Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The platform floated in an endless gray void, a circle of white stone so vast its edges blurred into mist. Nero, the protagonist of this stage stood at its center, small as an insect on a plate of bone. Above, lightning flickered in clouds that had no source. Below, only emptiness lay.

He had rested. He had recovered. Now he stood ready for the most awaited clash to learn more about his adversary.

The windows appeared before him, a cascade of translucent blue, each one showing a face, a name, a record of battles past. He scrolled through them, his red eyes scanning, dismissing. Cadets he knew. Cadets he didn’t. Names that meant nothing.

Then he found her.

Black hair, falling straight and sharp as blades. Golden eyes, cold and calculating. A face that could have been carved from ice, if ice could burn. Elysia Raizen. Law of Lightning. Late Red Knight.

The window hung before him, as if waiting especially for this moment.

Nero’s lips curved. His red eyes gleamed. He selected her without hesitation.

The other windows vanished in flash. The platform grew dark. Then there was a flash of light, white and blinding as you could expect, and then she was there the moment the said light finally vanished.

She stood ten paces from him, her black sword drawn, her black hair still. Her face was perfect, her features the same as the woman he had faced in the pavilion, but her eyes were empty. No calculation. No ambition. No cold amusement. Just the stillness of a blade waiting to be swung at her enemy, her sole purpose was to slay her foes.

RUMBLE!

The sky above them darkened. Clouds boiled from nowhere, black and heavy, filling the void.

CHAAA~ CHAAA ~

Thunder rumbled, a slow, deep growl that seemed to come from the platform itself.

Ziiii~ Ziiii~

Lightning flashed in the clouds, gold and white, illuminating her face for an instant before the darkness returned.

Nero’s hand tightened on his sword. He was stronger than her—this copy, this memory of a younger Elysia. Late Red Knight against his Purple strength. The numbers said he should win. The numbers meant nothing he was well aware of this fact, in this world there existed many people who could fight across realm, the world called them ’Genius’ he was one of them like she was.

Finally, Elysia’s clone moved.

Lightning flashed beneath her feet, and the next moment she was gone. Nero’s body reacted before his mind could, his sword rising, his own lightning surging forth. She appeared before him, her blade already descending, and he saw that it was not one strike but many condensed into a single slash, her sword blurring, each stroke aimed at a different point, each one fatal.

Clang.

His blade caught the first.

Clang.

The second.

Clang.

The third. His arms shook with the force of her blows, each one carrying the weight of the storm above. She was faster than the orcs, faster than the ogre, faster than anything he had faced in this tower.

She was not trying to overwhelm him with power. She was simply cutting. Every movement was fluid, economical, perfect. No wasted motion. No unnecessary force. Just a sword moving through the space it needed to move, no more, no less.

Nero retreated, his boots sliding on the white stone. He was defending, nothing more. She pressed her advantage, her blade a constant pressure, a wall of steel and lightning that gave him no room to breathe.

Clang.

A slash at his throat. He parried, but her sword was already moving toward its next destination, already cutting toward his ribs. He twisted his body, the blade grazing his side, the lightning in it singing through his skin.

Siii~

He felt the burn, the numbness that follow but he didn’t let it affect him.

He pushed back, his own lightning flaring, trying to create distance. She was there, her blade already waiting.

Clang.

A thrust at his chest. He deflected, but her sword followed, curving around his guard, seeking his heart. He threw himself sideways, the point passing so close he felt its cold.

His back hit the stone. She was above him, her sword descending, her face empty, her eyes fixed on his throat. He rolled, her blade striking the platform, sending a spiderweb of cracks across its surface. He came up swinging, his sword a wild arc of gold.

She was not there.

He spun, searching. Lightning flashed behind him, and he knew she was there, her sword already moving. He blocked, but the force of her blow drove him to his knees.

Clang.

Another strike, aimed at his head. He caught it, his arms screaming.

Clang.

A third, at his side. He twisted, the blade grazing his ribs, drawing blood.

She was not trying to kill him quickly. She was methodical, precise, each strike designed to wound, to weaken, to break.

She fought like a surgeon, like an artist, like someone who had spent a lifetime learning the language of the blade until it was as natural as breathing to her.

Nero had never faced swordsmanship like this. He had fought monsters, demonized humans with considerable skill. He had overwhelmed them with power, with speed, with laws and his wit. But this was different. This was the art of killing refined to its purest form.

He was losing.

He could feel it in his arms, growing heavy, slow. He could feel it in his lungs, burning with each breath. He could see it in her blade, always there, always moving, always finding the gaps in his guard.

Clang.

Her sword slipped past his defense, cutting a line across his shoulder.

Clang.

Another, his thigh.

Clang.

His forearm. Each wound was small, shallow, nothing that would stop a lesser fighter. But they were adding up, draining him, slowing him.

He was learning, though. Even as he retreated, even as she pushed him back across the platform, he watched. He saw the way she shifted her weight before a thrust, the way her eyes flickered to the target before she struck, the way her lightning gathered at the edge of her blade a moment before it cut.

Her movements were perfect. But perfection had patterns.

He blocked a strike aimed at his throat, and this time, instead of retreating, he held. Their blades locked, gold against gold, lightning against lightning. For an instant, they were frozen, face to face, her empty eyes meeting his burning red.

He saw it then—a tiny shift in her stance, a coiling of muscle that preceded a sweep. He was already moving, his body reacting to the pattern he had glimpsed. Her leg swept where he had been. Her sword followed, cutting air. He was behind her, his blade raised.

He did not strike. He could not. She was already turning, her sword already rising, her face still empty, her eyes already finding his.

He blocked her counter, but the force of it drove him back. He was breathing hard, bleeding from a dozen small wounds, his arms trembling. She stood before him, untouched, unmarked, her sword steady, her breath even.

He was stronger than her. His lightning was faster, his body more resilient. But she was better. Years of training, of refinement, of perfecting the art of the blade. She had spent her life learning to fight, and he had spent his learning to survive.

The clouds above churned. Lightning flashed, illuminating the platform, the two figures frozen in its light. Nero raised his sword, his grip tightening, his eyes fixed on hers.

He was learning. Slowly, painfully, he was learning.

And he was not finished.