Scene: Inside the room, Hirako writing his diary.

  “It has been a year since Shinjiro escaped from that hell. It took his body six months to recover. I saw an unusual thing, his body’s mobility had increased and it was probably due to torture. His muscles have been built quite well doing all the work in prison. I was thinking these were unimportant things until he showed up after the festival and said he wants to be an Aetherblade like Iris. It was a real shock to me. I tried to change his mind but he said , “ I could not feel happiness even though you made my life easier and I had no problems. I miss Shun and my family, I can’t forget about them. I was really asking myself whatever happened to me was it my fault? Iris told me it was not my fault. I can live my whole life like this but I will never be happy. I want to move forward. I need to understand my purpose in life. I want to be strong.”

  I replied to him, “For some people there is no purpose in life. They just live their life.”

  What he said was really astonishing to me , “I am not one of them”

  _

  For six months, Hirako trained his body and mind to the best he could. He taught him basics of fighting. Hirako was consciously supporting him but unconsciously he knew Shinjiro did not stand a chance or maybe if he did , it would be one percent. Hirako is not wrong. Shinjiro has no skills or rather he had no time to learn them. Even if he wanted, he was a wanted person who could not leave his house.

  _

  The morning was cold and silent, with a faint mist clinging to the cobblestone streets as the carriage rattled through the outskirts of the royal capital. Lennox loomed in the distance, a sprawling fortress that seemed carved from the bones of the earth itself. Its towering spires pierced the skies, and its gates, etched with ancient glyphs, radiated an almost divine aura.

  Inside the carriage, Hirako glanced at Shinjiro. His face was calm, but his clenched fists and the way his shoulders slightly tensed betrayed the storm raging within him.

  "Shinjiro," Hirako began hesitantly, breaking the silence, "even if you've prepared, the trial isn't just about skill or strength. It's also about resilience. They will break you."

  Shinjiro turned his gaze to him, his expression unwavering. "They can't break what's already shattered."

  Hirako sighed, leaning back into the creaking seat. "You’re stubborn, just like Iris. Do you even know what you're walking into? You’re not just facing physical trials. The stigma of your past, of being falsely branded a criminal, will follow you. The other initiates won’t be kind."

  "I don’t need their kindness," Shinjiro replied firmly. "I need to prove to myself that I’m more than what they think I am. If I fail, it will be because I wasn’t strong enough—not because I gave up before trying."

  Hirako said nothing more, but his mind churned. Despite his doubts, there was a spark in Shinjiro’s eyes that even years of torment hadn’t extinguished. Perhaps that spark was what truly made him different.

  Scene: Arrival at Lennox

  The carriage came to a halt before the gates of Lennox. Guards clad in gleaming silver armor stood rigid, their expressions stoic as they inspected the arriving initiates. Each initiate was given a mark upon entry, an enchanted sigil that would monitor their performance throughout the trial.

  As Shinjiro stepped out, the weight of the place hit him. The sheer scale of the fortress, the hum of ancient magic that lingered in the air—it was overwhelming. Yet, he walked forward, his head held high.

  The other initiates, clad in fine clothes and bearing the confident air of nobility, turned to look at him. Their whispers weren’t subtle.

  "Isn’t that the criminal?"

  "What’s he doing here? This has to be a joke."

  "They’re letting anyone take the trial now."

  Shinjiro ignored them, his gaze fixed on the grand archway ahead. Hirako, walking beside him, leaned in and whispered, "Don’t let them get to you. They’ll try to rattle you before it even begins."

  "I know," Shinjiro said softly. His voice was calm, but his fists clenched as he resisted the urge to respond to the murmurs. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not here.

  Inside the arena, the atmosphere was even more intense. Rows of seats circled a central platform where the trials would take place. Above it all, the Arcanors observed from their thrones, their presence oppressive and commanding. Each of the Seven represented a pillar of the Aetherblades—strength, strategy, magic, endurance, and willpower ,etc.

