The clang of swords and the hum of exertion filled the air as the training grounds of the Land of the Holy Sword buzzed with activity. 12 years old Michael Hevas Caddel shifted his stance. He wears a long-sleeved black tunic with subtle silver accents and a lightweight brown leather chest guard. His dark gray pants are tailored for mobility, and his boots are reinforced for durability. A black belt holds the sheathes for his two swords: one on his hip and another strapped diagonally across his back.

His long blade glinted in the sunlight as he practiced a sequence of precise strikes. Sweat dripped down his brow, but he paid it no mind, focusing entirely on perfecting the flow of the Winddance Blade.

A girl, standing slightly taller than Michael, carries an air of confidence and composure. She wears a fitted, dark green jacket with gold embroidery along the sleeves, tailored to allow flexibility for her swift, dual-wielding movements. Her fiery red hair is tied back into a practical ponytail, and her piercing green eyes often carry an amused glint, Sarah Reytus Caddel, is 2 years older and is his second cousin.

“You’ve been at this since dawn,” Shel called from the edge of the training field, where she leaned casually against the fence. She held one of her twin blades in her hand, twirling it effortlessly. “You’re going to drop dead if you keep this up.”

Michael didn’t look up, “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn, that’s what you are,” Sarah muttered as she pushed off the fence, walking over to him. “And for what? You’re spreading yourself so thin trying to learn all the styles. At this rate, you’ll be half-decent at everything but a master of nothing.”

Michael paused mid-swing, fixed his brownish messy hair and turned to face her, his expression calm but resolute. “I’m not trying to be decent. I’m aiming to master them all, no matter how long it takes.”

Sarah sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Look, I get it. You’ve got this big dream, and I admire the ambition. But there’s a reason people focus on one style, Michael. It’s hard enough to perfect even one, let alone five.”

Michael’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then I’ll be the first.”

“Bold words,” Sarah said, crossing her arms. “But big dreams don’t mean much if you collapse halfway there.”

Before Michael could respond, a loud voice interrupted them.

“Is this what the famous Caddels look like?”

They turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered, short spiky hair boy striding toward them. He wears a rugged training outfit typical of the Stonewall sanction: a sleeveless, dark-brown tunic reinforced with padded leather around the shoulders and chest. His pants are heavy and durable, designed to withstand harsh training conditions, and his boots are scuffed from countless hours of practice. A simple black belt holds his oversized sword sheath, and his forearms are wrapped with cloth for additional protection.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Arthur Mervane,” the boy declared, puffing out his chest. “I’ve heard all about you two. Trying to learn all the sword styles? Sounds like a colossal waste of time.”

Michael tightened his grip on his blade but didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s not about time. It’s about dedication.”

Arthur scoffed. “Dedication? To what, being mediocre at everything? You should focus on power, like the Stonewall Technique. That’s all a real swordsman needs—strength.”

Sarah chuckled, stepping forward. “Strength’s important, sure. But without control, it’s just swinging a sword and hoping it lands. You might break a dummy, but you’ll never win a real fight.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Care to prove that, then?”

Michael stepped between them before the tension could escalate. “There’s more to being a swordsman than brute force. Strength is just one part of it. Understanding the essence of each style is just as important.”

Arthur looked him up and down, his smirk growing. “Is that so? Let’s see how far that philosophy gets you when you’re up against someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“Enough,” barked the training master from across the field. “Back to your drills, all of you!”

Arthur shot Michael a glare before stomping off, his group following behind him.

Sarah leaned in close, her voice low. “That kid’s going to be a handful.”

Michael shrugged. “Everyone learns their lessons eventually. Some just take longer than others.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of motion. Michael cycled through drills for each style, his movements deliberate and precise. The explosive power of the Stonewall Technique left his muscles screaming, while the rapid footwork of the Winddance Blade tested his endurance. The most challenging, however, was the Celestial Swordplay. Imbuing his blade with a spark of magic was something he hadn’t yet mastered, and the frustration of his failed attempts gnawed at him.

