The Forsaken Seal

The crowd dispersed slowly, murmurs still buzzing through the academy yard. Layron remained standing in the center, his grip on his sword firm but controlled. His heart pounded, not from exhaustion—but from exhilaration.

He had won. Not by force. Not by Anya's interference. Not by luck.

By understanding.

Rael's glare burned into him, but Layron barely acknowledged it. He turned away, his mind racing with thoughts far more compelling.

"You begin to see the truth now, don't you?"

Zorthaal's voice, deep and deliberate, echoed within his mind. Layron exhaled, trying to steady himself.

He wasn't sure if he was scared anymore.

It had felt natural. Like the guidance had been his own all along.

He hadn't used anything supernatural. Just knowledge. Just insight.

"Control the mind," Layron muttered under his breath, repeating what the voice had said earlier.

The thrill still lingered. The power of seeing the world clearer than before.

Layron left the training ground, walking with a confidence that felt foreign yet comfortable.

For once, he wasn't walking in anyone's shadow.

---

Anya's Suspicion

The moment Layron stepped into the house, Anya was waiting.

Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable.

"You fought today," she said flatly.

Layron sighed, shutting the door behind him.

"It wasn't a big deal."

Anya narrowed her eyes. "You dodged Rael's attacks perfectly. You've never done that before."

Layron shrugged, forcing a smirk. "Maybe I learned something."

Her gaze didn't waver.

"From who?"

A chill ran down his spine.

For a split second, he hesitated.

Anya caught it.

His mouth opened, but no words came.

The weight of the question pressed on him.

Then, like a lifeline, the voice slithered in.

"Do not lie. But do not reveal."

Layron steadied himself.

"I just watched people fight," he said simply. "I started noticing patterns."

That wasn't a lie.

Anya's frown deepened, but she didn't push further.

"Be careful," she muttered before turning away.

Layron exhaled slowly.

That was close.

Too close.

"You are learning," Zorthaal murmured. "Caution is key. Strength is not just about battle—but about control."

Layron's fingers twitched.

Control.

He liked the sound of that.

---

Lessons from the Dark

That night, Layron lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

His thoughts were restless.

Something about today felt different.

He felt different.

Stronger. More capable.

"...Are you still there?" he whispered into the darkness.

Silence.

Then—

"Always."

Layron swallowed. His pulse quickened, but this time, not out of fear.

He hesitated before asking, "What are you?"

A chuckle. Low and patient.

"Does it matter?"

Layron frowned.

"It does to me."

A pause. Then, the voice spoke again—calm, steady.

"I am you, Layron. The part of you that was always meant to be."

Layron turned onto his side, staring at the wall.

"...Then why am I only hearing you now?"

"Because only now… have you begun to listen."

Something about that answer sent a shiver down his spine.

But it made sense.

Hadn't he always wanted this? To be stronger? To understand?

And now he did.

Zorthaal had given him nothing. No magic. No unnatural power.

Just clarity.

Layron closed his eyes.

"I want to learn more," he admitted.

A hum of approval.

"And you will."

The darkness felt less empty that night.

---

The Second Test

The academy training grounds pulsed with tension. A ring of students circled the sparring area, their whispers blending into a dull hum. The air carried the scent of dust and sweat, a lingering reminder of the duels that had come before.

Layron swallowed, his fingers curling tightly around the wooden sword in his grasp.

His body still buzzed from his victory against Rael earlier, but this was different.

His new opponent—Saren—wasn't like Rael.

Taller. Stronger. Sharper.

And worst of all—patient.

Layron could see it in the way Saren stood—feet planted firmly, shoulders squared, blade steady in his grip. He wasn't here to taunt or humiliate. He was here to fight.

A slow exhale left Layron's lips.

Then—the match began.

Saren moved.

Fast.

Layron barely had time to react before a sharp crack exploded against his ribs. His world blurred—pain lanced through his side as his feet staggered back across the hardened dirt.

The first hit landed before he even saw it coming.

A ringing filled his ears. His lungs burned.

The crowd murmured.

"Layron's already on the back foot."

"Did he even see that attack?"

"Saren's not even serious yet."

