeping cut. It was textbook perfection, the kind of swordsmanship that left no wasted motion.

Ezra's eyes sharpened. His own blade answered.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Steel met steel in a flurry so fast it seemed like dozens of swords clashed at once. Ezra pivoted on one foot, parrying high, turning low, his movements honed by battles where a single mistake meant death.

The figure laughed mid-combat, his voice echoing across the realm.

"Not bad. But you're not me."

His blade curved upward, exploding with a spiral of force. Ezra's sword arm trembled under the impact as the shockwave ripped apart the ground beneath them, cracks running across the void.

Ezra gritted his teeth, sliding back, his boots skidding over nothingness. His wrist burned from the pressure, but his grip didn't loosen.

"You think you're flawless. But I've fought monsters, not textbook duels. And monsters don't follow patterns."

He surged forward.

His sword blurred—not elegant, but feral. Each slash carried killing intent sharp enough to cut the air itself. He spun, reversed his grip, and slashed in unorthodox angles, disrupting the man's flawless rhythm.

For the first time, the figure's composure broke. His parries grew sharper, harsher, desperate.

Clang! A strike slammed into his shoulder.

Clang! Another barely missed his throat.

Clang! Ezra's final slash crashed down like lightning, forcing the man to one knee.

Ezra towered above him, breathing hard, sweat dripping, eyes cold as steel. His blade pressed against the man's neck.

The figure snarled, but his voice carried a strange reverence.

"You… broke perfection with chaos."

Ezra's sword didn't waver.

"I told you already. I don't care if you see me as human, demon, or god. I am who I am. And right now… I'm the one who wins."

With one decisive strike, Ezra's blade shattered the man's sword into fragments of light. The pieces dissolved into the void, leaving only the weapon Ezra had sought—a single blade glowing faintly, humming with power.

The realm stilled. The void itself bowed in silence.

Ezra reached out and took the sword. Its weight settled into his palm like destiny itself.