The bastard's blade

The roar of the crowd was deafening—yet Ran heard none of it.

He stood beneath the massive archway of the coliseum, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword. A hush fell over the audience as his name was announced.

"Next, in the final round of the entrance tournament—Ran."

No surname. No house. No lineage.

Only a name—spoken with unease.

Ran stepped forward, crimson sword gleaming unnaturally under the sun. The arena felt colder as he walked, as if his mere presence siphoned the warmth from the air. But his eyes weren't on the spectators or the high nobles in their booths.

They were fixed across the ring.

Dawn Montello. Second daughter of the Montello family. Sword prodigy. Nicknamed "The Dancer."

She stood with poise, her long white hair tied back, the ceremonial silver blade in her hand as natural as breath. She hadn't yet drawn it. Not fully. But Ran had watched her. Fought beside her. And he knew.

She was dangerous.

She was beautiful.

She was everything this world favored.

And she was the one thing standing between him and survival.

'Stay calm. Don't let it leak out.'

The seal on his chest pulsed faintly, dark energy leaked out. A silent warning.

High in the stands, the principal of Fafnir Academy, Hallibel Borgouis leaned forward. Beside him sat the council president Ynnefer Valmonth, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Osiris Le Skyford, with his scholarly robes and narrowed eyes, tapped his fingers in interest.

And still… Dawn had not drawn.

"I'm glad you made it this far."

She said suddenly, voice clear despite the distance.

"But I'm not going easy on you."

Ran gripped his blade tighter.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

A bell rang. The final match began.

Dawn moved like wind over still water—one step and she was upon him.

Ran barely had time to react.

Her blade flashed like a whisper, each strike fluid, beautiful, deadly. It was like fighting art. Every motion was timed, practiced, elegant. Her sword spun with her, danced around her like an extension of her soul.

Clang!

Ran blocked, but his feet skidded against the floor. She wasn't holding back. Not like in the earlier rounds.

He lunged forward with Shadow Rush—the crimson blur that had overwhelmed every opponent until now.

Dawn swayed to the side, effortless, avoiding the blow by a thread's width.

Steel kissed steel in a burst of sparks.

'She's fast. Too fast.'

Ran slashed, twisted, pivoted. She parried with a dancer's rhythm, spinning under his guard and slicing his arm—not deep, but enough to draw blood.

The crowd gasped.

His seal pulsed—red, angry.

'Not now. Not now.'

He clenched his teeth, exhaling slowly. The thirst—the maddening itch to kill—crept along his spine.

But he shoved it down.

Across from him, Dawn stood still, watching.

"You're holding back." 

"So are you."

She smiled slightly, then moved.

No hesitation. No restraint.

Her sword blurred into dozens of slashes. Not magic. Not tricks.

Just sheer, perfect swordsmanship.

Ran blocked, dodged, took a cut to the side—then retaliated with a diagonal sweep.

Clang!

She spun around the blow, dancing through the momentum, and struck back.

Ran dropped to one knee, panting. Sweat dripped down his face. His legs ached. His breath felt too shallow.

'She's… a monster.'

Another clash. This time, their blades locked, faces inches apart.

"Why do you fight, Ran?"

Dawn whispered.

His eyes twitched.

"Because if I don't, I die."

The lock broke. They separated.

She raised her sword to her side and took a stance Ran hadn't seen before. The crowd murmured. Even Principle leaned forward.

Then she moved again—and the real dance began.

Ran was overwhelmed.

He didn't see her anymore—he saw streaks of silver, blurred outlines, flashes of light. His instincts screamed at him to defend, but his body was too slow.

Slash! A cut across his thigh.

Another strike—blocked barely, but the shock numbed his arm.

'Focus. Focus, damn it!'

Shadow Rush!

He blurred forward again, sword aimed for her ribs—but she bent low, twisting around him, and struck his side.

The pain sent him staggering.

The crimson sword pulsed violently in his hand.

'Kill her! Rip her apart!'

"No." 

He was fighting his inner demons.

Dawn's blade slashed toward his neck—he dropped, rolled, and barely escaped. Blood trailed down his arm.

"Ran!"

Dawn's voice cut through the noise.

"I see it. That darkness inside you. Are you going to let it control you?"

He stood, breathing heavily.

"I am trying alright."

Ran looked at her—at the fire in her eyes. She wasn't mocking him. She wasn't afraid of him.

She wanted to pull him forward. Challenge him. Force him to rise.

He took a shaky breath.

And laughed.

A low, broken laugh.

"Dawn Montello... you're insane."

She grinned.

"You're one to talk."

They clashed again. This time, Ran used everything.

Crimson energy shimmered from his blade. He didn't know what it was—but it listened to his will. It responded to his resolve.

Their swords rang like thunderclaps, echoes shaking the stands.

The crowd no longer cheered. They were silent. Mesmerized.

Ran leapt, spinning into Shadow Rush mid-air.

Dawn dodged—but he redirected mid-strike, forcing her to block at an awkward angle.

Their blades locked again. This time, Ran pushed harder.

But then… she smiled again.

And with a twist of her heel and a dancer's grace, she sent him sprawling back.

Ran slammed into the sand, coughing, bruised.

The match still wasn't over.

The seal burned on his chest—screaming for release. For blood.

But he gritted his teeth and stood again.

Across from him, Dawn raised her sword again.

This was far from over.