Neron's POV
After the quarterfinal selection match, the sun stood high in the sky. Its rays warmed my skin as I slipped away from the tournament grounds to explore the estate's surrounding market. Colorful stalls lined the streets, the mingled scents of spiced meats, fresh fruit, and leather wafting through the air. Yet even amid the bustle, my purpose was fixed: daily training.
I followed the smell of sweat and sand to a weathered wooden door set into a low stone wall. Within, dozens of fighters — some broad as oaks, others lithe and practiced — moved through their drills. No scythes were to be found, unsurprising in a place where few dared wield them. Unfazed, I grabbed a sturdy timber plank from a nearby rack and imagined its curved blade as I began my routine:
Focus.
Engage the hips to maximize rotational force.
Left foot back, right foot forward — a dash, a pivot, then a spinning strike.
A back‑heel kick, shifting stance mid‑air, followed by an overhead slash.
Each motion flowed into the next, my breath coming in steady bursts. When fatigue finally set in, I sheathed my imaginary weapon, exhaled deeply, and prepared to leave.
"Hey! You there! Stop!"
A sharp voice cut through my thoughts. I turned to see a taller blonde girl in white armor, golden eyes bright, a long sword hanging at her hip.
"What is it?" I asked.
"My name is Luna," she said, stepping forward. "You look strong. Want to spar?"
Before I could reply, a second voice interrupted from behind: a boy of my height, white hair obscuring his eyes, clad in the same gold‑crested armor. "Not here, Luna."
He glanced at me. "You want to exchange punches?" he asked, curiosity in his tone.
"Don't mind us," he added, tugging Luna back. "But if you want a match—"
"I'm not free all day," I said, rolling my shoulders. "First to land two clean hits—agreed?"
"Agreed," Luna said. "Kelvin, you referee."
The boy nodded. "Three… two… one… fight!"
I assumed my stance: weight on my left leg, right leg ready to drive, right fist cocked, left hand balanced. Luna lunged straight at me, but I spun outward, landing a crisp left fist on her cheek—strike one. She countered with a straight left to my stomach; I blocked on instinct, stepping back a half‑pace. I feinted a right punch, and as she recoiled, dropped to one hand, kicked high with both feet and struck her across the jaw—strike two. She staggered and went sprawling into the sand.
I stepped forward, offering my hand. "You all right?"
She slapped my hand away, then grinned as she pushed herself up. "I'm fine," she said, dignity restored.
"Good match," I smiled. "I should be going."
"Wait—what's your name?" Luna called, eyes bright with admiration.
"Neron," I replied, nodding once before turning to leave. My next stop: the inn. Tomorrow, quarterfinals awaited.
---
Luna & Watson's POV
After the spar, I found myself watching the tournament from the sidelines. My companion, a lean man in scholar's robes, whispered beside me.
"Watson," I asked, "do you see the boy in dark blue? The one who defeated me?"
He nodded, adjusting his glasses. "That is Neron Velmore. The guest of Count Aldrich. He outmaneuvered every opponent tonight. Any one of the Genesis candidates."
"Genesis?" I clarified.
"Those chosen—worthy of the Hero's Party, backed by the crown," Watson explained. "We were here to observe Ivan Aldrich's brilliance. But Neron… he combines raw strength with sharper wit."
The first round began. I watched Neron's match in silence—he moved like a shadow, subtle and unpredictable. By the final move, his opponent's time had expired. The crowd murmured, jaws agape.
"What did he do?" I asked Watson.
"He spent nine minutes in apparent confusion," Watson said quietly, "then executed three flawless moves in thirty seconds. He forces opponents to overthink."
Next came Ivan's match—two minutes flat. The crowd erupted, but Watson and I exchanged glances.
"He never rushed," I observed. "Yet he made unnecessary moves… almost as if he toyed with them."
The day progressed through semifinal matchups. Then at last, the moment we'd waited for: Neron Valmore vs. Ivan Aldrich.
---
The Final Battle
The hall fell into a breath‑stealing hush as Ivan Aldrich and I took our seats before the single polished table. Torches flickered against the high stone walls, and the illusion‑globe above shimmered with our opening positions. Every spectator leaned forward; the air tasted of anticipation.
Ivan moved first, his fingers brushing a pawn into my half. He sat tall, chest forward, as if daring me to look away. His eyes—dark and confident—met mine for a heartbeat before he turned his attention to the board.
I watched him—not the pawn, but the slight tremor of his jaw. In that instant, I felt the entire room narrow down to this one moment. My dark‑blue suit felt suddenly heavy on my skin, my polished shoes silent on the flagstones.
