The morning sun crept through the fortress' narrow windows, washing the cold stone in a golden hue. Thalen awoke to the scent of steel oil and the faint clang of metal on metal. His muscles still ached from the examination, but something deeper had changed his breath felt heavier, each heartbeat slower but louder, like the Tyrant Spirit inside him moved to a rhythm the world no longer shared.
He rose, dressed in the training uniform left folded at the foot of his bed plain black, high-collared, with a crimson insignia embroidered across the chest: the Mark of Ascent. The insignia was simple, yet unmistakable. It was a sigil of those undergoing training to become potential defenders of the realm. It was also a target.
The door creaked open before he could reach for the handle.
Varos entered, silent as shadow, eyes scanning him from head to toe.
"You slept. Good. Come."
Thalen followed without a word. Questions churned in his mind about the other SSS heroes, about the crystal prison beneath the fortress, about the storm of swords from his dream but he knew better than to voice them now. Not with the Blade Sovereign watching.
They emerged into a vast training courtyard cut from solid mountain. Dozens of warriors trained in silence some young, some older, all focused. Their movements were precise, disciplined, deadly.
In the center of the courtyard stood a massive weapon rack. Swords of every length and shape rested upon it curved, straight, single- and double-edged. Each hummed faintly with aura.
"Choose one," Varos said.
Thalen blinked. "A sword?"
Varos didn't repeat himself. He merely gestured.
Thalen stepped forward, scanning the rack. Most swords were pristine, untouched. But one far less ornate called to him. A simple longsword with a wrapped leather hilt and a barely visible sigil near the guard. It didn't glow or shimmer like the others, but something about it felt... right.
He gripped it and the air changed. His aura stirred.
Varos raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. You chose the lowest-grade blade on the rack."
"I didn't choose it because it looked strong," Thalen replied. "It felt... familiar."
"Your instincts might not be completely dull," Varos muttered. "Let's see how far they take you."
He stepped forward, drawing a sword of his own a jagged black blade veined with silver light.
Without warning, Varos struck.
Thalen barely raised his blade in time to block. The force sent him skidding backward across the gravel, feet digging trenches into the stone.
"What are you doing?!" he barked, staggering upright.
"This is your first lesson," Varos said coldly. "Draw the Tyrant Spirit or die."
The next strike came even faster.
Thalen spun, ducked, and parried but Varos was a blur. Their blades clashed again and again, each impact cracking the air like thunder. Sweat dripped into Thalen's eyes. His arms trembled. His aura flickered defensively, but the Tyrant Spirit remained dormant.
He couldn't summon it.
"I don't know how!" he shouted.
"Then you are not worthy to wield it."
Varos vanished and reappeared behind him, blade aimed for Thalen's spine.
In a flash of desperation, Thalen turned and swung not guided by thought, but by something deeper. His sword screamed with sudden power, and for a breathless instant, the steel turned black, like a shadow of itself.
Their blades met, and a pulse of raw force erupted between them.
Varos stepped back, lowering his sword.
"The Tyrant Spirit responds to pressure," he said. "It is not a gift. It is a curse that only respects resolve. Emotion. Willpower."
Thalen collapsed to one knee, gasping. His blade returned to normal.
"You'll need to reach that threshold without the fear of death next time," Varos said. "Because next time, I won't hold back."
He turned and walked away, leaving Thalen in the silence of his own breath.
That afternoon, Thalen trained alone in the northern wing of the fortress. He practiced basic drills, forcing his body to match the rhythm of his breathing. Sword up. Pivot. Counter. Slash. Again.
He tried to summon the Tyrant Spirit. Again and again.
Nothing.
Only the faint sense of its presence beneath his chest coiled, silent, unbothered by his struggle.
From a nearby balcony, Iselle watched him.
She'd seen his clash with Varos. Seen the momentary black blade. And something had stirred within her too envy, maybe. Or fear.
The Tyrant Spirit had awakened for Thalen. Even briefly. But for her, nothing. Her own aura, Spectral Wind, remained steady, but the second core within her remained silent.
She turned away.
That night, in his room, Thalen lay awake, fingers tracing the hilt of the sword he'd chosen.
It was still ordinary. Not even aura-imbued. But it had felt like home in his grip.
He sat up, breathed in, and reached again. Deeper. Past his fatigue. Past the ache. Into the well of something ancient.
The Tyrant Spirit stirred.
Not fully awakened, but watching. Listening.
And beneath that awareness, he felt it again the storm of blades.
The future.
He didn't understand it yet.
But he would.
He had to.
Because something was coming. Something greater than SSS ranks. Greater than the exam. Greater than this fortress.
The First Tyrant's legacy wasn't a myth.
It was waiting. And it had chosen him.