War.
A simple word, yet one that carried enough weight to crush entire nations beneath its aning. It was never just about armies clashing on battlefields, steel against steel, blood staining the earth. War ant upheaval. Displacent. Cities reduced to smoldering ruins, families shattered, lives forever altered. It was a storm that did not discriminate, sweeping away both the mighty and the ek in its relentless path.
For Velren, the notion of war had always been a distant one. Sothing that existed in history books, whispered rumors, or the tales of old soldiers who had seen too much. Yet here he was, sitting across from Mikhail, listening to implications that could turn those distant echoes into reality.
He should’ve just stayed in the forest. But then again, that was no solution either. Part of Sylmare Forest bordered Elyndra. If war truly did break out, would that an he would be caught in the crossfire eventually? No matter how much he had distanced himself from the affairs of kingdoms and nobility, war did not care for personal boundaries.
Velren raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned back slightly.
"That’s a lot of ’ifs’ back there," he remarked with a skeptical tone, but not dismissive.
"You don’t even know for sure if House Rhaegis deliberately did it or not. For all we know, that alloy could’ve been stolen, smuggled out, or hell, even sold off by so rogue elent in their ranks."
His fingers tapped idly against the table as he continued.
"You’re jumping straight to conspiracy and war, but at the end of the day, all you really have is a missing chunk of tal and a whole lot of assumptions. You might be right. But you might also be seeing ghosts where there aren’t any."
Mikhail exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Maybe. But people should be prepared for the worst, even if it never cos. That’s how you survive. That’s how you stay ahead. You think those in power wait until it’s too late? No, they move before the pieces are even set on the board."
His gaze sharpened, sothing unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"The real question is—if it cos to it, do you have what it takes to pick the right side?"
Velren’s expression darkened instantly. His jaw tensed, fingers curling against the table’s surface. He didn’t like the way Mikhail phrased that, like it was so inevitable conclusion just waiting to happen. Like there was a ’right’ side at all.
"The old man once told ..." he muttered, more to himself, dropping his gaze briefly before lifting back to et Mikhail’s.
"In a war, it’s not about who’s right. It’s about who’s left in the end."
In war, morality and righteousness often take a backseat to survival. It doesn’t matter who was justified, who had the noblest cause, or who believed they were in the right—what ultimately matters is who survives to tell the tale. History is written by the victors, and the cost of war is asured not in ideals, but in lives lost and those who remain standing.
Mikhail’s expression shifted ever so slightly—his usual sharp, calculating gaze lingered on Velren, as if reassessing him. There was no imdiate retort, no scoff or smirk, just a quiet, unreadable look. Then, after a brief pause, he exhaled through his nose, almost like a suppressed chuckle.
"Tch..." he pushed himself up from the table with his tray at hand.
And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving Velren frowning at his retreating figure.
’Good talk...’
***
The academy’s training ground was a vast, open space, sectioned off for different forms of combat practice. Stone tiling covered the sparring areas, worn down by years of footwork and strikes, while sturdy wooden dummies stood motionless at the edges. Beyond them, racks of training weapons lined the walls, though most remained untouched at this hour. It was eerily quiet—no echoes of clashing steel, no voices calling out in challenge or instruction.
It was probably due to the timing. It was the first day of the new weekday after all, and most students were still recovering—whether from commissions, the recent Dominion Clash exam for the first years, or other matters entirely.
For him, though, there was only one thing on his mind.
He unsheathed the wakizashi at his waist, the blade catching the light as he held it before him. His grip tightened slightly, testing the weight, the balance. It was sowhat... different. He could feel it in the way it settled in his hand, in the way his Ka instinctively pulsed through it, hesitant—like an artist that had been handed a brush of unfamiliar make. His katana had beco an extension of himself, a weapon he had wielded for years, one that responded seamlessly to his intent. This, however... this was still foreign.
His Ka did not flow as naturally into it. Not yet, at least.
There was a peculiar weight to it, not just in its physical form but in sothing deeper, sothing unseen. As if the blade itself carried a presence that resisted him, not rejecting outright, but watching. Testing. The way it sat in his grip felt different, not wrong, but like a conversation left unfinished.
"Well then, shall we get to it?"
Velren took a steady breath, centering himself. Just like Gramps had taught him. The principle was simple—let his Ka flow, let the weapon recognize him as its wielder, let them beco one. With his katana, it had been effortless, almost instantaneous, despite Gramps warning him that such a process took years of refinent. It was as if the blade had been waiting for him all along, fitting into his grip as naturally as breathing.
This one should be the sa, right?
He had expected the sa ease, the sa natural extension of himself, but as his Ka reached for the wakizashi, there was—resistance.
He exhaled and let his Ka surge forth.
And the mont it touched the wakizashi—
A violent and searing pain erupted through his whole existence.
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