The battlefield was nothing but a wasteland of destruction. The ground was torn apart, with deep craters and scattered debris marking the aftermath of a brutal fight.

Smoke still lingered in the air, curling upward in ghostly tendrils, while the scent of burnt earth and metal filled the atmosphere.

It was a scene of chaos, a place where only the strongest could survive.

At the center of the battlefield stood a young man, barely nineteen years old.

His white hair swayed slightly in the wind, and in his hand, he gripped a gleaming sword. His crimson eyes, sharp and focused, locked onto the seven warriors standing before him.

Despite his young age, there was an air of power and confidence around him that made him seem far older.

The seven men were much older, their faces lined with age, each one clad in traditional Japanese-style robes, their swords drawn and ready.

They exuded experience, their posture disciplined, yet something was off. Their confidence seemed shaken, their movements hesitant.

Hilmya tilted his head, his voice carrying a mix of disappointment and mockery. “I expected more from you. I thought you’d be stronger, but… this is just pathetic.”

The warriors exchanged uncertain glances, their expressions betraying a deep sense of unease.

They were seasoned fighters, likely between sixty and seventy years old, but in front of this young man, they felt utterly powerless.

One of them, a man with a grizzled beard and sharp eyes, stepped forward. He placed one foot firmly on the ground while pressing the other against his chest in a formal stance. His voice, though steady, carried a hint of disbelief.

“Lord Hilmya, you’re progressing too fast. Just a few years ago, you could barely keep up with any one of us. And now… you’re overpowering all seven of us at once.”

Hilmya lowered his head slightly, a shadow passing over his face. Then, with a scoff, he snapped his gaze back to them.

“Don’t make excuses,” he said coldly. “Stop talking and fight.”

The seven warriors glanced at one another, hesitant but understanding the inevitable.

Their grips tightened around their swords as they slowly took a step back, preparing themselves. A silent agreement passed between them.

Then, in perfect unison, they charged.

Hilmya watched them approach, unfazed. His sword, previously held at his side, dipped toward the ground. His crimson eyes gleamed, and in an instant, a pulse of white energy flickered to life, coiling around his blade like a living force.

The seven warriors rushed in with all their might, their blades flashing under the light. Hilmya, however, simply smirked.

And then—it happened.

Shadows rippled around him, warping and twisting unnaturally. From those very shadows, figures emerged—seven identical copies of Hilmya, each wielding a sword identical to his own. Their blades shimmered with the same eerie white energy.

The warriors faltered mid-charge, their eyes widening in horror.

The seven warriors had no time to react. Their only option was to brace for impact. They brought their swords up defensively, positioning them in front of their faces and chests, hoping to withstand the coming assault.

The seven Hilmya clones wasted no time. With a blur of motion, they dashed forward, their speed almost unnatural. Their swords descended in perfect sync, slashing downward.

The moment the blades met the earth, everything changed.

A massive shockwave exploded outward from the point of impact, the ground cracking and shattering beneath the force. At the same time, a deep crimson energy sphere erupted from where the clones had struck, surging outward in a blinding flash.

The energy roared as it expanded, like a furious storm ripping through the battlefield. Crackling with red lightning, it surged forward with devastating speed, rushing toward the seven warriors like an unstoppable force.

The warriors barely had time to react. They reinforced their stances, pressing their swords tighter against their bodies in a desperate attempt to shield themselves.

But the moment the crimson energy wave struck them—

An earth-shaking explosion tore through the battlefield.

The force of the explosion sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield, throwing debris and dust into the air.

The ground trembled violently, and the sound of the blast echoed for miles. When the dust finally settled, the seven warriors were nowhere to be seen. The only thing left was a massive crater, smoking and charred, where they had once stood.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Hilmya stood at the edge of the crater, his sword still glowing faintly with white energy. His crimson eyes scanned the destruction, his expression calm and unreadable.

The seven clones that had emerged from the shadows now faded away, dissolving into nothingness.

He took a deep breath, the wind carrying the scent of ash and burnt earth. The battlefield was silent now, the only sound being the faint crackling of flames in the distance.

“Is this all you had?” Hilmya muttered to himself, his voice low and filled with disappointment. “I expected more.”

As Hilmya turned to leave the battlefield, a faint sound caught his attention. He paused, his sharp eyes scanning the area. From the edge of the crater, a figure emerged, struggling to stand.

It was one of the warriors, the man with the grizzled beard. His robes were torn, his sword shattered, and his body covered in burns and wounds. Yet, he was still alive.

Hilmya raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed. “You’re tougher than I thought,” he said, his tone calm but cold.

The warrior coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Hilmya, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and defiance. “You… you’ve grown too strong,” he said, his voice weak but steady. “But this… this isn’t the end.”

Hilmya tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

The warrior managed a faint smile, though it was filled with bitterness. “There are others… stronger than us. They will come for you. And when they do… you’ll see what true power is.”

