A suffocating silence, heavy and absolute, pressed in from all sides, crushing the air from Azrael's lungs. His breath caught, a ragged, desperate hitch, as his eyes darted frantically across the grotesque parody of a courtroom. Jagged cracks, like frozen lightning, ran down the crumbling stone walls, mapping pathways of despair. A pulsing, malevolent crimson light bled from behind the impossibly tall judge's bench, staining the shadows with the color of old blood. The air was cold, unnaturally so, seeping into his bones.
In the very middle of the dilapidated room, resting ominously on a scarred wooden table directly before them, lay a single, ornate knife. Its wickedly curved blade glistened wetly, not with fresh blood, but with a dried, blackened substance that seemed to absorb the crimson light, making it appear even more sinister. It pulsed with a faint, internal malevolence.
A sudden, deafening slam. CRACK. The gavel, impossibly large and seemingly carved from bone, struck the bench with thunderous, earth-shattering force. Dust rained down from the decaying ceiling.
"Guilty."
The voice was deep, distorted, resonating from the shadowed figure on the bench—a figure more void than substance. It was a sound that scraped against the soul, almost inhuman, a chorus of damnation condensed into a single word.
A chorus of whispers stirred the stagnant air, slithering like invisible snakes across their skin, coiling around their hearts. They were insidious, pervasive, impossible to locate yet everywhere at once. "You killed him...""You watched...""You did nothing...""You killed your own father.""Murderers..."
Veyron clutched his head, his body trembling violently. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts as if the very air fought against him, thick and unyielding. "No… no, it wasn't us…" he choked out, his voice a desperate plea against an unseen tide. "Shut up. Shut up—shut UP—!" He squeezed his eyes shut, but the whispers only grew louder, more insistent, burrowing deeper into his mind.
Azrael tried to stand, to fight, to shield his brother, but cold, invisible chains, forged from pure dread, yanked him down. His limbs refused to respond, his body paralyzed, leaden under the crushing weight of an unseen, unearned guilt. He was a prisoner in his own nightmare. "What… what is this place?" Azrael growled through gritted teeth, his voice a low snarl of defiance against the encroaching terror. "Who are you?!"
Suddenly, from the deepest shadows beneath the gallery, from the cracks in the very floor, dark, skeletal hands burst forth. They were wreathed in the same crimson light, their movements jerky, unnatural. They reached, clawed, their desiccated fingers seeking purchase, dragging the brothers deeper into the abyss of the dream. One of the spectral figures, more defined than the others, materialized directly before them. It was tall, cloaked, its face a shifting vortex of shadow. In its hand, it held a weapon that wasn't the knife from the table—it was something long, slender, almost like a ceremonial spear, but its tip… its tip was impossibly sharp, and it seemed to writhe with a life of its own. With horrifying speed, the figure lunged. Not at them, but at another phantom, a vaguely familiar silhouette that flickered into existence for a mere heartbeat—a tall man with broad shoulders… The spear pierced the phantom's belly. There was no sound, but the visual was sickening. As the weapon embedded itself, the point of entry didn't just tear flesh; it seemed to bloom, the edges of the wound curling outwards, petal-like, forming a grotesque, glistening lotus shape from which dark, viscous blood began to pour, not in a stream, but in thick, pulsing gouts. The phantom man crumpled, his silent scream etched in the crimson light.
And then— The boys screamed, raw, primal sounds of utter terror. And awoke.
Azrael jolted upright in his narrow cot, drenched in cold sweat, his chest heaving as if he'd been running for miles. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Beside him, in the adjacent cot, Veyron gasped for air, his eyes wide and wild with a lingering, visceral fear. The small, spartan room they shared at Horizon Shelter was dim, lit only by the pale, early morning sun filtering weakly through the thin curtains of the NGO's common dormitory hall. The familiar sounds of the orphanage stirring to life – distant footsteps, muffled coughs – were a jarring contrast to the silent horror they had just escaped.
"Another nightmare…" Azrael muttered, his voice raspy. He wiped his brow with a trembling hand, the gruesome image of the lotus wound seared into his mind. It felt more real, more vivid, than any dream he'd ever had. Veyron's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "The same courtroom. The judge. The knife… the whispers… accusing us. And that… that man…" He shuddered, unable to articulate the final horror.
