Avian's POV

The roar of the crowd hit like a physical force as Avian stepped into the sunlight.

The public arena of House Veritas stretched impossibly vast, carved from a single piece of white stone centuries ago. Tier upon tier of seats rose toward the sky, each one packed with bodies that blurred into a writhing mass of color and noise. Fifty thousand voices at minimum, all screaming for blood or glory or just the spectacle of watching a twelve-year-old try to survive against impossible odds.

The noon sun beat down mercilessly, turning the sand-covered arena floor into a glaring expanse that hurt to look at. Heat shimmers rose from the stone, making the air dance.

They came to watch me die.

The thought should have bothered him more than it did. Instead, he found himself cataloguing exits, defensive positions, the way shadows fell across the killing ground. Old habits from a life that ended with an arrow through the heart.

"LORD AVIAN VERITAS!" The announcer's voice boomed through magical amplification, cutting through the crowd's roar. "FINAL TRIAL CANDIDATE!"

Fresh screaming. Some supportive, most just excited by the promise of violence. Avian kept his expression neutral as he walked to the arena's center, Fargrim heavy at his side. The blade hummed with anticipation, darkness coiling along its edge like a living thing.

Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention to the crowd. There — Elira in the servants' section, hands clasped so tight her knuckles showed white. Beside her, Seren clutched her ever-present notebook, though she wasn't writing. Just watching with those too-clever eyes.

Kai had claimed a spot near the front, somehow managing to look both formal and ready to vault the barrier if needed. Next to him, Leontis bounced on his heels, golden hair catching the light as he waved what appeared to be a handmade banner reading "PROTAGONIST'S ALLY #1."

When did he even make that?

Thane stood apart from the others, positioned where shadows fell deepest despite the noon sun. His expression was unreadable, but he nodded once when their eyes met. Support from an unexpected quarter.

The noble boxes told their own story. Every major house had sent representatives, the kind of political theater that turned personal trials into imperial events. And there, in the box draped with imperial white and gold—

Emperor Caelus himself, resplendent in formal robes that probably cost more than districts. His presence transformed everything, made it clear this wasn't just about House Veritas anymore. Beside him sat Princess Celeste, perhaps a week older than when they'd last met at that dinner after the death mancer incident. She watched with the same intensity he remembered, the kind that saw through masks to the truth beneath.

Another fanfare split the air. The crowd's noise doubled, then cut off entirely as if someone had thrown a switch.

Aedric Veritas entered.

He didn't hurry. Didn't need to. Each step was measured, deliberate, carrying him from the far entrance toward the center with the inevitability of sunset. Simple black clothes, simple sword at his hip, simple presence that made everything else seem unnecessarily complicated.

The arena held its breath.

Aedric stopped precisely in the center, where servants had marked a circle in silver dust. Ten feet in diameter, with an X at its heart. He placed his feet on that X with the careful precision of ritual, then spoke. His voice carried without amplification, reaching every ear through will alone.

"The trial is this: Force me to step beyond this circle."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. That was it? Just make him move?

"I may defend but not advance. Magic is permitted. Spirit companions are not." His gaze found Avian across the space between them. "Success is achieved if I step outside the boundary. Failure is... everything else."

The simplicity of it was almost insulting. Almost.

Until you remembered who was standing in that circle.

"The trial begins when you draw your blade," Aedric continued. "Take your time. Prepare as needed. I have nowhere else to be."

Arrogant bastard.

But earned arrogance. The man who stood in that circle had killed things that gave nightmares nightmares. Had fought in wars that rewrote maps. Had earned his place among the Five Great Blades through violence so thorough it became legend.

Avian drew Fargrim.

The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, a note that made sensitive souls in the crowd flinch. Darkness flowed along its edge like water, like smoke, like the space between stars given hunger. Months of feeding had awakened something in the ancient weapon. Not full consciousness — not yet — but intent. Purpose.

It wanted to taste Aedric's blood.

Get in line.

"Begin," Aedric said simply.

Stolen novel; please report.

Avian moved.

No warning. No stance-taking or dramatic pronouncement. One moment he stood still, the next he crossed thirty feet in a heartbeat. Fargrim carved reality into geometric sections, each strike aimed at angles that should force movement. Head, knee, shoulder — lines of attack that demanded dodging.

Aedric's blade appeared in his hand without seeming to travel through the space between sheath and grip. Steel met steel with sounds like temple bells ringing. Minimal movements, just enough to deflect each strike. His feet never shifted.

"Not bad," Aedric said between clashes. "But you're still thinking too much."

Avian pressed harder, adding gravity to his strikes. Weight beyond the physical pulled at each swing, making the air groan. Sand erupted where deflected strikes hit ground, creating craters that sparkled with heat-fused glass.

Still, Aedric's feet remained planted.

"There we go. Power with intent." The Patriarch deflected a particularly vicious strike aimed at his ankles, sending it into the arena wall twenty feet away. Stone exploded. "But power alone? I've seen mountains fall. Takes more than force to move me."

