The Warrior Training Grounds lay beneath an open, storm-split sky.

  Black obsidian stone stretched for hundreds of meters, carved with ancient sigils that drank in blood, shadow, and lightning alike. Every scar in the ground told a story of monsters slain, generals tested, kings forged.

  Kaelen stepped onto the platform.

  He was taller now.

  Leaner. Harder.

  Gone was the boy who arrived broken and hollow-eyed. In his place stood something refined, wrapped in the muted black-and-crimson of the Veil Lord attire. The cloak rested open, weapons visible at his sides:

  The obsidian katana at his hip.

  Twin daggers crossed behind him.

  The coiled whip at his waist.

  His Ni was calm.

  That alone unsettled the watchers.

  Kaze stood at the far end of the arena, seated upon a temporary throne of stone, one arm resting against his cheek. Around him stood his five generals—

  Zev Kaelthorn, lightning crackling faintly around his shoulders.

  Sera Noctyrr, half-melted into shadow.

  Roric Varn, arms folded, crimson veins pulsing beneath his skin.

  Vex Morcant, eyes sharp, hand resting on multiple weapons.

  Lex Arden, unreadable, focused entirely on Kaelen’s stance.

  Behind them stood officers. Lieutenants. Soldiers.

  All watching.

  Kaze’s voice carried effortlessly across the grounds.

  “Kaelen Volkov,” he said. “You have been reforged. Tested. Broken and rebuilt.”

  Kaze rose.

  “Now you will be measured.”

  A heavy gate on the opposite side of the arena groaned open.

  Footsteps followed.

  Measured. Confident. Heavy with intent.

  A man emerged clad in layered combat armor etched with runes of suppression and amplification. A crimson-lined mantle marked his rank.

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  A Commander.

  He carried a massive polearm glaive, its crescent blade humming with compressed Ni. His presence alone pressed down on the arena like a storm front.

  “This,” Kaze said, “is Commander Draven Korr, under General Lycos’ expeditionary command.”

  Draven rolled his shoulders once, eyes locking onto Kaelen.

  “I was told you were impressive,” Draven said flatly. “But you’re still a boy.”

  Kaelen didn’t respond.

  He drew his katana.

  The blade made no sound.

  That silence rippled unease through the crowd.

  Kaze smiled faintly.

  “Begin.”

  Draven moved first.

  The ground exploded as he surged forward, glaive sweeping in a brutal arc that carried enough force to cleave stone. Purple Ni flared along the blade, distortion bending the air.

  Kaelen vanished.

  Not dodged.

  Vanished.

  The glaive struck nothing but shadow, cleaving through a fading afterimage.

  Draven’s eyes widened—just enough.

  Kaelen reappeared inside his reach.

  Lightning flashed.

  The katana struck three times in a heartbeat—

  Steel.

  Shadow.

  Blood.

  Draven blocked, armor flaring as sparks detonated across his guard. He grunted, skidding backward several meters, boots carving trenches into stone.

  “Fast,” Draven muttered.

  He slammed his glaive into the ground.

  Ni erupted outward in a shockwave.

  Kaelen flipped over it, cloak snapping like wings. Mid-air, his shadow peeled away, striking independently—forcing Draven to pivot—

  Too late.

  Kaelen landed behind him.

  Blood Ni surged.

  A crimson arc carved across Draven’s armor, slicing deep enough to draw blood.

  The crowd went silent.

  Draven roared and unleashed everything.

  His Ni erupted, forming a violent mantle around his body. Gravity-like pressure crushed inward as he spun his glaive into a whirling storm, blade shrieking through the air.

  Kaelen answered in kind.

  Lightning danced across his veins. Shadows wrapped his limbs. Blood Ni threaded it all together, amplifying movement, intent, precision.

  He stepped into the storm.

  Steel rang like thunder.

  Their weapons clashed again and again—

  Draven’s brute force and experience against Kaelen’s fluid, terrifying adaptability.

  Kaelen flowed.

  He redirected strikes instead of blocking. Slipped inside angles no one should see. His movements mirrored, then surpassed Draven’s technique.

  Lex’s eyes widened.

  “He’s… learning as he fights.”

  Vex whispered, “He already knows this style.”

  Draven realized it too.

  “You little—”

  Kaelen’s shadow latched onto Draven’s, anchoring him for half a second.

  That was enough.

  Kaelen twisted, lightning detonating beneath his feet, blood Ni surging into his blade.

  The Crimson Tempest descended.

  One strike.

  Perfect.

  Draven’s glaive shattered.

  The katana stopped a finger’s width from his throat.

  Silence.

  Then Draven dropped to one knee, breathing hard, eyes locked on Kaelen with disbelief.

  “I… lost.”

  The arena erupted.

  Shock. Awe. Fear.

  Only Kaze did not move.

  He rose slowly, eyes glowing faintly red.

  A smile spread across his face—wide, satisfied, dangerous.

  “As expected,” the Vampire King said.

  Kaelen lowered his blade and turned toward his grandfather.

  Lightning crackled softly around him.

  Shadow curled at his feet.

  Blood Ni pulsed, steady and controlled.

  No boy remained on that field.

  Only a weapon—

  and a storm waiting to be unleashed.