Sarah, meanwhile, lounged nearby, occasionally critiquing his form. “Your stance is too wide,” she called at one point. “And your swings are too stiff. Relax, or you’ll pull something.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Michael muttered under his breath, adjusting his posture.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the training grounds in a warm golden glow, Arthur’s voice once again cut through the air.

The tension crackled in the training grounds like a storm waiting to erupt. Arthur’s face was flushed with anger, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. Michael remained calm, though his grip on his weapon tightened slightly.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Arthur spat, his voice dripping with venom. “Talking about understanding swordsmanship and learning control when all you’re doing is showing off.”

“Watch it,” Sarah warned, stepping forward with one of her twin blades unsheathed. She raised the sword, pointing it directly at Arthur. “You don’t want to cross that line, kid.”

Arthur sneered. “What are you going to do? Fight me for him? Guess I should’ve known the great Caddels couldn’t handle their own problems.”

Sarah’s smirk twisted into a glare, her knuckles whitening as her grip on her blade tightened. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone who hasn’t even learned how to swing properly. Maybe I should shut it for you.”

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“Sarah,” Michael interjected, his voice calm but firm. “Stand down.”

Her head snapped toward him, disbelief written all over her face. “He’s insulting you—and me. You expect me to just let it slide?”

Michael shook his head, stepping forward to face Arthur. “It’s my responsibility, not yours. And besides, the rules here are clear. No killing unless it’s in a duel. So, let’s settle this the right way.”

Arthur grinned, clearly pleased with the turn of events. “Fine by me. I’ve been itching to teach you a lesson anyway.”

The two of them made their way to the central arena, a wide-open space surrounded by other training sanctions. To the west was the Winddance Blade field, its grounds marked with light, swirling patterns to mimic the flow of wind. To the north loomed the Stone Bastion, its earth-packed terrain sturdy and unyielding. The east held the shadowed glades of the Shadowgrove, while to the south, the Celestial Terrace shimmered faintly with magical gemstones. Southeast was the Twinblade Ground, with intricate twin-sword emblems etched into the dirt.

Because duels between students were not as common as the fight between students and their masters , this one quickly drew attention. Practitioners from all sanctions gathered around the arena, curious to witness the clash. Whispers rippled through the crowd as a referee stepped forward, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a booming voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out, “today’s duel pits Arthur Mervane of the Stonewall Technique against Michael Hevas Caddel… of all the styles.”

The announcement sent a ripple of chaos through the crowd.

“Wait, the Michael Caddel?”

“He’s the one trying to master all the styles, isn’t he?”

“Impossible! No one can handle that many techniques!”

Arthur’s sneer widened as he fed off the crowd’s energy. “Hear that, Michael? Everyone thinks you’re a joke. They know it’s a fool’s errand.”

Michael ignored him, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his grip on his blade.

The referee raised a hand to settle the noise. “The rules are simple: the duel ends when one fighter dies or forfeits. Understood?”

Both fighters nodded.

“Good. Begin in three… two… one… fight!”

Arthur charged immediately, his heavy sword swinging down with the raw force of the Stonewall Technique. Michael sidestepped effortlessly, the ground cracking where the blade landed. Without pausing, Arthur launched another swing, the sheer force of his attack causing chunks of earth to fly into the air. Michael weaved around the strikes, his movements fluid like a leaf caught in the wind.

“Stop running and fight me!” Arthur roared, his voice echoing through the training grounds.

Michael’s response was calm. “If swinging wildly is all you have, this fight is already over.”

The taunt only fueled Arthur’s anger. Letting out a frustrated yell, he began swinging recklessly, each strike tearing into the arena’s ground. Deep gouges lined the battlefield as dust and debris filled the air. The crowd backed away from the edge, murmuring in awe and concern.

“Arthur’s losing it.”

“He’s destroying the arena!”

Michael moved with precision, using the Winddance Blade’s agility to stay just out of reach. He retaliated with a quick strike, his blade finding its mark on Arthur’s shoulder. The blow wasn’t deep, but it was enough to make Arthur stumble.

“Fight me properly!” Arthur bellowed, slamming his sword into the ground. The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, forcing Michael to leap back.

