The rhythmic sound of wood striking wood echoed through the Scarlet Enclave Guild House training grounds. Ash stood in the center of the room, his hands gripping a practice sword, sweat dripping from his brow as the relentless pace of Kaidan's training pushed him to his limits.

  Kaidan circled Ash like a hawk—not hurried, not impatient, but deliberate. His every movement seemed measured, as if each step served two purposes: pressure and presence.

  He didn’t bark commands. He didn’t raise his voice. The only sound was the quiet thud of Ash’s footwork and the snap of wood meeting wood.

  “Again,” Kaidan said.

  Ash swung.

  “Too much force. You’re striking for impact, not control. What happens when your blade meets a counter?”

  He swung again.

  “Step with your intent. Every inch of ground you take should be earned.”

  Ash grit his teeth, sweat trailing down his jawline. His shoulders ached. His breath came sharp.

  Still, Kaidan’s voice remained cool.

  “What are you fighting for, Ash Vale? Don’t answer. Just show me.”

  He didn’t explain his techniques in long speeches. He showed them by not intervening. He taught by withholding approval, offering silence when Ash executed a form correctly, and only interrupting when something faltered.

  Where others gave encouragement, Kaidan gave space—room for the student to either rise or crumble.

  Kaidan’s philosophy wasn’t forged in academies or handed down through scrolls. It was hammered into him on real battlefields, beneath crashing waves and foreign suns. His was a style born of necessity—precise, unflinching, and heavy with the weight of survival.

  “We do not fight to win,” Kaidan once told a younger student. “We fight so that losing becomes unacceptable.”

  To Ash, that lesson hadn’t fully made sense—until now.

  “Too slow,” Kaidan said as Ash swung. The older swordsman stepped in with fluid precision, lightly tapping Ash’s wrist with his own blade. “Your grip is too tight. Relax, or you’ll lose control.”

  Each swing of the wooden blade carried a weight that went beyond physical effort—it was a battle against his own limitations. The sound of the strikes blended with Ash’s ragged breathing, a testament to his resolve.

  Zane leaned against the stone pillar, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on Ash like a man watching the past claw its way into the present.

  Ash’s breath came in sharp bursts.

  The wooden sword in his hands felt heavier with each swing. Sweat streamed down his temples. Kaidan’s voice echoed again.

  “Faster. Reset your stance. Strike.”

  He obeyed without thought.

  But in the rhythm of motion, the world began to blur—wood became steel, the warmth of the firelit training ground shifted to a heat far more violent, more consuming.

  Zane leaned silently against a pillar nearby, arms folded, watching the session with unreadable eyes.

  His mind wasn’t on the strikes or Kaidan’s form.

  It was on a town buried in his memory.

  Halford.

  Ash stepped forward—swung—missed his form.

  “Reset,” Kaidan snapped. “Don’t swing so wildly. Swing like you’ve chosen to fight.”

  But Ash’s mind also wasn’t in the guild hall anymore.

  He was in flames. In screams. In the staggering weight of failure.

  Zane remembered reaching the outskirts of Halford.

  The sky had been blood red, painted by burning rooftops.

  The streets were glassed in places, melted from heat that should not have existed.

  He hadn’t known where to run first—until he saw the smoking crater at the center of town.

  At its edges lay the remains of giants.

  Brighthollow had been legends, even then. The party on the verge of ascension. The ones meant to be the next Ethereal banner-carriers. Zane had known Onyx Clear—had trained with him once during a summit of Crystal-ranked leaders, back when he too was still a Crystal ranked Adventurer. He remembered Onyx’s shield, immovable. He still remembered his boisterous laugh as he blocked blow after blow.

  All that remained was a single half-melted gauntlet, embedded in the wall of what had once been a temple, and footprints scorched into the earth—Onyx’s last stand, drawn in blood and fire.