Before either of them could speak further, to try and dissect the recurring terror, soft, familiar footsteps echoed from the hallway. Elara, now ten years old, entered their room, a thick notebook filled with her meticulous drawings and observations tucked securely under her arm. Her bright, intelligent eyes, usually sparkling with curiosity, immediately dimmed as she took in their pale, shaken expressions, the sheen of sweat on their foreheads. "You two look like you've seen a ghost," she said gently, her voice laced with a concern that belied her years. She'd become adept at sensing their moods, particularly after these shared nightmares. Veyron managed a crooked, unconvincing smile. "More like a whole tribunal of demons, Elara," he replied, his voice still rough. Elara set her precious notebook down on a vacant chair and crouched between their cots, her gaze shifting from one brother to the other. "Was it the same dream again? The one with the scary judge?" Azrael nodded slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. "It's… it's more than just a dream, Elara. It feels real. Too real. Like a memory that isn't ours, but is being forced on us." "It's like someone's showing us something," Veyron added, his fingers still trembling as he clenched and unclenched them. "Something horrible. Something we're not ready to understand, or maybe something we're supposed to forget but can't."
Before Elara could press for more details, a crisp knock sounded at their open door. Miss Lydia, the stern but fair director of Horizon Shelter, stepped in. She was followed by a well-dressed woman in her late forties, someone the children had never seen before. The stranger wore a neatly tailored charcoal gray pantsuit, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. Her expression was serene, almost unnervingly calm, and her eyes held a keen, observant quality. "Azrael, Veyron, Elara, good morning," Miss Lydia announced, her usual brisk tone softened by a hint of something that might have been excitement. "I have some rather wonderful news for you all." The strange woman stepped forward, offering a polite, professional smile. "Good morning. My name is Ms. Evelyn Hayes, and I represent the Aethelred Institute for Advanced Development. We've been following your progress here at Horizon, and we've been exceptionally impressed." "The Aethelred Institute?" Azrael questioned, exchanging a wary glance with Veyron. Ms. Hayes nodded. "It's a special school, a unique establishment funded by a private endowment. It's designed specifically to identify and nurture exceptional talents in young individuals like yourselves. You'll be transferring there, starting next week." "Transferring?" Elara asked, her voice small, clutching her notebook tighter. The thought of another upheaval, another new place, was daunting. "Indeed," Ms. Hayes continued, her voice smooth and persuasive. "At Aethelred, you can train extensively in areas that suit your natural aptitudes – martial arts, advanced academics, strategic athletics, creative arts, scientific research. The facilities are state-of-the-art. However," her serene expression became a little firmer, "do not misunderstand. Your core education remains the absolute priority. This is an opportunity for growth, not an escape from discipline."
Azrael and Veyron exchanged another long, silent glance. Their nightmares still haunted the edges of their waking hours, a constant, chilling reminder of a past they couldn't grasp. But an opportunity to grow stronger, to hone whatever strange instincts and nascent abilities they possessed, couldn't be ignored. Perhaps strength, knowledge, could provide answers, or at least, protection. They nodded, a silent accord passing between them. Elara, trusting her brothers' judgment, also gave a hesitant nod.
The Aethelred Institute campus was unlike anything they had ever seen or imagined. It wasn't just a school; it was a sprawling, self-contained world nestled in a secluded valley, surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests. Vast, meticulously manicured fields stretched across the land, interspersed with gleaming modern structures of glass and steel that blended harmoniously with older, more traditional stone buildings. Training courts for every conceivable sport, open-air amphitheaters, serene meditation gardens, and imposing libraries dotted the landscape. Students, ranging in age from early teens to young adults, buzzed with a focused, vibrant energy. Some were engaged in intense sparring sessions in shaded courtyards, their movements blurs of controlled power. Others were clustered in outdoor study pavilions, animatedly discussing complex equations or ancient philosophies. A few sprinted with effortless grace across an Olympic-sized running track. There was an atmosphere of intense dedication, of profound purpose.
Azrael stood silently before a large, open-air stick-fighting arena. Inside, two older students, their bodies lean and corded with muscle, moved with breathtaking speed and precision. Wooden staffs, thick as their wrists, clashed with a rhythmic, percussive intensity, the sound sharp and clear in the crisp air. Their movements were fluid, powerful, almost dance-like, yet undeniably deadly. He watched, mesmerized, a strange sense of recognition stirring deep within him. "This… this feels right," he thought, his hand unconsciously clenching, as if already gripping a staff. The flowing motions, the blend of offense and defense, echoed something buried deep within his subconscious, a forgotten skill yearning to be reawakened.
