Chapter 10: A Sword Named Survival
He looked up.
And for a second, he wondered if someone had built a statue, then breathed life into it.
The man in front of him wasn’t just tall—he was massive. Like some kind of ancient war god had decided to cosplay as a student. Everything about him felt... sculpted. Brutal. His chest was broad and bare, his arms carved out like tree trunks, and his stance didn’t just show strength—it dared you to test it.
Avin’s fingers tightened around his wooden sword. The hilt felt too thin. Too smooth. Too... harmless.
Then his eyes dropped.
The man—this tower—was holding wooden swords too, technically. But they were no swords.
They were machetes. Thick, heavy, and custom-cut into shapes that didn’t belong in a sparring match. Their tips curved just slightly, like they were meant to hack, not slice. Blunt. Cruel. And twice as wide as his.
It was obvious—this guy didn’t believe Avin could land a single hit.
Hell, the bastard wasn’t even wearing armor.
And honestly?
He wasn’t wrong.
Avin swallowed a lump of dry air. His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"...How old are you again?"
No answer. Just the weight of silence and the sound of sand brushing past their boots.
Then—
A familiar voice roared across the arena.
"INTRODUCE YOURSELVES!"
Ashborn.
Of course.
The sound of that man’s voice still hit like a slap to the back of the head, even when you expected it. It didn’t carry authority—it dragged it through your bones.
The tall figure across from Avin didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
Instead, he dipped his head just slightly. Barely a bow. Then finally spoke.
"Bram."
A pause.
"Bram Velocraux."
His voice was deep—but not like thunder. It didn’t growl. It didn’t threaten. It was warm. Level. The kind of voice you’d expect from a good guy in a story that didn’t end with betrayal and blood.
For a fleeting second, Avin felt something ridiculous.
Hope.
Like maybe this fight wouldn’t be another psychological mugging.
Bram took a step back, shifting into stance. His grip on the machetes tightened just enough to creak the wood.
That hope vanished.
Avin’s hands started to sweat.
He mirrored the movement—stepping back cautiously, never taking his eyes off Bram. He gave a slight bow too, more out of reflex than tradition. His legs felt like branches in a storm.
Miranda might’ve been the only person in this world who hadn’t tried to kill or humiliate him yet—and even she was a little cracked in the head.
This guy?
He wasn’t cracked.
He was carved.
And this was going to be brutal.
The distance between them sat at about three to four meters—maybe twelve feet at most. It felt like inches.
Then—again—Ashborn’s voice carved through the tension.
"THE RULES ARE SIMPLE."
"GO ALL OUT..."
"GO FOR THE KILL..."
Avin blinked. Wait.
What?
"UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF GAIA AND ASCLEPIUS... DEATH IS VOID."
The barrier around the sparring ground pulsed.
A soft green shimmer passed over the field, wrapping it in a faint glow. The color crawled across the sky like someone had poured mint into the clouds.
Avin stared at it.
And smirked.
"To the death...? Didn’t know he had jokes in him."
The words echoed in his head with half a chuckle. He almost said it out loud. For a second, the ridiculousness made him smile.
Ashborn? Making jokes?
Was the apocalypse near?
The smile stuck for a moment... then faded.
Fast.
His head turned slowly, like a puppet moving without control.
Ashborn wasn’t laughing.
He wasn’t even pretending to laugh.
That grin on his face wasn’t amusement. It was satisfaction. His teeth gleamed in the daylight like they wanted to bite something. The corners of his mouth curled too far, and his eyes had that same cold spark they always did before something bad happened.
A chill crawled down Avin’s back.
Then his gaze slid sideways—past Ashborn, to the three people sitting beside him.
Ashvelar.
The Duchess.
Leo.
All seated. All composed. All watching like spectators at a lion pit.
His chest tightened. His stomach coiled into a knot.
This wasn’t a joke.
Ashborn didn’t do jokes.
And right now, he looked like someone enjoying a slow execution.
Avin’s eyes snapped back to Bram—his muscles tensed, his paranoia spiking.
Ashborn took a deep breath.
"AND WITH ALL THESE CLEAR—"
The wind picked up suddenly, dragging dust across the field in a sweeping arc.
It felt like nature itself was bracing for impact.
"FI—"
Ashborn didn’t get to finish.
Because that’s when Avin saw it.
Something massive, dark, and fast—above him.
Bram’s machete.
Already mid-swing.
Already aimed for his skull.
Avin’s body moved on panic alone.
