The heavy silence of the War Room Beta was broken only by the soft, rhythmic blinking of Excalibur, a silent, damning judgment in Sascha's hands. The legendary blade pulsed, a gentle blue beacon of his monumental error. Sascha, his face pale and etched with a dawning, terrible comprehension, slowly looked from his sword to Arianne, then to the stunned faces of his friends. The bravado, the anger, the defiance – it all drained from him, leaving behind a raw, exposed vulnerability.
"Is this… is this really happening?" Sascha's voice was a mere whisper, strained and uncertain, devoid of its usual booming confidence. He looked utterly bewildered, like a child who had stumbled into a profound adult conversation he couldn't grasp. "My sword… Excalibur… it's… ashamed? Because I pointed it at… at a Pathfinder?" He gestured vaguely at the empty space where Aiden had vanished, as if the concept itself was too vast, too absurd, to fully grasp. The realization wasn't a sudden, blinding flash, but a slow, creeping dread, seeping into his very bones. His thick skull, accustomed to straightforward battles and clear-cut enemies, was finally, painfully, beginning to understand the magnitude of his blunder.
Sona, her eyes still wide with concern, nodded slowly, her voice soft with sympathy. "Yes, Sascha. It's really happening. Arianne wouldn't lie about something like this, and Excalibur… well, you saw it. It's never acted like that for anyone else." She gave him a gentle, worried look. "You really challenged someone incredibly old and powerful. And now he's agreed to fight you."
Lucille crossed her arms, her expression stern but tinged with a hint of exasperated pity. "Idiotic, Sascha. Truly, monumentally idiotic. You ignored every warning, every sign. You let your pride get in the way of common sense. Not only did you pick a fight with a representative of an ancient, revered order, but you practically did it after he showed us what he could do with Miriam's little 'acquisition.' Yes, this is really happening. You asked for it, and now you're getting it." She shook her head, a sigh escaping her lips. "This is going to be a tactical nightmare."
Miriam, surprisingly, didn't crack a joke. Her face was serious, a rare sight. "Yeah, Sascha. As much as I enjoy watching you get your ego bruised, this feels different. Excalibur doesn't lie. That sword practically screamed at you. You really poked a sleeping dragon, buddy. And now the dragon's coming to the training hall. Good luck with that." There was no humor in her voice, only a somber acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation.
Arianne stepped closer, her hand still resting gently on Excalibur's hilt, as if to soothe the blade even further. Her voice was imbued with a quiet solemnity. "The Pathfinders, Sascha, do not seek glory. They do not challenge for ego. Their power is not for display. But when challenged, they respond. This demonstration, though born of your rashness, is perhaps a necessary, if painful, lesson. Yes, it is very real. Excalibur's reaction confirms it. The Pathfinders were, and are, the silent protectors of the fundamental balance. To point a weapon of such light and purity, imbued with the spirit of heroism, against such an ally… it creates a deep discord. A shame that even a sword can feel."
Elara, the Guildmaster, stepped in, her voice firm and uncompromising. "Sascha, listen to them. This is not a dream. This is your reality now. You chose to be stubborn, to let your pride overshadow the gravity of this Royal mission and the identity of your new team member. You disrespected an ancient ally, whose very existence ensures the stability of our world. And now, you face the consequences." Her gaze was piercing. "He said five minutes. That gives you… less than three now. Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to prepare?"
The sharp, almost clinical tone of Elara's voice, coupled with the profound weight of Arianne's words and the unsettling truth radiating from Excalibur, finally, truly jolted Sascha. The shock of the impossible slowly receded, replaced by the cold, hard fact of his impending, self-inflicted duel. He was going to face Aiden, the silent, ancient warrior who had just made the legendary Excalibur cringe.
A flicker of something—fear, determination, perhaps even a sliver of genuine curiosity—entered Sascha's eyes. He had boasted, he had challenged, and now he had to deliver. His stubbornness, though humbled, had not entirely vanished. It simply shifted, transforming from arrogant defiance into a grim, unyielding resolve. He still had a point to prove, even if it was just to himself.