  The Trial Master, a tall figure with piercing amber eyes and a voice that resonated like thunder, rose to address the initiates. "Welcome to Lennox, where the weak are culled and the worthy rise. This is not just a trial—it is a forging. Those who survive will earn the right to call themselves Aetherblades. Those who fail... will not leave the same as they came, if they leave at all."

  Shinjiro’s breath caught for a moment, but he steadied himself. This was what he had prepared for. This was his chance to move forward.

  All the participants were gathered in the arena. The Arena was filled with crowd on two-thirds, one third of them were Aetherblades. There were 7 thrones for the ones who had earned the title of Strongest. Iris was one of them rather , the 7th strongest.

  The Trial Master begins speaking, “The first trial will begin now but before that a criminal needs to be punished. The Royal Damian has appeared before me and told me the participant Shinjiro is a member of the group Daimyojins.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A ripple of murmurs swept through the audience like wildfire.

  "Is this a joke?" one man spat, his voice laced with outrage. "How can someone like that even be allowed here?"

  "He’s probably guilty. People like him always are," another chimed in, her tone dripping with disdain.

  From the upper tiers, a nobleman sneered, "The Aetherblades are meant to represent honor. Allowing a criminal into the trial is a disgrace to everything we stand for."

  But not all voices were hostile.

  "What if he’s innocent?" a young woman whispered to her companion. "The trials are about strength and character. Shouldn’t he be given a chance?"

  Her companion shrugged, doubtful. "Maybe, but people don’t just get branded criminals without reason."

  A group of commoners near the lower seats had a different reaction. "If he’s survived whatever horrors he’s faced, maybe he’s tougher than all those pampered nobles combined," one man said with a hint of admiration.

  An older spectator scoffed, "Toughness doesn’t erase guilt. Mark my words, he’ll crumble under the pressure."

  The crowd’s voices grew louder, a chaotic mix of jeers, whispers, and debates. The tension was palpable, and all eyes were drawn to Shinjiro as he stood amidst the other initiates.

  He didn’t flinch. His back was straight, his gaze steady. If the crowd’s judgment bothered him, he didn’t show it. But Hirako, watching from the sidelines, clenched his fists, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and worry.

  Above it all, the Trial Master raised a hand, silencing the crowd with a single, commanding gesture. " The 7 Masters have decided to let him participate as Mr Damian has not proved that the participant is associated with the group. The trial will decide his fate if he fails he will arrested right here and executed . Until then, remember this—judgment without proof is the mark of a coward. Let the trials begin."

  The crowd fell silent, but the weight of their gazes remained. Shinjiro could feel their eyes on him, heavy with scorn and doubt. Yet, as he stepped forward into the labyrinth, he felt a fire igniting in his chest.

  One of the participants says, “ What was that supposed to be? That guy doesn’t looks like a criminal to me.”

  All participants wore a badge which had their names on it.

  “What are you doing here?”, one participant recognized the voice.

  “Ryuma!”

  “Saber! It must be fate we met here.”

  The first one was Ryuma, he was from the country of Ojin . The second one was Saber, he was from the country of Sword . he country of sword has a name but very few people knew about it.

  The Trial Master speaks, “ It’s a battle royal. If your skill is recognized by the seven masters, you will pass on. Or if you survive till the end, you will pass on. Now begin !”

  The crowd shouted and cheered with excitement .

  Ryuma wasted no time. The moment the horn sounded, he shot forward like a coiled spring, weaving through the throng of combatants with the fluidity of water. His first target, a burly man wielding twin axes, barely had time to react.

  With a swift low kick, Ryuma swept the man’s legs out from under him. Before his opponent could recover, Ryuma spun and delivered a powerful elbow to his temple, knocking him unconscious.

  “Too slow,” Ryuma muttered as he scanned the field.

  Another fighter lunged at him, this one armed with a spear. Ryuma sidestepped, catching the shaft of the spear with both hands. With a twist, he wrenched it free and jabbed the blunt end into the attacker’s stomach. The man crumpled, gasping for air.