Nearby, Veyron's eyes lit up with an almost feral gleam at the sight of a dedicated fencing hall, its glass walls revealing the metallic shimmer of dueling swords within. Two fencers, clad in pristine white, danced across the piste with calculated grace, their blades flashing like captured lightning, the air filled with the sharp hiss and clang of steel. The speed, the precision, the raw competitive edge – it called to him. "Now that looks like fun," he smirked, feeling a familiar surge of competitive energy, a desire to test himself, to dominate.
And Elara? Her eyes, already wide with wonder at the sheer scale of the campus, sparkled with an almost reverent awe as they approached the central library. It was a colossal, multi-story structure, its architecture a stunning blend of ancient and modern design, promising an endless corridor of knowledge. Through the towering glass entrance, she could see shelves upon shelves, packed with books reaching towards the vaulted ceiling. "So many books," she whispered, clutching her own modest notebook as if it were a sacred offering. "I think… I think I'm home."
They enrolled without hesitation, their choices almost preordained: Azrael chose Arnis, focusing on traditional Filipino stick fighting, knife combat, and modern Tactical Combat applications. Veyron selected Fencing, drawn to the elegance and deadly speed of the épée, a discipline where raw speed met refined style and intricate strategy. Elara dove headfirst into Advanced Academics, her insatiable curiosity leading her to quantum physics, ancient languages, and theoretical mathematics, devouring knowledge like oxygen.
The Aethelred Institute became their new world, their crucible, their proving ground.
8 Years Later
The boy, hesitant and haunted, was gone. Azrael, now a young man of eighteen, stood tall and centered in the main Arnis arena of the Aethelred Institute. His demeanor was calm, his eyes calculated, missing nothing. His staff, an extension of his own limbs, flowed like the wind, a seamless blur of motion. Each strike, each parry, each block was honed with years of relentless training, imbued with lethal precision and an almost preternatural understanding of timing and distance. Victory after victory in regional and national competitions had piled beneath his feet. He had become a national youth champion at the age of seventeen, his name whispered with respect and a touch of fear among his peers.
Veyron, sixteen, was a rising star in the fiercely competitive school fencing circuit. His natural aggression and lightning reflexes made him a formidable opponent. But he still battled his greatest enemy—himself. His fiery rage, a remnant of past traumas and an inherent part of his nature, often boiled too hot, clouding his judgment, leading to reckless mistakes in crucial moments. He was brilliant, but erratic.
Elara, at fifteen, remained a quiet prodigy. Her intellect was astounding. Professors at the Institute, renowned experts in their fields, whispered her name with awe, often finding themselves challenged by her insightful questions and her ability to grasp complex, abstract concepts that most adults couldn't begin to fathom. She moved through the world of academia with a quiet grace, her mind a universe of boundless exploration.
[National Fencing Qualifiers – City Sports Complex]
The air in the crowded sports complex crackled with tension, thick and palpable like static electricity before a lightning strike. This was it. The National Fencing Qualifiers. A chance to compete on the biggest stage. Veyron, his face set in a grim mask of determination, squared off against his opponent on the brightly lit piste: Kaito Nakamura, a fencer from a rival elite academy, known for his ice-cold demeanor and flawless, almost robotic technique.
The referee's call: "En garde! Prêts? Allez!" "RAHH!" Veyron exploded from his stance, a blur of white, his épée a silver streak. His strikes were swift, aggressive, a furious barrage aimed at overwhelming Kaito from the outset. He was a whirlwind of controlled fury. But Kaito... didn't flinch. He didn't yield. He deflected each of Veyron's blows with an almost disdainful effortlessness, his movements minimal, precise, his eyes calm and unreadable behind his mask. He was a rock against which Veyron's storm crashed. "So reckless, Veyron Martel! So predictable," Kaito taunted, his voice cool and steady, easily audible during a brief lull as Veyron reset. "All that fire, all that passion… it makes you sloppy. You will never qualify for the nationals fighting with such blind aggression." A smirk was evident in his tone.
