F-Class Swordsman, S-Class Commander

The letter came at dusk.

The courier hawk landed on the sill with a tap-tap of talons. Renard stared at it for a long time before moving. The black wax was unmistakable—House Valtierre's silver wolf sigil cracked right down the center.

His fingers were steady as he broke the seal.

Renard,

Word of a "Selection Tournament" has reached me.

I hear the Academy prepares under the excuse of precaution. Rumors of war do not make soldiers. But fools turn rumors into graves.

Do not involve yourself. You are no soldier. You are no leader.

You will not fix what you already shamed. Stay out of the ring. Do not embarrass your name.

I will not repeat this.

—Baron Godric Valtierre

Renard read the letter twice, then folded it and slipped it into the small drawer beside his cot. His face remained blank.

But his knuckles whitened.

That night, the wind dragged clouds over the moon. The broken east yard lay in shadows, twisted statues and overgrown stonework forming the skeleton of a forgotten part of Veilspire.

Elric waited there, seated lazily atop a crumbled pillar, flicking a throwing knife from hand to hand.

He looked up when Renard approached.

"You're late."

"I wasn't coming."

Elric snorted. "Let me guess. Daddy says you're a disgrace again?"

Renard didn't answer.

Elric grinned. "Well. At least this time it's not about your sword form. What was it this time? 'Stay home and polish the family name?'"

Renard still didn't respond. His expression was unreadable.

Elric jumped down. "Well, maybe you should listen to him."

The silence stretched.

Renard's head lowered slightly.

And then, in a voice far too calm: "Say that again."

Elric shrugged. "Maybe your father's right. You're not ready. You fight like a tax collec—"

The world snapped.

Renard moved.

There was no warning—just blur.

Elric barely raised his blade before it was batted aside. Steel rang against steel, but the sound was already behind him.

Renard didn't lunge—he slipped, like water, through space. His blade came from nowhere. Elric blocked, twisted—only to find his balance gone, his knee kicked, his center yanked off-line.

In six moves, he was flat on his back, breath stolen from his lungs.

The blade tip rested an inch from his throat.

And Renard—face pale, eyes distant—wasn't breathing hard.

He stepped back, slowly, lowering the blade.

"I didn't mean that," Elric croaked, still stunned.

Renard didn't speak.

[Instinctive Class Activation: Shadowblade – Tier S (Suppressed)]

Combat Output: 92%Speed: 3.7x StandardPredictive Movement: Near-Perfect

Remark: Your body remembers what your bloodline was forbidden to teach.

Elric sat up slowly, still staring. "Holy hells… Renard."

Renard sheathed the blade, almost robotically. "It's useless."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter," he said, voice tight. "I can't use it in the tournament. If anyone sees it, I'm dead. You know the laws. Assassin-class techniques are banned under the Noble Code."

Elric leaned against a post, still catching his breath.

"You're… You're a god-tier Assassin."

Renard didn't respond.

"You were holding back this whole time?"

"I wasn't trying to win," Renard said quietly. "I was trying to stay hidden."

They sat in silence.

Then Elric said, "What if I told you I had a way to hide it?"

Renard looked up slowly.

Elric grinned. "I've been using my own skills for years. Blended into 'blade work.' I just make it look flashy or unorthodox. They think I'm quirky."

Renard stared at him.

Elric gestured. "You? You're not flashy. You're clean. So we'll dirty it up a little. Make it look like clumsy, strange swordwork."

"And they'll believe that?"

"They already think you're hopeless." Elric winked. "We'll use that."

The first night of training began with failure.

Renard tried to fake a stumble, convert it into a counter, and instead elbowed Elric in the face.

"You need to unlearn perfection," Elric muttered, rubbing his nose.

"Perfect is how I survive."

"Not anymore. We need you to look like a desperate man flailing... who keeps accidentally doing something brilliant."

They started again.

Technique #1: Ghost Step Feint → Misstep Draw

Originally a footwork technique for dodging behind an enemy's guard, they shifted it forward—into a half-slip step that looked like a late sidestep, but actually set up a powerful counter cut.

They drilled it with deliberate sloppiness.

Renard exaggerated his shoulder dip. Slowed his reaction. Then, at the last moment, twisted into a parry.

From the outside? Sloppy panic.

From inside? Lethal geometry.

By the twentieth repetition, Renard could feel it click.

[Technique Adaptation: Ghost Feint → Edge Reversal]Status: Stable

Classified As: Sword Counter (Unorthodox Style)

Recognition Level: 61%System Legal Status: ✅ Approved

Result: Registering under "Ghost Edge Style – Draft 1"

Technique #2: Shadowline Step → Blade Curve Counter

A kill move, typically executed by slipping into the opponent's blind spot, twisting the hips, and driving a dagger up beneath the ribs.

Obviously illegal.

So Elric turned it into a weird-looking upper slice.

"Turn the pivot into a spin. Use the blade edge instead of the knife hilt. Come across like you meant to uppercut, but ended up low."

They practiced slow.

Then faster.

Then full-speed.

Renard felt the difference. The body still wanted to kill—but he was teaching it to act like a swordsman instead.

Clumsy. But technically valid.

[Technique Adaptation: Shadowline Step → Blade Spiral]Registered: Legal Motion

Success Threshold: 62%Appearance Risk: Low

Effect: Opponent knockoff + stagger, read as untrained riposte

By the end of the third night, Elric was sitting on the stairs, drinking water and watching Renard move.

"You're starting to look like a very weird swordsman."

Renard executed a spin-cut-reset combo that didn't quite make sense.

"Good weird?"

"The kind nobles underestimate."

Renard stopped. Wiped his forehead.

"Will it be enough?"

Elric tossed him a wrapped scroll. "You'll make it enough."

Renard unrolled it.

Tournament Bracket — Pending Revision

62 names filled the slots.

Two remained blank.

"Tomorrow, they fill the last two," Elric said. "They want 64 clean. Round numbers. It's politics, not math."

"I already submitted," Renard said.

"Then we wait."

That night, in his room, Renard sat at his desk staring at the candle.

The blade lay across his lap.

He remembered the feeling of moving without resistance.

Of being right in a way the world told him he wasn't allowed to be.

He picked up the quill and wrote in the back of his commander's journal:

*New Doctrine:If they cannot see your blade for what it is, then they cannot prepare for what it does.Let them think you are weak. Let them think you are wrong.

Command is not only given. It is misread.*

Style Designation: Ghost EdgeVersion: Pre-Battle Draft*

[Doctrine Entry Saved]Ghost Edge Style – Status: Viable

Current Skill Rating: F+Projected Field Rank: E–

He lay down after midnight, but sleep didn't come.

His father's words echoed like a thorn in his ribs.

You are no leader.Do not embarrass your name.

And then… Elric's voice.

Maybe they'll think you're a desperate man flailing... who keeps accidentally doing something brilliant.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Let them think that.