  Kael’s greatsword was found shattered in three places, still crackling with lingering mana. Nearby, the earth was gouged and cratered from blade slams that had broken pavement and monsters alike.

  Lysara’s daggers were found stabbed into a burned beam—still smoldering, still sharp.

  Sorin’s ritual circle had been reduced to streaks of glowing ash—the last spell, half-complete, its runes still flickering with violet flame. Zane crouched beside it, running a hand through the soot. Whatever Sorin had tried to cast—it hadn’t finished in time.

  Sylri’s staff was found bent but intact, resting near what they guessed was once a barricade. The surrounding stones still shimmered faintly with healing light—as if her magic had refused to fade, even when she had.

  And in the destruction beyond them all, a single tattered banner, clutched by a bloodied boy on his knees.

  Ash stumbled, caught himself.

  Kaidan stepped in immediately, hand snapping toward his shoulder. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Not here. Your eyes are lost.”

  Ash looked up, breath ragged. And Kaidan saw it.

  Not fatigue. Panic.

  Ghosts behind his stare.

  Zane hadn’t spoken when they found Ash. He’d just stared at the boy’s trembling hands, white-knuckled around Brighthollow’s torn standard.

  He looked small then. Not broken. Not crying.

  Just… silent.

  Too quiet for someone who had walked through the end of a legend.

  “I remember their voices,” Ash murmured, his hands still shaking as Kaidan released him. The words came unbidden.

  “Kael told me to run. Lysara smiled and said she'd make her last arrows count. Sorin—he already knew. Sylri healed me just enough to move. Onyx didn’t look back. He just said... ‘Go.’”

  He bowed his head. “And I did.”

  Kaidan was silent.

  Even he knew when correction wasn’t what was needed.

  Zane stepped forward, slowly.

  “Do you still hear them?” he asked.

  Ash flinched at the voice. He hadn’t known Zane was there.

  The answer came quietly.

  “Every time I lift this sword.”

  The air was heavy.

  Not just with memory—but with the unspoken truth:

  Ash wasn’t just training to improve.

  He was atoning.

  Swing by swing. Breath by breath.

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  He wasn’t trying to become stronger than Brighthollow.

  He was trying to be worthy of the lives they spent to protect him.

  Kaidan nodded once and stepped back.

  “Then swing again.”

  Ash obeyed—this time without hesitation.

  Zane watched, something old and quiet stirring in his chest.

  For the first time, he allowed himself to believe what Brighthollow once had.

  Maybe Ash Vale didn’t just survive Halford. Maybe he was meant to rise from it.

  To the others in the guild, he was unshakable—the Flame Scion, bearer of impossible power, the charismatic storm that incinerated obstacles with a grin. But here, in the flickering shadows of the training hall, that aura had dimmed.

  There was no fire in his stance.

  Only weight.

  Ash swung again. And again. Sweat streaked his face. His grip was too tight. His form too raw.

  But the way he kept moving, Zane thought. That’s what scares me.

  Because it reminded him of himself—years ago, standing in his own crater of failure.

  He’d never said it aloud, not even to the other guild leaders, but the day he watched Ash crawl out of the ruins of Halford, something broke inside him.

  He had been too late.

  Too far.

  Too absent.

  He hadn't heard the Night Warden’s roar. He hadn’t smelled the scorched earth or seen the sky fracture over Brighthollow.

  He had only arrived for the aftermath—and that was its own kind of curse.

  The others died screaming. Ash lived screaming inward.

  And Zane had watched from the edge of it all, unsure whether the boy’s survival was a miracle... or a punishment.

  It would’ve been easier if Ash had stayed broken.

  If he’d given up. Faded. Quit.

  But he hadn’t. Not entirely.

  Zane watched now as Ash gritted his teeth through Kaidan’s criticism, never once backing down.

  Even when I told the guild to reject him… he kept coming back.

