Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

’’Not bad, as expected from a dwarf. It was good to befriend him. He is a nice guy.’’

This sword would see battle soon. And when it did, it would burn with every color of fire he could command.

’’I should head out to test out this sword, I can’t wait.’’

The summer night had draped the world in velvet silence, save for the cicadas that hummed faintly from the trees, their persistent song carried through the warm breeze. The back mountain, rising quietly behind the dormitory, was an entirely different world compared to the lively chatter within the academy grounds. Its slopes were gentle at first, layered with thick brush and old trees, their leaves trembling faintly under the caress of the wind. The path was narrow but well-worn by cadets who occasionally came here to train or clear their minds. Tonight, however, it was utterly deserted.

Nero walked slowly, his steps unhurried. The night’s warmth clung to his skin, but it was softened by the whisper of the mountain air. Moonlight poured over the world like liquid silver, bathing the trees, the rocks, and the grass in its pale glow. Fireflies blinked softly near the roots of the trees, their brief flashes almost like wandering embers. For a moment, the back mountain felt like a sanctuary hidden from the harsh struggles of the world—a place where only the rustling of leaves, the croaking of frogs, and the chirping of crickets reigned.

He carried Adam’s gift in his hand. The sword’s sheath gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, its blackened steel holding a quiet dignity. Nero ran his fingers along the hilt, a small smile curling at the edge of his lips. It was still strange, this feeling—someone creating something for him, entrusting him with it, without hidden motives or disdain. For years, he had been left to scavenge and claw for everything he possessed, and yet this blade had been given to him as though he truly mattered.

The thought warmed him more than the summer breeze ever could.

Finally, he arrived at a small clearing midway up the mountain. The trees parted here, giving way to a flat, grassy plateau. The ground was slightly uneven, but strong stones jutted from the earth like natural markers, forming a training ground that seemed as though the mountain itself had sculpted it. The stars above were sharp and clear, glittering endlessly in the ink of the heavens. A large silver moon loomed above, its pale light stretching over the clearing as if the world itself had set a stage for him.

Nero stepped into the middle of the clearing.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in the night’s breath. The faint scent of pine and damp earth seeped into his senses. His body felt alive, even after the exhaustion from earlier, as though this mountain air was urging him forward, begging him to draw the sword and let it sing beneath the moon. Slowly, he unfastened the sheath from his belt.

”Let’s see what you can do,” Nero murmured softly, his voice carried away by the mountain breeze.

The sword slid free with a sharp metallic whisper, the sound cutting through the night air. The blade shimmered faintly under the moonlight, every line and curve of its forged steel glowing with subtle brilliance. Nero tightened his grip around the hilt. He raised the blade before him, lowering his stance, and then—

He swung.

The first strike was simple, a horizontal arc that cleaved through the air. His body moved with practiced familiarity, his muscles obeying instinct carved by countless hours of solitary training. He followed up immediately with a vertical cut, then a diagonal slash that sliced through the space before him. The sword whistled, catching the air in a low hum with every motion.

The clearing came alive with his movements. Each swing drew arcs of pale moonlight, the steel reflecting the heavens above. Nero did not rush—his pace was deliberate, precise, testing the weight and balance of the weapon in his hand. The sword felt responsive, as though Adam had forged it with his movements in mind, like it had always been meant to follow the rhythm of his strikes.

Step. Slash. Pivot. Thrust.

Nero moved through his self-taught forms, his feet carrying him fluidly across the clearing. His body twisted, spun, leapt, and slid, every motion flowing into the next. The sword became an extension of himself, not merely a weapon but a part of his body. His strikes cut invisible enemies, his thrusts pierced through phantom armor, his steps carried him as though he were dancing atop the silver-lit grass.

The cicadas’ hum seemed to fade, drowned beneath the sound of steel tearing through the air. Sweat gathered lightly across his brow, glistening under the moonlight, but he did not slow down. If anything, he grew sharper, his movements refining as his body adjusted. The mountain breeze wrapped around him, tugging at his clothes as if to test his balance, but Nero pressed forward, unshaken.

With each swing, his heart beat faster. With each step, his breathing grew heavier. Yet his mind was calm.

No Law. No flames. No prana.

Just him and the sword.

That was all he wanted for tonight. He wanted to return to the roots of his strength—the resolve that had carried him this far. The Law of Fire was a gift, yes, but he was not defined by it. His core as a warrior was his will, his body, and the blade in his hands.

”Again,” he whispered to himself.

He reset his stance. His left foot slid back, his body lowered, and the sword angled downward. Then—he launched forward, his slash rising from the earth like an ascending flame. His movements were relentless now, one after another in unbroken succession, each strike chasing the next without pause. His sword cut arcs of light beneath the moon, each swing sharper, faster, heavier.

The night around him seemed to respond. The fireflies scattered, floating farther into the trees. The cicadas stilled their song. The grass swayed violently beneath his movements, their tips sliced by the air displaced from his blade. His shadow flickered erratically across the stones as his body twisted and spun.

In his mind, Nero envisioned opponents—shadows of enemies he had fought and enemies he would fight. A towering knight clad in iron. A swift assassin darting through darkness. A beast of muscle and fang. One by one, he cut them down. His sword tore through armor, shattered spears, and pierced hearts that were not truly there.

He could almost hear their roars. He could almost feel the resistance of flesh and steel. But it was all in his mind, all a stage built within his imagination. Yet this was how he trained himself, how he survived.

Slash. Step. Counter. Dodge. Thrust.

The clearing became a battlefield in his eyes. He was no longer a cadet on the back mountain—he was a warrior in the middle of endless war, his blade the only thing keeping him alive. The phantom enemies pressed harder, faster, crueler. His sword met them all.

His breathing grew ragged, but his movements didn’t falter. Sweat trailed down his neck, soaking his collar, but he didn’t stop. His feet dug into the earth, his muscles screamed for rest, yet he pressed on. His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the moon, sharp and focused.

Hours seemed to pass like this, though only minutes had gone by.

Finally, Nero slowed. His sword came to a halt, the blade pointed down toward the earth. His shoulders rose and fell heavily, his chest heaving with every breath. The clearing was silent again—the cicadas resumed their chorus, the fireflies floated lazily, the wind brushed softly through the leaves.

He stood there for a long moment, his grip still firm on the sword, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Then, a small smile curved his lips.

”...Not bad,” he whispered.

The night sky above stretched endlessly, the stars gleaming brighter now, as if watching over him. Nero lifted the blade, resting it gently against his shoulder as he turned his eyes upward. The moonlight gleamed across the steel, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves had acknowledged his effort.

He sheathed the sword slowly, savoring the metallic click as it slid into place.

This was only the beginning.

He had yet to unleash the Law of Fire tonight, and yet this training had reminded him of something important—that his foundation, his blade, was strong. That he himself, not the flames or the Law, was what would carry him forward.

With a deep breath, Nero turned and began walking back toward the dormitory. The night embraced him, the cicadas singing his quiet victory song, and the silver moon guiding his steps.

Tomorrow would bring more battles, more struggles, more enemies to cut down. But tonight belonged to him, his sword, and the silent mountain.