The moment Aurelian's blade cut through flesh, the world seemed to shatter.
The first bandit fell with a gurgling scream, blood spraying across the cold mountain ground. Aurelian felt it immediately—the resistance of bone, the warmth of blood, the sudden absence of life.
His hands trembled.
His stomach twisted violently, as if something inside him had been ripped out.
So… this is death.
The weight of it crashed into his chest, heavy and suffocating. His vision blurred for a split second, nausea rising from deep within. For an instant, his body screamed at him to stop—to run—to collapse.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Because the moment he stopped, he would die.
The bandits' laughter had vanished, replaced by shocked curses and roars of rage.
"You bastard!"
"Kill him!"
Aurelian moved.
Not like a child.
Not like a noble.
But like something forged in battle.
His feet dug into the dirt, stance lowering instinctively. His sword swung again—clean, precise, horizontal.
Another bandit collapsed, clutching his throat.
Blood splattered across Aurelian's clothes, warm and sticky. The smell of iron filled his nose. His breathing grew heavier, faster—but his mind became eerily calm.
One by one, he cut them down.
A slash to the leg—crippling.
A thrust through the abdomen—fatal.
A downward strike—merciless.
He stopped counting after five.
Then ten.
Then more.
Pain exploded through his arm as a blade cut across his forearm. Blood streamed down, soaking his sleeve. Another strike grazed his thigh, sharp and burning.
His body screamed.
His muscles begged for rest.
But his grip never loosened.
Move.
Breathe.
Kill.
That was all that existed.
Bandits fell around him, some dying instantly, others screaming in agony. The ground turned muddy with blood. His vision darkened at the edges, exhaustion creeping in like a predator waiting to strike.
Still—he fought.
Even as his legs trembled.
Even as blood dripped from his fingers.
Even as his heart felt like it would burst from his chest.
He looked around, chest heaving.
Still… too many.
More than ten bandits remained.
They had regrouped.
Fear finally entered their eyes—not fear of death, but fear of him.
"That kid—he's a monster!"
"Surround him!"
They moved together, crude coordination but overwhelming in number. Aurelian felt despair claw at his chest. His vision swayed. His knees threatened to buckle.
Damn it…
He cursed silently.
Move. Don't stop. If you stop—you die.
He charged again.
Like a madman.
Like someone who had already accepted death.
Steel clashed violently. He took another cut to the leg, nearly falling. A blow struck his shoulder, sending agony through his spine. His sword grew heavier with each swing, his breaths ragged and broken.
Still—he fought.
From the carriage, two figures watched.
Sebastian's hands trembled.
"Young Master—" he began, horror flooding his eyes as Aurelian staggered under another blow. "He's going to collapse. Please, my lord—let me—"
"Stop."
Alaric von Blackthorne's voice was cold enough to freeze blood.
Sebastian froze mid-step.
"This is his battle," the Duke said flatly. "If he cannot stand here, he does not deserve to walk forward."
Sebastian clenched his fists, teeth grinding—but he bowed.
"…Yes, my lord."
They watched.
The Duke's gaze never left his son.
Alaric's thoughts were calm.
Too calm.
He's injured.
Exhausted.
Bleeding heavily.
Yet—
His movements had not broken.
His eyes had not dulled.
Good, Alaric thought coldly. This is how a Blackthorne survives.
He saw the flaws clearly.
Too much forward momentum.
Unnecessary damage taken.
Poor positioning against numbers.
But he also saw something far more important.
Resolve.
The kind that did not bend.
Back on the battlefield, only four bandits remained.
Aurelian could barely feel his arms.
His sword felt like it weighed a thousand kilograms.
His vision blurred.
But when one bandit lunged—
Aurelian stepped forward and stabbed straight through his heart.
The man's eyes widened in disbelief before life faded from them.
The moment the blade withdrew, Aurelian collapsed to one knee.
…I can't…
The world spun violently.
But before darkness could claim him, something stirred within his chest.
Mana.
Raw, desperate, violent.
Aurelian slammed his trembling hand into the ground.
Fire Arrow.
A magic circle flickered weakly—but it formed.
A blazing arrow shot forward, piercing a bandit's chest and erupting into flames.
Another formed.
Another.
Three arrows.
Three deaths.
The mountain road fell silent.
Aurelian's sword slipped from his hand.
He scanned his surroundings weakly, forcing his heavy eyelids open.
No movement.
No breath.
No life.
Only corpses.
Satisfied—barely—his body finally gave up.
He collapsed completely.
Footsteps approached.
A strong arm lifted him gently.
A vial pressed to his lips.
"Drink."
Healing potion.
Warmth spread through his body, closing wounds, easing pain—but exhaustion remained.
Aurelian forced his eyes open.
His father stood over him.
"You are a Three-Star swordsman now," Alaric said calmly.
Aurelian's breath hitched.
"Your footwork faltered under pressure. You allowed injuries you should not have. Against soldiers of equal rank, that would kill you."
The words were sharp.
Precise.
Then—
"You adapted. You endured. You finished the battle."
Alaric's gaze softened—just slightly.
"You fought well."
For Aurelian, that single sentence carried more weight than any praise.
Before he could respond, a deep hum echoed through the sky.
Aurelian looked up weakly.
Two massive airships descended from the clouds.
Blackthorne flags fluttered proudly—two crossed swords beneath a crown, visible even from the ground.
The land shook as they landed.
Soldiers poured out. Knights followed.
They knelt instantly.
"Greetings, Duke Blackthorne!"
"Greetings, Young Master!"
Alaric nodded.
"Clean this place," he ordered. "Leave nothing behind."
"Yes, my lord!"
Aurelian was lifted carefully.
He, the Duke, and Sebastian boarded one of the airships.
As it rose into the sky, the blood-soaked mountain faded beneath them.
Alaric placed a hand on Aurelian's shoulder.
"Rest."
Half hour later, they arrived at the estate.
Alaric departed toward his office.
Aurelian was escorted to his room.
The moment the door closed, exhaustion finally claimed him.
Darkness followed.
But this time—
It was earned.