Veyron's frustration mounted with each parried attack. Kaito was toying with him, making him look foolish. And then—during one of Veyron's overextended lunges, Kaito moved. "You're wide open." In a single, elegant, almost contemptuously simple motion, Kaito executed a lightning-fast counter-attack. His blade slipped past Veyron's desperate, flailing parry and tapped Veyron's chest with a distinct, solid thud. The red light on the scoring machine flashed. "Touche! Point, Nakamura! Match over!" the referee called. "Kaito Nakamura advances."
Veyron's grip on his épée tightened until his knuckles turned bone white. The crowd's polite applause for Kaito felt like a physical blow. "Damn it! DAMN IT ALL!" he shouted, ripping off his mask and storming out of the arena, ignoring Kaito's offered handshake, deaf to the sympathetic calls of his Aethelred teammates.
The Aethelred Institute training hall echoed later that evening with the sound of pure, unadulterated fury. Veyron, stripped to his sweat-soaked t-shirt, was attacking a heavily padded wooden training dummy with savage intensity, his practice épée a blur. Grunts and ragged breaths tore from his throat with each vicious strike. Thwack. Thwack. THWACK. His fencing coach, Hifumi Takahashi, a man whose deceptively gentle appearance and quiet demeanor hid a will of tempered steel and a profound understanding of combat philosophy, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching Veyron's outburst with an impassive expression. Coach Hifumi was a legend in his own right, a former Olympic medalist whose career had been cut short by injury, now dedicating his life to forging new champions. "You lost because you fought like a wild beast, Veyron," Hifumi said coolly, his voice cutting through Veyron's panting. "A predictable, easily countered beast." Veyron spun around, his eyes blazing with anger and humiliation. "I was fast! I was aggressive! I pushed him! He barely had to move!" "Precisely," Hifumi replied, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking slowly towards Veyron. "And he read your every move before you even committed to it. Brute force, raw speed, untamed aggression – these are tools, Veyron, not a strategy. They won't help you beat someone like Kaito, someone who fights with his mind as much as his blade. You need to outthink him. Anticipate. Strategize. You need to become water, not just fire." Veyron scowled, kicking at the base of the dummy. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Just give up?" Hifumi stopped before him. He picked up a discarded wooden staff from a nearby rack, weighed it thoughtfully, then tossed it toward Veyron. "No. You train more. You train harder. But most importantly," his eyes narrowed, "you train smarter. I have to teach you how to fight not just with your body, but with your spirit, with your mind." Veyron caught the staff, its unfamiliar weight a stark contrast to his light épée. His breathing was still ragged, but the initial blaze of fury was beginning to cool, replaced by a grim determination. "Fine," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let's do this." And they did.
The next weeks, stretching into months, became a crucible. Hifumi Takahashi was merciless, a relentless taskmaster who pushed Veyron far beyond any limit he thought he possessed. He dragged Veyron out of bed at 3:30 AM, every single morning, rain or shine. There was no time for gentle stretching or waking up slowly. It was straight into ice-cold showers, the shock designed to jolt the nerves awake, to sharpen the senses. Then came the uphill sprints on the treacherous mountain trails behind the Institute, Veyron wearing heavy ankle weights and a sandbag-laden vest that felt like it was crushing the air from his lungs. Each breath burned in the frigid morning air. Each muscle screamed in protest. "No excuses, Martel!" Hifumi would snap, easily keeping pace beside him despite his age. "Your enemy won't ask if you're tired. He won't care if your muscles ache. He'll just see an opening and kill you." One morning, Veyron collapsed face-first into the cold, slick mud of the trail, utterly spent. Hifumi calmly picked up a bucket of icy stream water he'd apparently anticipated needing and tossed its contents over Veyron. "Get. Up. The mountain isn't done with you yet."
Footwork followed the brutal conditioning – hours upon hours of painstaking drills, etched into gravel paths with blood, sweat, and sheer willpower. Veyron practiced fencing stances and lunges on uneven, rocky terrain, forcing him to develop an almost supernatural sense of balance, often while holding his posture with heavy coins balanced precariously on his shoulders, his head, and the back of his extended sword hand. "If a single coin falls, you start the entire sequence over from the beginning." And he meant it.
