The streets of Alcatross were quieter than usual, the bustling marketplace they had passed earlier now behind them, giving way to the older, quieter parts of the city. Maxs walked beside Ryn, still holding his Claymore, the weight of the sword resting on his shoulder as they moved through the winding, cobblestone streets. The towering buildings that made up the heart of Alcatross had given way to smaller, more weathered structures, many of them shops long past their prime.

“Where are we going again?” Maxs asked, glancing over at Ryn. He was eager to move forward, to get better, but the uncertainty of where they were heading made his mind restless.

“To see an old friend,” Ryn replied without breaking her stride, her voice steady and purposeful. “He’s not exactly easy to convince, but if anyone can help you master that sword, it’s him.”

Maxs frowned slightly. "You sure he'll agree? What if he doesn’t want to help?"

Ryn let out a soft chuckle. "Luke’s stubborn, but if he sees something worth his time, he won’t turn his back. Besides, we lost contact a couple of years ago. He might be cranky, but I think he’ll listen. Eventually."

They rounded a corner, and Maxs caught sight of a small shop at the end of the street, tucked between two larger, more modern buildings. It looked almost forgotten, its wooden sign faded and cracked, barely legible. But as they approached, Maxs could make out the worn letters: **"Luke's Smithy."**

“This is it,” Ryn said, nodding toward the door. "He used to be a legend in The Spectacle, you know. ‘Thousand Swords Luke.’ His Soulforce, ‘Sword Dance,’ made him famous. He could wield nearly every type of blade with mastery. But that was a long time ago.”

Maxs raised an eyebrow. “So, what happened? Why isn’t he competing anymore?”

“Old age,” Ryn said simply, a hint of sadness in her tone. “He gave it one last shot four years ago. That’s when I met him. He didn’t make it far, though. We lost contact after that.”

Maxs didn’t have time to respond as Ryn pushed the door open, the creak of old wood echoing through the small shop. Inside, the dim light from the outside world barely illuminated the interior, but Maxs could see racks of swords, spears, and shields lining the walls. Each weapon was expertly crafted, but none of them seemed new—each blade carried the weight of time and history, much like the shop itself.

At the back of the room, a large figure stood hunched over a workbench, his broad shoulders shifting as he hammered away at a piece of metal. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel filled the air, the sound strong and deliberate.

“Luke,” Ryn called out, stepping inside. “It’s been a while.”

The hammering stopped. The figure paused, slowly setting his tools aside before straightening up. Luke turned around, revealing a rugged face framed by a thick, gray beard. His eyes were sharp, but there was a weariness to them, like someone who had seen too many battles, both in and out of the arena.

“Ryn?” His voice was rough, edged with surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

Ryn smiled, though there was a hint of awkwardness in it. “Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve been... busy.”

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Luke grunted, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Everyone’s busy. What do you want?”

Maxs shifted uncomfortably beside her, unsure of how to approach this grizzled old warrior. Ryn glanced at him before turning back to Luke. “We need your help. Maxs here is planning to enter The Spectacle.”

Luke’s eyes flicked toward Maxs, narrowing slightly as they took in the young man standing before him. “The Spectacle, huh? Another dreamer looking to throw his life away for ‘Adam’s Wish’?”

Maxs stiffened at the dismissive tone in Luke’s voice, but he held his ground.

“He’s not just some dreamer,” Ryn cut in, her tone firm. “He’s got potential. His Soulforce just awakened a few days ago, and he needs training. Proper training. That’s why we’re here.”

Luke scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I stopped training greenhorns years ago. The Spectacle’s not what it used to be, and neither am I. Find some other fool to help you.”

Ryn’s expression hardened. “Luke, you know I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think this was important. Maxs isn’t like the others. His Soulforce is... different. And his weapon—”

Luke held up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t care what his Soulforce is or what kind of fancy sword he’s got. I’m done with The Spectacle, and I’m not wasting my time on some kid who’ll just end up dead.”

Maxs felt the heat rise in his chest. He stepped forward, his grip tightening on the Claymore. “I’m not going to end up dead,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “I’ve been fighting to survive for three years in this world, and I’m not about to give up now. I came here to get stronger, not to be coddled.”

Luke’s eyes darted to the Claymore on Maxs’s shoulder, and for the first time, his expression shifted from disinterest to curiosity. “That sword...” he muttered, taking a step closer. “Let me see it.”

Maxs hesitated, but Ryn nodded, encouraging him to hand the blade over. He carefully unsheathed the Claymore and extended it toward Luke, who took it with surprising gentleness for a man of his size.

The moment Luke’s hand touched the hilt, his eyes widened. He lifted the sword slightly, inspecting the dark metal, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns along the blade’s edge. “This... isn’t just any sword,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Ryn watched him carefully. “It’s called ‘Claymore,’ but it’s more than just a name, isn’t it?”

Luke’s grip tightened around the hilt as he closed his eyes, focusing for a brief moment. The air around him seemed to shift as a faint glow of Soulforce flickered around the blade, responding to his touch. But then something strange happened—the Claymore resisted. The wild, untamed energy within it pulsed, pushing back against Luke’s Soulforce. He let go of the hilt, taking a step back, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Your Soulforce,” Luke said, turning to Maxs. “It’s raw, untamed. Almost chaotic.”

Maxs stared at him, unsure of what that meant. “Is that... bad?”

Luke shook his head slowly, his gaze still fixed on the Claymore. “Not necessarily. But it’s rare. Very rare. Most people’s Soulforce flows in a steady, controlled way. Yours feels... wild. Like it’s fighting to be unleashed.”

Ryn crossed her arms, a small smile playing on her lips. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Maxs has potential. You just didn’t want to listen.”

Luke grunted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not about listening. It’s about seeing something worth my time.” He turned back to Maxs, his expression more serious now. “That sword, and your Soulforce—they don’t play by the usual rules. If you don’t learn to control them, they’ll destroy you before The Spectacle even starts.”

Maxs met his gaze, determination burning in his eyes. “Then help me. Teach me how to control it.”

For a long moment, Luke said nothing. He stared at Maxs, sizing him up, weighing the request. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned and set the Claymore back in Maxs’s hands.

“Fine,” Luke said, his voice gruff. “I’ll help you. But don’t expect it to be easy. If you want to survive The Spectacle, you’ll need more than just raw power. You’ll need discipline, precision, and the ability to wield that wild Soulforce of yours without it tearing you apart.”

Maxs nodded, his grip tightening on the Claymore. “I’m ready.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.”

With that, he motioned for them to follow him to the back of the shop, where rows of swords hung on the walls like trophies of battles long past. Maxs felt the weight of what lay ahead settle in his chest, but there was no turning back now.

The real training was about to begin.