Layron gritted his teeth.

"Too fast," he thought.

"No," came a voice—that voice.

Zorthaal.

"Not too fast. You are too slow."

Layron sucked in a sharp breath. He tried to reorient himself, to raise his weapon, but Saren was already moving again.

Another blur. Another crack against his shoulder.

His body jerked to the side from the impact. He stumbled, barely managing to stay upright.

Pain. Stinging, dull, throbbing.

It was happening all over again.

Just like before.

Just like every time.

The shame. The humiliation. The feeling of weakness.

Layron clenched his jaw, gripping his sword tighter.

No. Not this time.

Saren dashed forward. His feet barely made a sound against the dirt, his body a streak of motion.

Layron tensed.

"React!" his mind screamed.

But he couldn't.

His eyes couldn't keep up.

He swung blindly—too late.

Saren twisted around the clumsy counterstrike and drove his sword straight into Layron's stomach.

A dull thud.

Layron's breath hitched. His body doubled over slightly from the force.

More whispers.

"He's getting destroyed…"

"Saren's not even trying."

"Layron's just too slow."

Too slow.

Too weak.

The words burned into his skull like fire.

"You are focusing on the wrong thing," Zorthaal's voice murmured.

Layron's breath came ragged. His muscles ached from just trying to keep up.

"Too much… he's too fast," he thought bitterly.

"Then do not chase what is beyond your reach," Zorthaal's tone was calm, almost amused.

"Your eyes try to follow every detail, every movement. But that is why you fail. Stop looking at everything. Focus only on what matters."

Layron's pulse thundered.

Only on what matters…

He exhaled sharply.

His eyes flicked up—not to Saren's sword, not to his hands, not to his speed.

To his stance.

To the shift of his weight.

To the way his foot pressed against the dirt before lunging forward.

Saren moved—

And for the first time—Layron saw it.

The step. The angle of the attack. The direction the sword would swing before it even moved.

A moment ago, Saren had seemed like a blur—impossible to track. But now…

Layron wasn't watching the blade.

He was watching the intent.

The telltale shift in balance. The coiled tension before a strike. The silent language of combat.

"Now…" Zorthaal whispered.

Layron's grip tightened.

Saren lunged.

But this time—Layron was already moving.

His body twisted at the perfect moment. The strike missed by mere inches, slicing through empty air where his ribs had been just a heartbeat ago.

The crowd gasped.

Saren blinked in surprise.

Layron saw the hesitation—the brief fraction of a second where Saren's mind

registered the miss.

That was all he needed.

Layron shifted his stance, stepping into the opening, his wooden blade rising before Saren could recover.

CRACK.

The impact echoed across the training yard.

Saren grunted, stumbling back, his chest heaving.

Layron stood tall, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

Silence.

Pure, stunned silence.

Then—cheers.

A wave of murmurs spread through the students.

"He dodged it?"

"That was perfect timing!"

"No way—Layron just hit Saren!"

Saren exhaled slowly. He looked at Layron, eyes narrowing slightly, but there was no arrogance in his gaze. No mockery.

Only acknowledgment.

Layron's fingers flexed around his sword. His body still ached from the earlier hits. His ribs throbbed. But none of that mattered.

Because he had seen it.

Not just the attack. Not just the movements.

The truth behind them.

He had fought—not by luck. Not by brute force.

But by understanding.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

"You see now, don't you?"

Zorthaal's voice was a purr of satisfaction.

Layron inhaled deeply, a strange sensation settling in his chest.

It felt good.

The thrill of control. The sensation of being one step ahead.

He wanted more.

And Zorthaal… knew it.

---

A Choice Foretold

That night, the voice came again.

"You understand now, don't you?"

Layron sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped.

"I think so."

"You are awakening."

Layron's pulse quickened.

"To what?"

A soft chuckle.

"To what you were always meant to be."

For a moment, Layron said nothing.

Then, in a whisper—

"...I want more."

The darkness around him seemed to listen.

"You will have it," Zorthaal promised. "In time."

Layron exhaled.

The path before him had never been clearer.

No matter where it led.

---

End of Chapter 4

---