  Ash’s survival came at a cost—one he bore like a curse. As he wandered from Guild to Guild, seeking a place to regain his strength, he was met with rejection at every turn. His grief, his guilt, his unrelenting anger—all of it threatened to consume him.

  Many saw him as a remnant of a story already finished, a broken boy who could never rise beyond the shadow of what had been lost. And yet, the fire within him refused to go out.

  When Ash arrived at the Scarlet Enclave’s Guild House, Zane had deliberately ensured he wouldn’t meet him. He trusted his fellow leaders to make the right call. Privately, he instructed them to turn Ash away, believing that as he was then, the boy could only spiral further into despair.

  “We can’t accept you,” The Scarlet Enclave had told him, “Not as you are now. You’re not ready."

  Ash had looked at him with disbelief and despair. “But I… I can get stronger. I have to.”

  “Strength without clarity is useless.”

  Zane had wanted distance—to avoid the guilt of seeing Onyx’s legacy in the eyes of a boy left behind. He hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for a remnant of Brighthollow. And more than that, he hadn’t believed Ash could recover.

  Maybe I didn’t want him to—because if he could, then I should have done more.

  That decision had weighed on Zane for years. He had watched from a distance as Ash struggled to find his footing. The boy’s determination had wavered but never disappeared. And now, as he watched Ash train under Kaidan’s tutelage, he could feel the change.

  That shame lived deep in Zane’s core, hidden beneath charm and fire.

  But tonight, it stirred.

  Because now, as Ash fought through exhaustion and instruction, Zane saw something more in him.

  He’s not surviving anymore. He’s sharpening.

  A faint shift crossed Zane’s expression—less a smile, more a grim acknowledgment.

  The sound of Kaidan’s voice pulled Zane from his thoughts. The master swordsman had once been a student himself, in a place far from here, in a land surrounded by endless raging seas—Hizora. “Stop,” Kaidan commanded, his tone sharp. Ash froze, panting heavily as he lowered the practice sword.

  Kaidan stepped forward, placing a hand on Ash’s shoulder. “You’ve improved. But there’s still much to learn. Rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

  Ash stepped off the training mat, legs aching and shoulders sore. His breath came slow and shaky, but not from fatigue alone.

  The world felt too quiet now.

  Not like peace.

  Like a silence waiting to be broken.

  He knelt beside his gear, fingers trembling slightly as he reached for a worn satchel that bore years of use and a dozen repair patches along the seams. From a side compartment, buried beneath spare tunics and a carefully wrapped flask of polishing oil, Ash drew out a small bundle of cloth.

  He hesitated.

  Then, slowly, he unwrapped it.

  Zane’s breath caught.

  From across the hall, he recognized it immediately.

  A half-burned arrow shaft—black wood, etched faintly with silver grooves.

  The fletching was frayed, but still intact: deep violet feathers tipped with fading streaks of white.

  A signature.

  Lysara Duskwhisper’s.

  Ash held the relic like it might vanish in his grasp.

  His thumb traced the grooves where her initials had once been carved into the wood, nearly erased now by heat and time. He remembered the moment she’d given it to him.

  "I’ve got a hundred of these," she’d said, smirking. “But this one’s lucky. Or cursed. You pick.”

  He hadn’t understood what it meant.

  Now he carried it like it was sacred.

  Zane looked away, his jaw tightening.

  He hadn’t known Ash had kept anything from the ruins of Halford. He’d assumed the boy had been too broken to think of relics. He hadn’t even noticed it missing from the wreckage.

  No. That’s not true, he thought. I wasn’t looking for mementos. I was counting corpses.

  Ash wrapped the arrow back in its cloth, then paused—his hand resting on it as though sealing something inside.

  This wasn’t just a keepsake.

  It was a promise.

  To remember.

  To improve.

  To become the kind of swordsman who didn’t need saving again.

  Kaidan, who had remained quiet during the ritual, spoke softly.

  “Yours?”

  Ash nodded, not trusting his voice.

