The courtyard of the Saelari manor was silent—apart from the occasional drip of blood onto stone and the wind whispering over the corpses strewn across the ground. Lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, their soft glow reflecting off Aldrich's black coat, glinting across the polished edge of the YAGURAH sword.
Opposite him, Vaelor Saelari, the patriarch of the clan, stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate. His black robe rustled softly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His face was calm, almost amused, but the glint in his eyes told another story: a lifetime spent carving men into blades had made him patient, merciless, and perceptive.
Aldrich held the katana lightly in his hands, tip slightly raised, muscles coiled like springs. He could feel the weight of the night on his shoulders—the culmination of nine years spent in Hollowdene Forest, every scar, every lesson, every drop of blood training him for this very moment.
Vaelor's voice was low, resonant, cutting through the tension.
"You've grown… but a boy who hides behind a blade is still a boy. Let us see how long your pride carries you."
Aldrich didn't respond. Words were unnecessary. His eyes narrowed slightly. The air thickened, almost electric with anticipation.
Then, in a single breath, they moved.
Vaelor attacked first. Not cautiously. Not with a testing strike. He lunged forward, blade cutting diagonally in a motion meant to end the fight in a single stroke. The kind of strike that could fell the unprepared, the overconfident, the weak.
Aldrich met it head-on. Their swords clashed in a shower of sparks. The impact rippled up his arms, vibrated through his shoulders, and shook the stone beneath their feet. For a moment, he thought he could feel the weight of Vaelor's experience—every strike, every calculation, every death he had caused over a lifetime packed into the movement of a single arm.
Aldrich stepped back, muscles burning, heart racing, and realized: this fight would not be like the scouts. Not like any monster he had felled in Hollowdene.
In Nophilis, warriors were apex humans. Peak human strength was no fantasy. A well-trained swordsman, commander, scout, or assassin could cut through the lives of a hundred ordinary people single-handedly. They moved faster, struck harder, and endured pain that would cripple lesser men.
Vaelor was one of those apex humans.
The first few strikes were a blur of steel and motion. Aldrich blocked, parried, and countered, but slowly, steadily, he began to feel the subtle press of being overwhelmed. Vaelor's arms carried the weight of a decade of battle, a lifetime of war. Every strike pushed harder than instinct should allow, every feint tested Aldrich's reaction, every step forward threatened to topple him.
Yet Aldrich did not falter. Not fully. Hollowdene had taught him more than just swordplay. It had taught him improvisation, adaptation, and how to turn an opponent's weight against them.
Aldrich's body moved with a memory deeper than conscious thought. He shifted his stance slightly, rotating his torso, letting Vaelor's forward momentum carry him past the first strike. The patriarch's weight threatened to pin him, but Aldrich leaned subtly, twisting at the knees, and redirected Vaelor's energy into a low, sweeping motion.
Vaelor stumbled slightly—not enough to fail, but enough for Aldrich to feel the rhythm. Every apex warrior had confidence in their own strength. Hollowdene had taught Aldrich to bend that confidence against them.
One strike, one parry, one movement—Aldrich pivoted, letting Vaelor's own force press downward. He deflected, absorbed, and redirected. In the next instant, he countered with a flick of his wrist and a controlled step, cutting across Vaelor's thigh—not deep, just enough to register. Pain. Disruption. Distraction.
Vaelor hissed through gritted teeth, surprise flickering for a brief instant before being replaced with cold focus. The patriarch adjusted instantly, a minor correction, a shift in balance, and his blade came down again, faster, heavier, more precise.
Aldrich blocked. The impact reverberated up his arms and shook the ground beneath him. A tremor of shock ran through him—physical, mental, instinctual. For a moment, he understood fully why the elders of Nophilis fought in unison with such precision. The clash of apex humans was not about strength alone—it was about timing, stamina, foresight, and a mind that never wavered under stress.