Afternoons brought blindfolded duels in a specially designed, sound-dampened chamber. Hifumi, moving with the silent footsteps of a ghost, would attack from unpredictable angles. Veyron had to learn to rely on his other senses – the subtle shift of wind from Hifumi's movement, the almost imperceptible change in air pressure, the faintest creak of a floorboard. He had to feel the attack before it landed. Evenings? Evenings were often pure, unadulterated pain. They sparred with dulled, but still heavy, steel blades. Real weight. Real impact. Real bruises that blossomed in ugly purple and black hues across Veyron's body. His ribs constantly ached. His fingers, even when taped, often bled through his worn fencing gloves. Every mistake, every lapse in concentration, every telegraphed move was punished, not with anger, but with swift, painful, and educational counters. "Timing, Veyron! Not raw power! Feel the rhythm! You attack the mind, the opponent's resolve, not just their physical body! Break their concentration before you break their guard!" Hifumi would drill into him, his voice a constant litany during their grueling sessions.
One day, during a particularly intense footwork drill, Hifumi, without a word, suddenly hurled a sheathed practice sword at Veyron mid-sentence while Veyron was struggling to maintain his balance on a narrow beam. Instinct took over. Veyron, despite his precarious position, caught it cleanly by the hilt. Hifumi allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile. "Good. Now you're beginning to learn. To react without thinking. To trust your body."
Each night ended with Veyron crawling into his bed, his joints stiff and swollen, his eyes often puffy from exhaustion or a stray, unsanctioned tear of frustration. But his mind? His mind was becoming sharper, quieter, more focused. The chaotic storm within him was slowly, painfully, being channeled. One night, unable to sleep, he found himself on the small balcony outside his room, looking up at the vast, indifferent spread of stars. He whispered into the darkness, "Coach… what if I do all this… and I still lose?" Hifumi's voice replied from the deeper shadows of the balcony, startling Veyron. He hadn't even heard him approach. "You will never truly lose, Veyron, if you genuinely believe, in your core, that you will never lose. Defeat is a lesson, not an ending, unless you allow it to be. The outcome of a match is temporary. The strength of your will, your resolve to rise again, that is what defines you." Veyron nodded slowly, his fists clenching at his sides. "I'll win," he vowed, his voice gaining strength. "No matter what it takes. I'll win."
Meanwhile, in the hushed, hallowed halls of the Aethelred library, Elara scribbled notes furiously in a complex cipher only she understood, her eyes dancing across the fragile, yellowed pages of an ancient, arcane-looking tome. She was researching something, a private project, its nature unknown even to her brothers. A shadow fell across her desk. "Still buried in books, huh, Elara-chan?" a familiar, teasing voice said. She looked up, a slight frown creasing her brow before it softened. Daichi Sakamoto—her classmate from Horizon, who had also, surprisingly, qualified for Aethelred, though more for his uncanny knack with mechanics and engineering than academics. He was still always grinning, always trying to get her attention, a persistent, cheerful presence in her otherwise intensely focused life. "Books make more sense than most people, Daichi," she said flatly, though a hint of amusement touched her eyes. Daichi laughed and plopped unceremoniously into the seat beside her, propping his chin on his hands. "Ouch. Harsh. But probably true. So, the magnificent Elara, care to descend from your ivory tower of intellect and let a mere mortal like myself take you out for coffee? One hour. Away from all this… dusty wisdom." He gestured vaguely at the towering shelves. She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Is that your incredibly unsubtle way of asking me out on a date, Daichi Sakamoto?" "Maybe," he said, his grin widening, his eyes sparkling with a hopeful light. "Is it working?" Elara allowed herself a small, genuine smile—a rare and precious thing. "One cup of coffee. But don't expect some grand, fantasy novel romance to unfold. And you're paying." "No promises on the romance, but the coffee's on me!" he winked, looking genuinely thrilled.
The next day, back in the Aethelred fencing hall, under the glare of the bright arena lights, Veyron faced Renji Tanaka—his old rival from Horizon, who had also transferred to Aethelred and was now a rising star just behind Veyron in the school rankings, a constant thorn in his side. This wasn't a qualifier, just an internal ranking match, but to Veyron, every encounter with Renji felt like a championship bout. But this time, as Veyron took his stance, something was different. He stood still, perfectly balanced. Calm. His breathing was even, his eyes focused, not with wild fury, but with a cold, sharp readiness. His fingers curled tightly, almost lovingly, around the familiar grip of his épée. "This time," he thought, his gaze locking with Renji's across the piste, "I'm not just fighting with rage. I'm not just fighting with speed." He looked at Renji, a faint, almost predatory smile touching his lips. "I'm fighting to win."
The referee raised his hand. "En garde! Prêts? Allez!"
To be continued...