  Kaidan said nothing more. But his gaze lingered on the bundle in Ash’s hand, and in the flicker of firelight, something unreadable passed across his features.

  Zane stepped forward slowly, his voice low.

  “I thought it had burned with her.”

  Ash stood, meeting his eyes. “It almost did. I pulled it from the ruins before I ran.”

  There was no pride in his tone. No bitterness.

  Only a quiet certainty.

  Zane’s gaze dropped for a moment—just long enough for a flicker of something vulnerable to show through.

  You carried it all this time, he thought. Carried all of them.

  And without another word, Zane nodded—not in approval, but in recognition.

  For the first time, he saw not just a surviving member of Brighthollow…

  …but the only one still trying to live like they never died for nothing.

  Ash placed the relic back in his bag, the gesture deliberate.

  He didn’t draw strength from the arrow.

  He drew responsibility.

  And in that weight, something within him began to settle—not fully healed, not yet whole, but no longer hollow.

  As Kaidan turned to leave, Zane approached and followed him out.

  “He’s got potential,” Zane said, his voice breaking the silence between them.

  Kaidan glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Potential isn’t enough to forge himself into something stronger.”

  Zane watched Ash as the young swordsman began to pack up his gear.

  Kaidan raised an eyebrow. “You know him?” The question carried more weight than Zane realized.

  Zane nodded. “More than he realizes.”

  As Zane turned and walked away, a faint smile played on his lips. “Let’s see what you become, Ash Vale.”

  The training grounds were empty now.

  The torchlight had dimmed, and the clack of wooden swords had faded into silence. Most of the guild slept, their laughter from earlier now just faint echoes drifting through the halls.

  But Kaidan remained.

  He stood near the far wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the spot where Ash had knelt—where he had unwrapped that arrow, touched it with reverence, and wrapped it again like sealing away the last light of a fire.

  Lysara Duskwhisper.

  He remembered the name, though they had never met.

  Brighthollow’s reputation had reached even the swordmasters of Hizora. They were warriors on the cusp of Ethereal Rank. Legends-in-waiting.

  Precision. Ruthlessness. Loyalty. A party balanced like a blade.

  And now… reduced to a splintered relic and a survivor with too many ghosts.

  Kaidan exhaled through his nose and moved to the training rack. His fingers brushed over the hilt of a wooden sword, then paused.

  He turned and walked to the far wall—past the racks, past the mats, to a small alcove beneath a hanging scroll of Hizoran calligraphy.

  There, in a quiet recess of stone and silence, Kaidan knelt.

  And for the first time in many years, he unwrapped his own relic.

  He, too, had once trained with something hidden in his pack. A ribbon folded perfectly, from a name he no longer said aloud. Unfolding it, the piece of cloth was stiff in places from dried blood.

  He had carried this relic for years.

  Until the weight of it became a lesson.

  Ash is still swinging like a boy running from something, Kaidan thought. But now I understand what he’s running with.

  The arrow, that girl’s relic—it wasn’t sentiment. It was a centerpiece. A weight that anchored the boy’s soul to the blade.

  Most swordsmen trained for balance. Others for speed.

  But the ones worth teaching—the rare ones—trained to carry something heavier.

  And Kaidan could work with that.

  He rose.

  Not fast, not slow. Like a mountain remembering how to shift.

  The ribbon he folded again—exactly as it had been.

  He returned it to its box, and as he sealed it, he let the silence settle again.

  But this time, it didn’t feel empty.

  He turned toward the entrance, where the last of the light flickered through the open archway.

  “Tomorrow,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “we begin breaking the pieces… and reforging them.”

  Not just muscle. Not just form. Tomorrow, he would train Ash’s breath. His gaze. His stillness.

  And under all of that, his Memory, and his Shame—and only then could a Legacy truly be reborn.

  Because that’s how you built a warrior who could carry the dead without breaking beneath them.