Caelan stood still in the training field, the mana around his blade gently fading like morning mist. The breakthrough to the 3rd Star Stage left a strange warmth in his chest—like a quiet storm waiting to be unleashed.
Behind him, heavy footsteps crunched the sand.
"So you did it."
He turned.
His father—Armath Dorne, the Iron Sword of House Dorne—stood at the edge of the training ground, arms folded, his expression unreadable, yet not as cold as usual.
"You achieved it faster than I expected."
Caelan bowed respectfully, wiping the sweat from his brow."Thanks to your guidance, Father."
(Even if you barely say anything, your silence taught me volumes...) he thought, keeping the words to himself.
For all his stoicism, Armath had always been the kind to express pride not in words, but in the tests he imposed.
Straightening up, Caelan met his father's gaze."But it's not enough. I need to get stronger—much stronger. I want to achieve something… something only strength can bring me.
So please, train me more."
For a heartbeat, the air between them was still. Then Armath gave a single nod.
"Very well. The next trial begins tomorrow."
Caelan took a step forward, heart racing with urgency."I can do it now, Father."
But the patriarch raised a hand.
"No. Your body needs time to recover. My next trial will be far tougher."
There was no room for debate in that voice—just steel, final and commanding. Caelan clenched his fists. His muscles burned, his body screamed for rest—but his mind didn't want to stop. Still, he lowered his eyes.
"Understood."
Gregor met him at the corridor with a proud, wide smile.
"Congratulations, young master." His voice, warm like a campfire, softened the rough edges of the day.
The scent hit Caelan before he saw the bowl—thick broth with chunks of tender meat, herbs, and the unmistakable richness of soul food.
"You'll need your strength."
Caelan took the bowl with quiet gratitude."Thanks, Gregor. You always know what I need."
Gregor just chuckled."That's my job."
That night, as moonlight poured across his bed and the windows gently shook in the wind, Caelan lay still—his body too tired to move, yet his breath steady.
Even in sleep, he followed the rhythm of the breathing technique, instinctively restoring mana and stamina. The body rested, but the soul continued to train.
Again the next day,
He reached the patriarch's private training ground before sunrise.
Mist clung low to the earth like a white shroud. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant chirping of mountain birds. Caelan looked around.
Empty.
"He's late again…" he muttered, turning to stretch his sore shoulder.
Relief tugged at his lips."Thank god… he's not here to scare m—"
"Who scared you?"
The deep voice slithered down his spine like ice water.
Caelan jumped, turning slowly to find Patriarch Armath standing directly behind him, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"N-No one scared me," he said quickly, heart pounding.
("Does he enjoy scaring people?")
"For the next trial, you will duel me."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat."What?"
Armath didn't blink.
"After reaching the 3rd Star Stage, there's only one way to grow—through battle and enlightenment. I shall be your opponent.
You will strike me fifty times. After that, I will strike you once. That's the rule."
Caelan swallowed hard.("One of his attacks is enough to knock me unconscious. Again and again... I might actually die before this is over.")
Still, he nodded."Okay."
He raised his hand."Can I use magic too?"
"No."
("Guess this is sword training… pure and brutal.")
For The Next Ten Days
Each day blurred into the next.
Fifty attacks. One counter.
Again. And again.
No matter how fast he moved or how unpredictable his strikes, Armath absorbed them all like stone drinks water—unmoving, unflinching.
Then, with terrifying calm, he'd launch his single attack.
Caelan would fly backward, consciousness slipping like sand through fingers. Sometimes he woke up on the dirt. Sometimes in his bed. But the voice always came:
"Again."
And so he rose.
Again.
His skin turned darker under the sun, bruises painted across his arms, his back. Calluses bled. Muscles screamed.
But he endured.
The pain became normal. The fatigue a companion.
On The Eleventh Day
Caelan stood in the same spot, blood dried on his forearm from yesterday's blow. But something was different.
His breath came slower. Steadier.
His vision felt sharper, as though he could see the wind shift before it happened. Every nerve in his body buzzed like a taut wire.
"Begin."
He attacked.
Each strike carried not just strength, but awareness. His footwork had refined. His grip firmer. His blade hummed with precision.
Fifty attacks.
Armath moved. His counter came—a blur of steel and speed.
Caelan twisted, shoulders tilting—
A sharp sting across his cheek while blood was dripping.
But he was still standing.
Chest rising. Sword in hand. Awake.
He had dodged it.
The Patriarch's piercing eyes narrowed as he stood with his arms crossed, watching Caelan stagger upright with bloodied lips and dust-covered robes. The faint cut on his cheek still trickled a line of red, but his breathing had steadied into the now-refined rhythm he had cultivated over the past ten days.
"You were able to dodge my attack…" the Patriarch said, his tone low and unreadable. "How did you do it?"
Caelan wiped the corner of his mouth, exhaled slowly, and met his father's gaze.
"As you trained me… I began to see it. The patterns in your movements. I predicted the moment you'd strike. I followed your aura and—" He paused, swallowing the ache in his chest. "—and I moved."