Hilmya’s expression remained unchanged. He took a step closer to the warrior, his sword still glowing faintly. “Let them come,” he said simply. “I’ll be waiting.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the warrior behind. The battlefield was silent once more, the only sound being the faint crackling of flames and the distant howl of the wind.

As Hilmya walked away from the battlefield, his mind was already focused on the future. He knew this was just the beginning. The warrior’s words echoed in his mind, but they didn’t frighten him. If anything, they fueled his determination.

“Stronger opponents, huh?” Hilmya muttered to himself, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll be ready.”

The road ahead was uncertain, but Hilmya was prepared for whatever challenges lay ahead. He had trained for years, pushing himself to the limit, and now he was ready to face the world.

After some time

The massive explosion on the battlefield sent shockwaves rippling through the air, shaking the ground beneath the feet of the soldiers.

Smoke and dust billowed high into the sky, momentarily blotting out the sun and casting an eerie shadow over the chaos below.

The cries of warriors, the clash of steel, and the roar of magic filled the air, creating a symphony of destruction.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, one figure stood out—Lord Hilmya, the Chosen One. His presence was like a beacon, radiating power and determination as he moved through the battlefield with unmatched speed and precision.

Far from the chaos, atop a rocky hill overlooking the battlefield, stood two men.

One was an elderly figure, his long white hair flowing past his shoulders, his equally white beard adding to his ancient and wise demeanor.

Dressed in traditional white robes of an old Chinese style, he radiated an aura of profound knowledge and authority. This was Master Oden, a legendary figure known for his wisdom and mastery of the sword.

Beside him stood a middle-aged man, his black hair tied back neatly, a sharp contrast to his well-groomed beard. This was Siki, Oden’s most trusted disciple and a formidable warrior in his own right And the head of the main family soku sword clan.

Both men carried exceptionally crafted swords strapped to their waists—an indication of their mastery in combat.

Their eyes remained fixed on the battlefield below, where the intensity of the fight continued to unfold.

The middle-aged man finally broke the silence. “Lord Hilmya’s growth is… exponential.” His voice carried a tone of both admiration and unease. “It seems like he will surpass every Chosen One who came before him with ease.”

Hearing this, the old man—Master Oden—turned slightly toward him. His aged face, though unreadable at first, soon revealed a trace of concern. “You are right, Siki,” Oden admitted, his voice deep and contemplative. Yet, despite acknowledging Siki’s words, his expression remained clouded with worry.

Siki noticed it immediately. His brows furrowed as he turned to face his master. “Master Oden… why do you look so troubled? What is it that worries you so much?”

Master Oden’s gaze remained distant, still fixed on the battlefield. Then, after a brief pause, he looked back at Siki and spoke. “What you said just now… that is precisely what concerns me.”

Siki’s eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “I don’t understand, Master Oden. How can Lord Hilmya’s rapid growth be a problem?”

Instead of answering, Oden turned away from the battlefield and began walking down the rocky path, his steps slow yet deliberate.

Seeing this, Siki hurried after him, his concern only growing. “Master Oden!” Siki called, his voice carrying urgency. “Please, tell me what is troubling you! What is it that weighs so heavily on your mind?”

Oden continued walking, silent for a few moments before finally speaking. “Lord Hilmya… has not yet fully awakened.”

Siki blinked in surprise. “Not fully awakened?” he echoed, trying to process the statement.

Oden nodded. “He still does not understand the true meaning of his power.”

This revelation made Siki’s concern deepen. His thoughts raced as he tried to make sense of what his master was implying.

Finally, he hesitated before voicing his own concern. “Master Oden… are you worried that Lord Hilmya is too eager to fight? That he acts on impulse rather than careful decision-making?”

Master Oden suddenly halted. Siki, caught off guard, stopped just a step behind him. “No,” Oden said firmly, turning to face Siki. His sharp, aged eyes met Siki’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down the younger man’s spine.

“That is not what concerns me. Every Chosen One before him has shared this trait. Their reckless behavior, their impulsive nature—it is something that time and experience always correct.”

Siki’s confusion only deepened. If that was not the problem, then what was? “Then… what is it, Master Oden?” Siki asked, his voice filled with growing unease.

Oden exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “It is his power itself.”

Siki’s breath caught. “His power…?”

Oden gave a solemn nod. “His strength is growing too fast. Much faster than it should.”

Siki felt an unfamiliar chill creep up his spine. He had never once considered that Hilmya’s rapid progress could be a bad thing. “What… what are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if dreading the answer.

Master Oden fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Our ancient texts warn of this. They speak of a time when a Chosen One surpasses all who came before them at an unnatural speed. And when that happens… it is always followed by a great storm.”

Siki stiffened. “A storm…?”

Oden’s expression darkened. “Yes. A storm that will shake the very foundation of our world.”

Siki’s mind raced as he tried to comprehend the gravity of Oden’s words. He had always believed that the Chosen One’s rapid growth was a blessing, a sign that they were destined to bring peace and victory of the sword clan..