Chapter 39: The tyrant’s price
The sun had begun its descent behind the jagged cliffs of the Eastern Wastes, casting the sky in hues of crimson and ash. Thalen stood alone on a broken ridge, the remnants of the training field behind him now scorched and torn. His breathing was heavy, shallow. His clothes were drenched in sweat, and the once-pristine blade he wielded trembled in his grasp.
"Again," came the voice.
A cold gust of wind blew down the cliffside, carrying with it the gravelly command of Seraine, one of the nine SSS Heroes. Cloaked in a storm-grey mantle, she approached with the deliberate calm of a veteran. Her eyes were pools of still water reflecting everything, revealing nothing.
"You haven’t yet bled enough for it," she said, drawing a sharp arc through the air with her own blade, a Legendary-class weapon known as Whisperveil. It shimmered faintly with the Tyrant’s Spirit, hungry.
Thalen nodded, jaw clenched. This was his fourth day of direct training under Seraine, and already he understood why none had survived this regimen in the last decade.
He had passed the exam. He had earned the Tyrant Spirit. But now came the price.
He crouched, digging the heel of his foot into the dust for balance. Blade Aura surged along the edge of his sword, a silver-blue sheen wrapping around it like living flame. He felt the Tyrant Spirit pulse just beneath his ribcage, locked and coiled, waiting.
He struck.
In a blur, he launched forward, blade cutting a fierce arc through the air. The Blade Aura screamed with velocity, splitting a pillar of stone in half as he vaulted towards Seraine.
But she was gone.
Thalen twisted mid-strike too late. Her boot slammed into his back, launching him forward and sending him crashing into a jagged wall of granite. Dust plumed. His blade skittered from his hand.