Steel rang against steel. Aldrich danced backward, sliding across the stone courtyard. He ducked under Vaelor's downward swing, swung upward at a sharp angle, but the patriarch rolled backward and countered with a spinning strike that nearly grazed Aldrich's shoulder. Sparks flew. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed off the walls of the manor, filling the night with metallic music.
Aldrich could feel sweat run down his temple. His arms were not weak—they had been forged on the backs of beasts far heavier and faster than any man—but Vaelor was relentless. Every strike required adaptation. Every step demanded focus. A single miscalculation, and Aldrich could die.
Yet there was exhilaration in the challenge. Hollowdene had shaped him for this—survival and adaptation in the most brutal circumstances imaginable. Every monster, every trap, every ambush had been preparation for this single, concentrated, human opponent.
Vaelor's attacks were fast and precise, a flurry of steel that would have killed any ordinary man. But Aldrich had learned the subtle art of leverage: turning weight into force, feints into openings, aggression into redirection. He didn't just block; he absorbed, countered, manipulated, and, most importantly, stayed calm.
The fight stretched, neither giving ground fully. Aldrich realized something fundamental: this was not merely a contest of arms. It was a test of mind, instinct, and control. A real warrior could read the subtle shifts in posture, the twitch of a muscle, the half-second delay in an opponent's eyes. Aldrich had spent nine years doing precisely that—reading the wild, reading monsters, reading humans in situations where hesitation meant death.
Vaelor pressed him. Heavy downward strikes, sidesteps, low sweeps, feints designed to push Aldrich off balance. And Aldrich adapted. He pivoted at the knees, redirected energy through his core, and let the weight of Vaelor's strikes carry him past the point of danger into positions of advantage.
A single strike he had used in Hollowdene came to mind—a spinning step that let him duck under an opponent's overhead swing and simultaneously redirect the force into a counterattack. He would need it. Soon.
But for now, he kept to measured counters, absorbing Vaelor's attacks, forcing openings, and looking for the moment to strike decisively.
Minutes passed like hours. The clang of metal on metal filled the air, punctuated by the occasional grunt or sharp intake of breath. Blood had begun to smear across Aldrich's forearms, and yet he remained standing, focused, unbroken. Vaelor's movements were like a river: constant, powerful, capable of eroding the unprepared.
Aldrich could feel the subtle shift in Vaelor's weight—the patriarch's overconfidence in brute force mixed with experience. There were moments where Aldrich could sense the small openings, microsecond lapses in balance, where the weight of Vaelor's strike could be turned against him.
He inhaled deeply. Hollowdene's lessons flooded him—every moment of pain, every encounter with beasts that could kill him tenfold, every single day of adapting, improvising, surviving. He was ready.
And yet, the fight had not ended.
Vaelor paused, assessing Aldrich with a glimmer of respect—or perhaps curiosity. "You are strong, boy… stronger than I imagined," he said, voice steady, low, deadly.
Aldrich's lips curved slightly. "And you're slow to adapt," he replied softly, but there was no malice, only observation.
Then Vaelor struck.
The patriarch raised his blade high above his head and brought it down with full force, a strike meant to crush stone, end lives, and carve the air itself.
Aldrich met it squarely. The impact rattled his arms, shook his shoulders, and sent vibrations through the blade all the way to the tip planted firmly in the ground. He blocked it, yes—but the force was overwhelming.
He staggered back an inch, boots scraping against the stone, breathing hard. The sound of steel against steel rang in his ears. He could feel the overwhelming weight of Vaelor's strike like a hammer against his bones, not his body, but his core, his center of gravity, the very discipline of Hollowdene threatening to buckle.
And yet, Aldrich held.
Eyes dark, expression calm, he planted his feet. His muscles burned, adrenaline surged, and his mind raced—not to panic, but to calculate. Adapt. Redirect. Overcome.
The courtyard fell silent again, save for the faint echo of the monumental clash that had just occurred.
Aldrich's chest rose and fell. The fight had only just begun, and yet, somehow, he had already begun to understand the depth of the storm that was Vaelor Saelari.