The Shattered Crowns

Akash woke to the sensation of fur smothering his face and groaned. He tried to stretch, but his muscles stiffened in protest. His limbs ached from yesterday's ordeal, and as he shifted to free himself, Elys let out a low snore, his massive form unbothered by Akash's struggle.

"Get up, will you?" Akash grumbled, giving the tiger a light shove.

Elys responded by rolling over, pressing his weight further into Akash and sending him sprawling onto his side with an undignified squawk. Pushing himself upright, Akash jabbed a finger at the tiger.

"You did that on purpose," he accused.

Elys cracked one amber eye open lazily, gave a faint huff, and promptly closed it again, radiating smug indifference.

"Fine," Akash muttered. "If you want to lie around all day like some pampered noble, be my guest."

The tiger's low purring filled the tent, almost mockingly, as Akash ducked outside. He squinted against the light. The eerie luminance of the Lunar Storm had vanished, leaving the sky clear and bright. The camp sprawled before him—larger than any town he had visited, dwarfing even his home village. Rows of tents stretched into the horizon, and the faint hum of activity echoed through the crisp morning air.

Strapping his resin-infused blade to his side, Akash began retracing his steps from last night. His stomach grumbled loudly, urging him to locate the mess hall tent. But after a few minutes of wandering, it struck him with embarrassing clarity: he had no idea where the food tent actually was.

The rhythmic thudding of wood meeting wood caught his attention, pulling him toward its source. Perhaps whoever was making that noise could point him in the right direction. He followed the sound until he stumbled upon its origin.

A man stood in a clearing, practicing against a wooden dummy. His movements were smooth and precise, like water flowing over stone. Each strike was deliberate, his practice sword landing with sharp, resounding thuds. He seemed to glide rather than step, his footwork eerily reminiscent of the hunters Akash had seen in the forests back home. But this was something more disciplined, something honed.

The man delivered a flurry of four quick strikes before sliding his practice sword back into its sheath. He let out a steady breath, his shoulders relaxing as though the entire sequence had been effortless.

"Will you continue to watch, or will you spar with me?" the man asked without turning around. His voice was calm but carried an edge, like a blade resting in its scabbard. "Real opponents are better than ones that can't move."

Akash blinked, startled, but didn't hesitate. He grabbed a wooden practice sword from a nearby rack, stepping forward.

"I'll spar with you," he said, raising the sword. "Though, to be honest, I was just looking for the mess hall."

The man finally turned to face him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his long black hair streaked with faint silver and cascading past his shoulders. His thick black robes, embroidered with the silver outline of a tree, fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. An earring dangled from one ear, catching the sunlight, and his glacial blue eyes studied Akash with cold detachment.

"Dante said you needed to be taught how to use a blade," the man replied. "This will serve as a demonstration. We'll see how much you need to learn."

"You know who I am?" Akash asked, surprised.

"You're the only person in this camp with burgundy hair," the man said flatly, gesturing for Akash to take his position. "Now, ready your stance."

Akash gripped the wooden blade tightly, his knuckles turning white. The man frowned, clearly unimpressed.

"Your stance is all wrong," the man said, his voice sharp but calm. "Hold the blade like that, and you'll lose it before the first exchange."

Akash adjusted his grip slightly, though he wasn't sure if it helped. A blade was just like a knife, right? And he'd used plenty of those before. Surely it couldn't be that different.

The man stood loosely, his practice sword held with one hand, almost lazily. His gaze flicked over the practice dummies surrounding them, as though Akash weren't worth his full attention. The air of casual superiority made Akash grit his teeth.

With a yell, he charged forward, raising his sword high over his head for a powerful downward swing.

The man moved like a shadow. With a flick of his wrist, he parried Akash's strike, the wooden blade biting into his chest with a sharp jab. Akash stumbled back with a wince, rubbing the spot where the blow landed.

"That was a good strike," Akash said, trying to sound gracious despite the ache blooming in his ribs.

"It was nothing of the sort," the man replied coolly. "Your attack was clumsy and telegraphed. Any opponent with half a brain would've seen it coming."

Akash charged again, only to find his practice sword knocked from his hands within seconds. A series of quick, punishing strikes followed, landing on his ribs, arms, and shoulders in rapid succession. The blows weren't enough to bruise, but they left Akash stunned and breathless.

The man brought his blade to Akash's throat in a single, decisive motion.

"You're dead," he said flatly.

In a last-ditch effort, Akash swept his leg at the man's ankles, hoping to knock him off balance. But the man merely sidestepped, fluid as ever, and delivered another reprimanding blow to Akash's side.

Groaning, Akash backed off, clutching his ribs. The man lowered his practice sword, shaking his head.

"It seems Dante's assessment was correct," the man said. "You lack even the most basic fundamentals. Your fighting style is… unorthodox. At best."

Akash scowled, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Jassin Drakhold," the man said simply. "Vice Paramount of the Dauntless Company. And, it seems, your new sword teacher. Be grateful Dante asked this of me."

Jassin reached to his side, drawing a weapon from its sheath. The blade shimmered faintly in the sunlight, its surface a deep, inky purple speckled with what looked like stars—a night sky captured in steel. The crossguard curled into the shape of two golden tentacles, and the hilt was wrapped in fine black leather.

"This is an Annealed Blade," Jassin said, holding the weapon up for Akash to see. "Forged to cut through anything—resin-infused blades, gravitite armor, you name it. Its origins are unclear, but one truth remains: it is unbreakable."

He turned his icy gaze on Akash. "Now, let me see your blade."

Akash unsheathed his resin-infused sword, the crimson steel glittering in the light. Jassin studied it for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Do you know what this is?" Jassin asked.

"Of course," Akash said. "It's a resin-infused blade. A weapon capable of cutting through any type of metal."

Jassin's response was a sharp rap on Akash's ribs with the wooden sword.

"Almost any type of metal," Jassin corrected. "You fail to mention how the blade was made. A swordsman must fully understand his weapon."

He gestured toward his own blade. "For example, an Annealed Blade is crafted through a process few understand. It is a weapon of legends. Its strength lies not only in its construction but in the bond between swordsman and blade."

Jassin's tone turned cold. "A sword is more than steel. It is your soul. Lose it in battle, and you will never be whole again."

Jassin sheathed his weapon and motioned for Akash to leave. "We've talked enough for today. This was merely an assessment of your skill—or lack thereof. Go to the mess hall. Dante has called an accord."

Akash hesitated. "I… uh… might not know where it is. That's why I came here."

Jassin's expression didn't change. "It's the largest tent in the camp. Even a fool could find it."

Akash chuckled sheepishly. "I'll… head there now."

Grabbing Elys, who had finally decided to grace the world with his presence, Akash hurried off in search of the mess hall. Jassin watched him go, his expression softening ever so slightly. The boy's posture, despite the bruises and humiliation, remained proud. Determined.

Jassin muttered under his breath, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I could do worse for a student. Your plans are always so strange, Dante. But my student will not lose to yours. Veneres and Akash will hate each other—like oil and water. But Akash… Akash will win."