"Fine," Sascha rasped, his voice still low, but now with a nascent spark of his old steel. He tightened his grip on Excalibur, the sword's blue glow still blinking, a silent reminder. "Fine. He wants a show? He'll get a show. I'll… I'll prepare."
He looked at the empty space where Aiden had been. "He thinks he's just going to play hide-and-seek? I'll make him fight. I'll make him show his real moves." The words were still laced with a touch of his usual bluster, but there was an underlying tremor, a newfound respect for the unknown that had suddenly entered his world. He still clung to the notion that this was just a fight he could win, albeit a harder one than he'd anticipated. The full, crushing weight of Excalibur's shame, and what it truly meant to challenge a Pathfinder, hadn't completely sunk in yet. But it was close. Very close.
The news, as always, traveled at the speed of a startled griffin throughout the Royal Adventurers Guild. A wildfire of whispers, spreading from the quest boards to the mess hall, then out to every corner of the sprawling building. Sascha, the hero, the proud wielder of the legendary Excalibur, was going to face an unknown individual in the training hall. Not just any individual, but one who had apparently made Excalibur itself ashamed (spreads by Miriam). The sheer audacity, the mystery, the potential for a truly epic showdown – it was irresistible.
By the time the five minutes were almost up, the Guild's main training hall was packed to the rafters. Adventurers of all ranks, Guild staff, even a few curious merchants who had slipped in, pressed against the ropes encircling the central sparring circle. The air thrummed with anticipation. Echoes of bets placed: "Ten silver on Sascha!", "Twenty on the silent guy! Heard he made Excalibur cry!" (Definitely spreads by Miriam to increase her winning chance), murmurs of speculation about what exactly had happened in War Room Beta, and whispers of who this unknown individual could possibly be filled every inch of the cavernous space. The usual clang of steel and shouts of practice were utterly absent, replaced by a collective, breathless buzz.
When the White Eagle Party finally arrived, moving through a hastily cleared path in the throng, a wave of excited cheers and shouts immediately erupted. "Sascha! Sascha! White Eagle!" The crowd surged, eager to see their champion. All eyes were on Sascha, expectant and fervent. But the White Eagle Party, usually so vibrant and boisterous, was remarkably subdued.
Sascha himself walked with a grim, focused intensity, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The usual swagger was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost somber determination. Excalibur, sheathed at his hip, still pulsed with a faint, steady blue light, a visible reminder of the strange events that had led them here. He didn't acknowledge the crowd, didn't wave, didn't offer a single boast. His companions, Sona, Lucille, Miriam, and Arianne, walked beside him, their expressions equally solemn. Sona looked deeply worried, Lucille was calculating every angle, Miriam's eyes darted through the crowd, more wary than excited, and Arianne carried an air of profound, ancient calm.
At the far corner of the training hall, near a rack of gleaming armor and practice dummies, several healers, the best the Guild could offer, were already standing by. Their healing potions were laid out on a small table, glowing faintly, ready for immediate use. Their faces were serious, reflecting the gravity of Guildmaster Elara's earlier command. Even they felt the unusual tension in the air.
And then, from the deepest, darkest corner of the training hall, a place where shadows naturally pooled, Aiden emerged. He didn't stride out; he simply resolved from the darkness, a figure already standing there, as if he had been waiting for Sascha all along. His sleek, featureless helmet gave no hint of emotion, but his posture radiated an almost oppressive stillness, a preternatural patience. The murmurs of the crowd died instantly. A collective intake of breath swept through the hall. Silence, profound and absolute, descended. Not because the crowd didn't know who he was anymore – they knew he was the one who'd humbled Excalibur (Yep, it's Miriam) – but because of the sheer weight that Aiden exuded, an ancient, almost tangible presence that commanded deference without a single word or gesture.