Michael shifted stances effortlessly, adopting the Stonewall Technique to meet Arthur’s raw power head-on. When Arthur charged again, Michael parried the blow with a powerful counter. The clash of steel rang out, the force of Michael’s deflection sending vibrations up Arthur’s arm.

Before Arthur could recover, Michael transitioned into the Shadowfang Style. His movements became erratic and unpredictable, his footwork creating faint afterimages that danced around Arthur.

“What the—?!” Arthur swung wildly, aiming for the illusions but hitting nothing but air.

The crowd murmured louder.

“He’s toying with him!”

“Michael’s switching styles like it’s nothing!”

Arthur’s frustration reached a boiling point. He roared in fury, raising his sword high and slamming it into the ground repeatedly, sending chunks of debris flying. “STAND STILL!”

Michael remained composed, darting through the storm of destruction. His movements became sharper as he transitioned into the Celestial Swordplay. His blade shimmered faintly as he infused it with magic, the glowing edge slicing cleanly through the dust-filled air. One strike grazed Arthur’s side, leaving a faint burn that forced the furious swordsman to stagger back.

“You’re just running away like a coward!” Arthur spat, clutching his side.

Michael ignored the insult, his stance shifting yet again. With a fluid motion, he reached down to his belt and pulled out a second sword. Gasps echoed through the audience as Michael adopted the Twin Blade Flow, his movements now a seamless blend of precision and aggression.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’ve been holding back?!”

Michael didn’t answer. He lunged forward, both blades working in harmony as he unleashed a series of strikes. Arthur struggled to keep up, his single sword barely managing to block the flurry of attacks.

In a desperate move, Arthur swung with all his might, aiming to knock one of Michael’s swords away. Michael anticipated the move and let go of his second blade, letting it fly out of his hand and clatter to the ground behind Arthur.

Arthur smirked. “Big mistake!”

But Michael used the opening to dash in close. His remaining blade flashed upward in a sharp arc, catching Arthur’s shoulder. The impact wasn’t deep, but it staggered Arthur and left him exposed.

Before Arthur could recover, Michael darted past him, retrieving the second blade. The crowd held their breath as Michael spun around, feinting an attack with the newly recovered sword. Arthur instinctively moved to block it, leaving his left flank wide open.

Michael capitalized on the opening, delivering a swift, controlled strike with his primary blade. The flat of the sword smacked against Arthur’s side, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Panting and trembling, Arthur swung one last desperate strike from his knees. Michael stepped inside the arc of the blow, using the Stonewall Technique to catch the blade on his own and force it down. With a swift counter, Michael brought his blade to Arthur’s throat, stopping just shy of contact.

The arena fell silent.

Arthur dropped his sword, his shoulders slumping. “I… I forfeit,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Michael stepped back, lowering his blade. Without a word, he turned and walked out of the arena, the crowd parting to let him through.

Sarah was waiting at the edge, arms crossed but smirking. “I don’t know what was more impressive—your moves or your patience. I would’ve skewered him.”

Michael shrugged. “He lost his focus. The rest was just cleanup.”

She clapped him on the back, laughing. “Still, not bad for someone trying to master everything. You might actually pull it off.”

Michael allowed a faint smirk. “One fight at a time. Besides, you would have done better if not, overkill, if you fought him in the first place”

“Hahaha, you know me too well.” Sarah laughed, patting one of her arms on Michael’s shoulders.

The two walked away together, leaving behind a battered arena, a humbled Arthur, and a stunned audience.

As the students dispersed for the evening, Sarah and Michael were walking on the side after she easily beat Michael up in their mock fight. She clapped Michael on the shoulder. “You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that? But hey, I’ll admit, you’ve got potential. Just don’t push yourself too hard.”

Michael gave her a tired but determined smile. “I’ll rest when I’ve achieved what I set out to do.”

Sarah rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces if you burn yourself out.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they left the training grounds, Michael glanced back to see Arthur still practicing, his frustration evident. For a moment, he considered offering advice, but he decided against it. Arthur would have to find his own path, just as Michael was forging his.

His journey wasn’t just about mastering swordsmanship—it was about understanding the soul of each technique. And no amount of arrogance or doubt from others would deter him from that goal.