Then I'll just break the mountain.

The assault intensified. This wasn't the pretty swordplay nobles learned in their cushioned halls. This was systematic violence, the kind practiced in places where losing meant feeding crows. Every technique Dex had learned in five centuries of war, refined and sharpened by death itself.

The crowd had gone silent, disturbed by the brutality on display. This wasn't how nobles fought. This was how killers worked.

A feint high became a gravity-assisted sweep low. When Aedric's blade moved to intercept, Avian reversed, using his own momentum to drive an elbow at the older man's solar plexus. It connected — barely, just a brush of contact before Aedric swayed aside.

His feet never moved.

"Now you're learning," Aedric observed. "Predictable patterns get predictable results. Show me what else you've got."

More? I'm already giving everything I—

No. Not everything. He was still holding back, still fighting like Avian Veritas instead of who he really was. The trained hesitation of hiding his true nature had become so ingrained he did it without thinking.

Fuck it.

The next exchange abandoned all pretense. This was the Demon King's blade work, the heretical style that had carved through armies. No flourishes, no beauty, no consideration for anything but making the other person stop living. It was ugly and efficient and absolutely wrong by every standard of noble combat.

It was also devastatingly effective.

For the first time, Aedric had to work. Not much — his feet still remained rooted — but his blade moved faster, his body swayed with more urgency. Sand kicked up from the force of their exchanges, creating a localized storm around the circle.

"Finally," Aedric said, and there was something like satisfaction in his voice. "You stopped pretending to be just another noble with a sword."

Gravity condensed around Fargrim until light bent. The next strike came down like judgment, making the air scream in protest. Aedric caught it two-handed, the impact sending shockwaves that cracked stone thirty feet away.

His feet remained unmoved.

"Impressive force. But I've weathered stronger storms." He pushed back, and Avian had to leap away or be thrown. "You're burning through your reserves quickly. Can you maintain this pace?"

The answer was no. Already, sweat soaked through his clothes. His Sixth Tier core, capped by divine chains he didn't understand, couldn't sustain this level of output. Each technique cost more than it should, each moment brought him closer to empty.

Minutes passed in a blur of steel and violence. Avian threw everything at the immovable wall that was his father — techniques that had felled demon generals, strategies that had broken armies, pure killing intent refined over centuries. None of it moved Aedric a single step.

His body began to betray him. First, the tremors in his sword arm. Then the lag between thought and action. His footwork, usually precise as mathematics, started to slip. Gravity techniques that should have warped space fizzled into mere suggestions.

"Your form is degrading," Aedric noted, deflecting a strike that would have been embarrassing even in training. "The difference between theory and application."

Another exchange. This time, Avian's grip faltered. Fargrim nearly flew from nerveless fingers before desperate will clamped down. The crowd saw it — gasps and murmurs rippling through the stands.

"He's finished," someone said, not bothering to whisper.

"Lasted longer than I expected," another replied. "But children shouldn't challenge mountains."

I'm going to lose.

The thought hit harder than any of Aedric's counters. His body was failing him, each heartbeat a struggle to keep Fargrim raised. Sweat ran into his eyes, mixing with something warmer — blood from pushed capillaries.

Another exchange. Slower this time. Aedric didn't even need both hands anymore, casually batting aside strikes that had started with killing intent.

"Disappointing," the Patriarch observed, not even breathing hard. "All that promise, and this is your limit?"

Avian's next strike barely made it halfway before his muscles seized. His knee buckled, driving him down to the sand. Fargrim's tip dug into the arena floor, the only thing keeping him from complete collapse.

Get up.

His body refused. Every fiber screamed exhaustion. The divine chains around his core were visible now, glowing through his skin as they strangled his cultivation. His Sixth Tier core sputtered like a dying flame.

The crowd's whispers turned to murmurs. In the noble boxes, odds shifted decisively. Even his supporters looked away — Elira covering her mouth, Kai's fists clenched white.

"Stand up," Aedric commanded. "Or yield."

Get up.

Avian tried. His legs shook, muscles tearing from the effort. He made it halfway before crashing back down, this time on both knees. Blood dripped from his nose, painting the sand in small crimson flowers.

"This is over," someone in the crowd said, voice carrying in the sudden quiet.

"Poor boy. Pushed too hard."

"Should have known better than to challenge—"

GET UP.

The words weren't his own. They came from somewhere deeper, somewhere that had survived death itself. His hands tightened on Fargrim until knuckles cracked.

"Still trying?" Aedric sounded almost curious now. "Your body is finished. Your cultivation is depleted. What could you possibly—"

Avian raised his head, meeting his father's eyes. Something in his expression made Aedric stop mid-sentence.

Because Avian was smiling.

Not the polite mask of a noble. Not the confident smirk of a warrior. This was something else — the expression of someone who'd found something stronger than strength, deeper than power.

His lips moved, shaping words too quiet for any but Aedric to hear:

"I don't stop."

Then everything went white.

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