He moved like lightning. The movement technique was one of the family's secret leg arts — but none had ever mastered it like Sylvaris and his father. In the blink of an eye, his body vanished. Before the others could even react, Arathor was already standing across the room, clutching his neck. His breath hitched.
In his eyes, Sylvaris wasn't a boy anymore. He was a god of battle in his infancy. A warrior overflowing with terrifying potential. A swordsman whose talent eclipsed even his own.
Arathor was certain — he had been cut. He could feel the sting, the heat, the phantom pain slicing through his neck. And yet… he had moved just in time. Just barely dodged the blow that would have taken his life.
"You…" he rasped, fury rising like a tide of fire. His eyes burned with disbelief — then madness.
All four men moved at once.Arathor and his three sons lunged together, blades flashing, their aura flaring with lethal force — aiming to put Sylvaris down before he grew beyond them.