Aiden immediately began to walk towards the center of the training hall, his movements smooth and silent, a ghost in plain sight. He stopped precisely in the middle of the sparring circle, equidistant from the ropes, and stood perfectly still, a dark, silent monolith. Every single person in that hall, from the greenest rookie to the most jaded veteran, felt it: an inexplicable, potent pressure emanating from him, even though he was just standing there. It was as if the air around him was denser, heavier, charged with an invisible power that hinted at depths no one could fathom. He didn't need to shout, or threaten, or posture. His very existence was enough.
The White Eagle Party stopped at the edge of the sparring circle, watching Aiden. Arianne gently touched Sascha's arm. "Remember what Excalibur revealed, dear Sascha. This is not a contest of ego."
Sascha took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He glanced at his friends, a mix of grim resolve and lingering apprehension in his eyes.
"Alright, Sascha," Lucille said, her voice low, a final piece of tactical advice. "He's silent. He's fast. He can appear and disappear. Don't waste your energy on wild swings. Focus on defense. Try to read his movements, however subtle."
Sona stepped forward, her hands hovering, a worried frown on her face. "Please, Sascha, just… don't be too reckless. Try not to hurt him too badly, either. We need him, remember? The mission… and his order…"
Sascha gave her a tight, almost imperceptible nod. "I know, Sona. I know. But he challenged me. Or rather, I challenged him. And I have to see this through." He looked at the silent, unmoving figure in the center. His stubbornness, though bruised, still drove him. He had to prove he wasn't just a boast, that Excalibur had faith in him for a reason, even if the sword was currently ashamed.
Miriam leaned in, a rare, almost serious look on her face. "Just try not to embarrass yourself too much, hero. And hey," she winked, a flicker of her old self returning, "at least you'll have a story to tell, no matter how this goes down."
Sascha let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "Right. A story. Let's hope it's not a short one." He took one last look at his friends, a silent acknowledgment of their support, then adjusted the grip on his sheathed Excalibur.
It was time.
The collective hush in the training hall was so thick you could almost taste it. Every eye, every breath, was fixed on the silent figure of Aiden in the center of the sparring circle, and on Sascha, standing at its edge, his hand hovering over Excalibur's hilt. The air thrummed not just with anticipation now, but with a palpable, almost chilling tension.
Guildmaster Elara, her face stern and resolute, walked with purpose into the center of the ring, stopping precisely between Aiden and Sascha. Her voice, though not loud, cut through the silence with an authority that brooked no argument. "Listen closely, everyone! This is a sanctioned Guild demonstration. The rules are clear: nokilling. The fight will conclude when one combatant surrenders or is deemed unable to continue fighting by myself or the attending healers. Do both combatants understand and agree to these terms?" Her gaze was piercing, first on Aiden, then on Sascha.
Sascha, his jaw set in a determined line, swallowed hard. The initial shock had given way to a grim, steely resolve, tinged with a desperate need to prove himself.
"Understood, Guildmaster!" he affirmed, his voice ringing out, a stark contrast to the silence that had preceded it. With a flourish born of habit and a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of his usual heroic aura, he drew Excalibur from its sheath. The legendary blade slid free with a clear, resonant shing, its blue light flaring brighter, illuminating the tense faces in the crowd.
A wave of relieved, fervent cheers erupted from the packed stands, a collective roar of support for their champion. But for the White Eagle Party, standing at the edge, a new wave of deeper worries washed over them.
Sona gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. "Oh, Sascha! Be careful!"
Lucille frowned, her eyes narrowed, already trying to calculate the odds. "He's still underestimating him. He thinks this is just a normal fight."
Miriam just shook her head slowly, a grim expression on her face. "That sword's going to have a heart attack before this is over."
Arianne, meanwhile, merely watched, her face serene, but her ancient eyes held a profound sadness for the inevitable lesson Sascha was about to receive.
Aiden, in stark contrast to Sascha's grand display, remained utterly motionless, his helmeted head still. When Elara's gaze fell upon him, he offered only a single, economical nod. He made no move to draw a weapon, offered no flamboyant gesture. He stood there, empty-handed.