1. Ivan's Queen's Gambit Accepted.
He offered up his pawn confidently; I slid mine forward in response. A textbook exchange, meant to bait me.
2. The Rook Lift.
Ivan unleashed his rook, carving a path toward my back rank. His lips curved in a self‑satisfied half‑smile.
3. Knight's Leap.
He vaulted his knight across the board, threatening my bishop—and perhaps my nerves.
Through each tempo, I remained still—heart steady, gaze unwavering.
In Ivan's mind: He's playing out every move as I expected. He must be weak here…
4. Subtle Feint.
I slid my king's pawn one square—an apparently harmless retreat, but it lured Ivan's knight deeper.
5. The Queen's Whisper.
On my fifth move, my queen glided to the open diagonal, nudging his defense just enough. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
6. Pawn Storm.
With three swift pawn pushes, I severed his central line of pawns—splitting his shield in two.
His confident posture faltered. He blinked, hesitated.
In Ivan's mind: He's collapsing the board… but I can still recover—
Then came my final three moves, whispered like the rustle of a blade in the dark:
7. The Fork.
My knight leapt into his territory, forking his queen and rook. Gasps echoed as he lunged to protect his queen—too late.
8. The Decisive Pin.
I slid my bishop across the diagonal, pinning his knight against his king. His shoulders sagged.
9. Checkmate.
Finally, my queen swept to deliver the lethal check. His king stood no path to flee. The illusion‑globe flared, bathing the hall in a brilliant cascade of light.
As the final move clicked into place, the crowd erupted—yet I felt only a cold satisfaction. I leaned back in my chair, my lips curving into that soft, unsettling smile he'd seen in my earliest triumphs.
Neron (quietly): "You're not as smart as I thought… but you served your purpose, Ivan."
In Ivan's mind: He is an unbreakable wall… I reached my limit, and even that was just a foothold in his shadow.
When I rose, my dark‑blue cloak swirling around me, I let my smile linger—knowing that in this moment, I had not only won a game of chess, but claimed the first victory in a much larger war of wit and power.
---
After the Tournament
As dusk settled, I made for the carriage. I was weary—yet the day's victories pulsed in my veins. At the gate stood an elderly man in a black suit, white hair and beard glowing like moonlight. Glasses perched on his nose. He watched me intently.
"Neron Valmore," he called.
I slowed. "Make it quick."
He bowed. "I am Watson, overseer of Genesis. Having observed your match against Ivan Aldrich, I extend an invitation: join Genesis."
I smiled faintly. "Too early."
He blinked. "Pardon?"
"It's too soon for me to accept," I said. "In three years, if you still wish, come to Velmore estate. Then we shall talk."
He hesitated. "Three years… is a long time."
"Perhaps," I replied, meeting his gaze. "But if you fail to appear, you'll lose not one, but two opportunities."
We held each other's eyes for a moment. Then he nodded. "Very well. Three years, then."
With that, I stepped into the carriage and departed.
---
Hina's POV
That evening, I tended the mansion's garden roses. Two days had passed since the tea party, and I hadn't seen Master Neron. Guilt twisted my chest—surely Mira blamed me for the scene.
A carriage rolled to a stop. My heart soared as Neron stepped out, racing toward me.
"Master!" I called, relief flooding me.
He grinned gently. "What's wrong, Hina?"
"Nothing… I'm just glad you're safe."
He swept me up and coaxed, "Come to my room. I have something special for you."
---
In Neron's Room
He patted the bed beside him. "Sit, Hina."
I obeyed, heart fluttering.
"Give me your right hand." He hid one hand behind his back. I placed my hand in his.
He slipped a sky‑blue bracelet of polished marbles onto my wrist. "For you. You did wonderfully at the tea party. I wanted to show my appreciation."
I stared, tears springing to my eyes. "My first gift… ever. Thank you, Master."
He gently pulled my head to rest on his shoulder. "You did nothing wrong, Hina. It's okay to protect yourself. This world doesn't value kindness as I do. Your kindness… I know it, and I will never forget it."
My doubts evaporated like mist in the sun. I wept softly—tears of belonging, of purpose.
After a moment, he lifted his head and offered a small, conspiratorial smile. "If the world isn't kind to you, you need not be kind to it. You may be cruel where it's necessary—just as I am."
He paused, gaze steady. "After all, you are my sword, Hina, forged in the hardest of trials."
"In that moment, I felt a warmth I had never known. A joy that made the world, for once, feel safe."