He twisted sideways, barely escaping the downwards arc.
THUUUUUD!
The machete hit sand like a war hammer. Dust erupted from the impact in all directions, blinding him.
Before he could even process what just happened, he stumbled back—trying to recover his footing, trying to breathe—
But Bram didn’t give him the time.
From within the dust, another slash came—this one horizontal.
From the right.
FAST.
Avin saw it coming, but barely.
He raised his sword, bracing with both hands, forearm behind it for support.
CRAACK—!!
The machete met his blade with an explosive force. It didn’t just rattle his bones—it screamed through his joints.
His wooden sword bent under the impact, nearly breaking in half. Avin felt himself slide backward from the force—his feet dragging trenches in the sand.
Five meters. Maybe more.
The entire field behind him turned into streaks of dust and dragged footprints.
His right arm burned.
Pain bloomed through his bicep like fire catching cloth.
And his sword?
It was nearly useless now. Bent. Splintered. Barely standing.
But at least now, finally—
He had a little room to think.
The space he’d earned wasn’t much—just five meters, maybe sixteen feet—but in this fight, it felt like a mile.
Avin clenched his jaw, forcing air in through his nose. His grip readjusted on the warped handle of his sword. It trembled. The blade was more a paddle now—bowed, scarred, practically useless.
He didn’t care.
Across the field, Bram was already moving again.
Slow steps. Controlled. Like a predator sizing up its prey.
Each footfall pressed into the sand with weight. With rhythm. One step at a time, no hurry. No panic. Just certainty.
Avin’s heartbeat ramped up again.
He stared at the walking slab of destruction heading toward him and thought—How is someone that big that fast?
But he barely finished the thought.
Because Bram disappeared.
No flash. No noise.
Just motion, and then suddenly—he was there.
Covered five meters in less than a breath.
Avin’s vision snapped upward as Bram’s arm swung down—another machete strike, vertical, heavy, and absolutely meant to kill.
His instincts flared.
Avin raised his sword again—if it could still be called that—and caught the blow.
THRUMMM!!
The impact knocked the wind out of him.
His knees folded like wet paper, slamming into the sand. A crater formed beneath him from the sheer weight of Bram’s swing. Dust blasted outward in a ripple, swirling around them like a storm trying to hide the violence inside.
Avin’s arms were on fire. Every nerve in his body screamed from the pressure being forced through his joints.
Bram didn’t stop.
He didn’t even hesitate.
While the first machete remained locked against Avin’s collapsing sword, Bram raised the second one, preparing the finishing strike.
The blow to end the fight.
Avin’s eyes widened.
He saw it coming.
Knew he couldn’t block it.
Did the only thing he could.
He let go.
Dropped his sword and threw himself sideways—right into the dirt.
KRACK—!!
The machete came down like divine punishment, shattering the blade that had tried to shield him. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Wood snapped. Splinters flew.
The remains of Avin’s sword were obliterated.
He hit the ground hard, rolled once, scrambled to all fours, and backed away—dirt coating his palms, sweat stinging his eyes, blood humming in his ears.
He looked up.
Bram was still standing where he’d landed the strike—straightening himself slowly.
His shoulders rose with a breath. Lowered.
Then, without delay, he turned and looked directly into Avin’s eyes.
That’s when Avin felt it.
Not just fear.
Something else.
He didn’t need a teacher to explain it. Didn’t need a name for it.
It wrapped around him like cold wire.
The will to kill. The drive to finish.
Not "intent." Not some generic menace. This was a promise.
A cold, silent declaration that Bram could’ve ended his life—right there. And didn’t.
Yet.
Avin froze.
"What the fuck is wrong with this guy..." he muttered.
His voice was shaky, but the words tumbled out without thought.
Bram stepped forward.
No aggression. No smirk. No cruelty.
He just looked... done.
Tired—not from the fight, but from the waste of it.
Then he spoke.
"What the fuck are you doing, Avin?"
The tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t roar like Ashborn’s.
But it hit harder.
Bram rolled his neck side to side.
CRK—CRRK.
Bones shifted. His shoulders relaxed. He didn’t look winded—just irritated.
"You think this is funny?"
Each word dropped like weight.
He took a step forward.
The sand beneath his boot compressed with a dull thud.
Another step.
Each one carried force.
Each one made the air feel heavier.
Avin didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
"Get the fuck up..."
Bram’s eyes burned now—not with rage, but disappointment.
"...and stop this childish game."
The words hung in the air like a blade still waiting to fall.
—To be continued—