Sascha, noticing Aiden's apparent lack of armament, finally allowed his confusion to show. His brow furrowed. "Wait," he called out, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of disdain. "Are you not… taking a weapon? Why not? Is this some kind of trick?" He tried to sound brave, confident, but there was an underlying tremor of uncertainty. He was a swordsman; he understood blades, not… this.
Aiden's helmeted head tilted slightly, an almost imperceptible movement. His voice, muffled and devoid of emotion, carried clearly through the silent hall. "It won't be necessary."
The sheer, arrogant simplicity of the statement hung in the air, a profound insult to Sascha's pride and to Excalibur itself. Sascha's jaw tightened, his face reddening with annoyance and barely contained rage. "Not necessary?! Are you mocking me?! I am Sascha, wielder of Excalibur! You think you can face me empty-handed?!"
Guildmaster Elara, however, merely offered a slight shrug, a subtle, almost dismissive gesture. This simple act from the usually stoic Guildmaster spoke volumes, confirming Aiden's confidence and further fueling Sascha's annoyance.
The crowds reacted with a confused murmur. "Empty-handed? Is he crazy?" "He's either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish!" "Sascha's going to wipe the floor with him!"
The White Eagle Party's reactions were more nuanced.
Sona gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with apprehension. "He's not taking a weapon? Oh, this is bad! This is very, very bad!"
Lucille's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding mixed with alarm. "He truly believes he doesn't need one. This isn't arrogance, Sascha, this is… mastery. He's not fighting you with a sword; he's fighting you with his entire being." Her voice was grim.
Miriam let out a low, incredulous whistle. "Well, I guess I really should have put more money on the silent guy. He's got guts, I'll give him that. Or he's just that good. Probably the latter." A shiver, not entirely of fear, ran down her spine.
Arianne closed her eyes for a brief moment, a deep sigh escaping her lips. "This is precisely the Pathfinder way," she murmured, almost to herself. "To meet any challenge with only what is necessary, nothing more."
Having received confirmation from both combatants, Guildmaster Elara raised her hand high. The hall held its breath. She waited for a moment, letting the silence build to an almost unbearable crescendo. Then, with a sharp, decisive downward motion, she gave the signal. "Begin!"
The very moment the signal was given, the world seemed to shift, to blur.
A blink.
Aiden, standing perfectly still in the center, was gone. Not a trace. The spot where he stood was empty, as if he had dissolved into the very air. The crowd, expecting a charge, a shout, a clash of steel, saw nothing but vacant space. Their collective breath hitched.
Then another, one last blink.
Before anyone could process Aiden's disappearance, before a single cheer could form, before a single gasp could escape, Aiden was no longer gone. He was there. But not in the center. He was directly in front of Sascha, somehow having traversed the distance in an impossible fraction of a second. His gloved hand, dark and stark, was already wrapped around Sascha's face, his fingers splayed across Sascha's cheek and jaw, holding him firm. Sascha, caught utterly off guard, his mouth open in a half-formed shout, his Excalibur still clutched uselessly in his hand, was frozen in a moment of pure, raw disbelief. He hadn't even had time to raise his sword, much less swing it.
Then, with a force that seemed disproportionate to the effortless speed of his arrival, Aiden threw Sascha. Not gently, but with a sudden, powerful surge. Sascha, the proud hero, the wielder of a legendary blade, was sent hurtling backward across the training hall, sailing through the air like a ragdoll. He slammed into the stone wall with a sickening thud, impacting with enough force to make the entire structure vibrate. A cloud of dust erupted from the collision point.
Nobody in the training hall had time to react. Nobody had time to cheer. Nobody even had time to gasp. The entire sequence, from Aiden's disappearance to Sascha's brutal impact against the wall, had happened in less than two blinks of an eye.
Only silent, absolute, stunned silence remained. The crowd was frozen, their mouths agape, eyes wide with incomprehension. They had come for a fight, a grand display, and instead they had witnessed a terrifying, instantaneous, utterly one-sided annihilation.