There was a long pause. The Patriarch's lips curved, not into a smile, but into a knowing expression of approval.
"I see… So you've reached the peak of the third-tier stage already."
Caelan blinked. His heart skipped a beat. "Peak?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Yes," the Patriarch nodded. "When one reaches the peak of a sword stage, their aura resonates with their body—guiding them to discover a trait unique only to them. " Trait " a skill born from experience, instinct, and will. It is called Enlightenment."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. "Enlightenment…" he echoed, stunned.
The Patriarch continued, his voice steady. "From what you described, your trait allows you to sense and anticipate an opponent's attack to a certain extent.
This ability… it will evolve as you grow stronger. Sharpened by life-or-death battles and tempered by your resolve."
Caelan looked down at his trembling fingers, the faint glow of exertion still lingering in his joints. The realization hit him like a wave—he was no longer just swinging a sword… he was beginning to understand it.
"What about you, Father?" he asked, curiosity lighting in his eyes. "What is your trait?"
The air grew heavier.
The Patriarch turned, silent. His boots ground against the gravel as he walked toward a massive boulder resting by the edge of the training grounds.
Caelan followed, eyes wide, watching each step as though it were part of a ritual.
Suddenly, the Patriarch clenched his fist.
A blinding pulse of golden-red aura exploded around him, wrapping his entire arm in sheer force. With a thunderous roar that shook the ground, he struck the boulder. The rock shattered instantly—no, disintegrated—into fine powder, drifting like ashes into the wind.
Caelan's mouth fell open. The sheer destructive force, the way it tore through solid stone as if it were sand—it was terrifying. Unnatural. Divine.
"My enlightenment," the Patriarch said coldly, his voice echoing through the silence, "allows me to continuously strengthen my body by flowing aura through it. The longer I fight, the more durable, faster, and stronger I become. Pain becomes numb. Fatigue disappears. In battle, I am a storm that only grows with time."
Caelan took an unconscious step back. His heart pounded like war drums.
If he had used that on me… even once… I'd be dead. Instantly.His sword is monstrous—but he himself is the true weapon.
Caelan returned to his room after another punishing session. His limbs ached, and faint bruises lined his skin like war medals. Yet, a calm resolve rested in his heart. As usual, Gregor was already waiting with a warm smile and a bowl of rich, steaming stew—thick with roots, herbs, and meat boiled to softness. A faint herbal aroma filled the air.
"You've earned this, young master," Gregor said, placing the tray carefully beside the bed.
"Thanks, Gregor," Caelan replied softly, giving him a small smile. He ate without a word and soon drifted into sleep, his body falling heavy into the mattress—but even in sleep, his breathing technique continued its work.
His chest rose and fell rhythmically, circulating mana through his body, repairing microtears, restoring energy, and strengthening him bit by bit.
The days blurred into one another.
By the 20th day, Caelan had transformed. His movements were sharper, his instincts faster, his eyes keener. Now, he could evade the Patriarch's blows with confidence, reading even subtle shifts in stance and weight. It wasn't just reaction anymore—it was intuition. A silent rhythm that danced with his opponent's intent.
"You were able to train your trait to this extent… in just 10 days," the Patriarch finally said, a rare note of surprise in his voice as he halted the session.
Caelan, panting but steady, replied with firm resolve, "I'll continue to train, without giving up, sir."
"Silence." The Patriarch's voice echoed through the ground like a cold bell. He looked at Caelan deeply. "Usually, when one awakens their trait and trains it, they suffer intense stamina loss… their aura drains rapidly. But you," he narrowed his gaze, "your stamina returns as if you've rested a full day after each night."
Caelan's lips parted, tempted to share the secret—his breathing technique that worked even in sleep.
But before he could speak, the Patriarch raised a hand. "Whatever it is—don't tell me. Don't tell anyone. If word gets out… if stronger forces discover your secret…" He trailed off, eyes steely. "Even I won't be able to protect you."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. His fingers clenched at his sides."Yes, Father," he said obediently.But his thoughts whispered otherwise. Stronger than him? There are monsters beyond even the Patriarch?
The Patriarch turned his back and began walking away.
"Tomorrow," he said over his shoulder, "will be your final day of training."
"Yes, sir," Caelan whispered. He didn't know whether to feel relief or dread.
The Next Morning
For the first time, Caelan arrived to find the Patriarch already waiting. The sky had barely turned blue, and the training ground glowed with dew and silence.
Caelan blinked in surprise. He's already here? That's strange… he usually arrives after I do.
The Patriarch stood in the middle of the ground, his arms crossed, an unusual stillness in his posture.
Caelan walked forward and stood respectfully before him. "I am ready for today's training."
The Patriarch nodded. "Today, I will teach you a sword technique."
Caelan's eyes widened. "Your sword technique?"
The Patriarch shook his head. "No."
"Then whose?"
There was a pause. Then the Patriarch spoke, his voice softer than usual—almost reverent.
"The elemental sword technique… of your mother. Lirien Dorne."
Caelan froze. His heart skipped a beat. A distant warmth flickered in his chest.
"My mother's… sword technique?" he echoed, stunned.