  The crowd roared in approval, chanting Ryuma’s name.

  On the other side of the arena, Saber was carving a path of destruction. His claymore swung in wide arcs, its blade whistling through the air. A single swing sent three fighters sprawling, their weapons shattered and armor dented.

  “You’re all weak,” Saber growled, his deep voice cutting through the din.

  A group of four combatants attempted to flank him. Saber smirked. With a single spin, he deflected their combined assault, his claymore creating a whirlwind of force. One by one, they fell, their bodies hitting the sand with heavy thuds.

  Despite his raw power, Saber’s movements were precise, almost surgical. He was no mere brute—he was a tactician.

  Amid the chaos, Shinjiro found himself struggling to keep up. He narrowly dodged a sword strike, the blade slicing the air inches from his face. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming with effort.

  “Focus,” he muttered to himself, clenching his fists.

  He remembered Hirako’s training, the countless hours spent drilling basic techniques. But the battlefield was nothing like practice. Every opponent was faster, stronger, and more skilled than he had anticipated.

  A hammer-wielding fighter charged at him, swinging the weapon in a deadly arc. Shinjiro managed to sidestep, but the sheer force of the swing threw him off balance.

  Before he could recover, another attacker closed in, a dagger aimed at his chest. Panic surged through him as he raised his arms in a desperate attempt to block.

  The dagger never reached him.

  Ryuma appeared out of nowhere, his movements a blur. He caught the attacker’s wrist mid-strike, twisting it until the dagger fell to the ground. With a swift kick, he sent the man sprawling.

  “You’re sloppy,” Ryuma said, glancing at Shinjiro. “Stay close if you want to survive.”

  Shinjiro nodded, his heart pounding. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Ryuma replied, turning his attention back to the fight.

  With Ryuma leading the way, Shinjiro found himself able to stay in the fight. He watched in awe as Ryuma dismantled opponent after opponent, each move efficient and deliberate.

  “Use your head,” Ryuma said over his shoulder. “You don’t have to win every fight—just survive.”

  Shinjiro took the advice to heart. Instead of engaging every enemy, he focused on avoiding conflict, staying in Ryuma’s shadow as the chaos unfolded around them.

  Meanwhile, Saber continued his rampage, his claymore now stained with sand and sweat. The crowd’s cheers grew louder with every swing of his blade.

  Ryuma stood poised as his opponent—a towering fighter clad in leather armor—charged at him with a fierce roar. The man’s fists were like hammers, each swing carrying enough force to crush bones.

  Shinjiro watched from a distance, still catching his breath, as the larger man threw a wild punch aimed directly at Ryuma’s head. The crowd gasped, anticipating the strike to land, but Ryuma was already in motion.

  With a dancer's grace, he sidestepped the initial swing, his movements smooth and calculated. The opponent, now frustrated, followed up with a straight punch aimed at Ryuma’s chest.

  This time, Ryuma didn’t dodge. Instead, he leaned into the attack, grabbing the man’s extended arm with both hands.

  In a move that defied expectation, Ryuma used the man’s own momentum to leap into the air. His body twisted mid-flight as he ascended, the crowd falling silent in awe.

  Suspended for a brief moment, Ryuma positioned his knee, aiming for the man’s exposed face.

  The descent was as fast as it was precise.

  With a sickening crack, Ryuma’s knee connected squarely with the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood spattered across the sand as the fighter crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the arena floor.

  Ryuma landed lightly, his feet barely making a sound on the blood-streaked sand. He released the opponent’s arm as if discarding a broken toy.

  The crowd roared in approval, chanting his name.

  Ryuma turned, his eyes scanning the field for the next challenge

  Amidst the chaos of the trial, Saber stood like an unmoving statue in the middle of the arena. His long, black coat fluttered lightly in the breeze, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Unlike the frenzied fighters around him, Saber’s calm presence was almost unnerving.

  Across from him, his opponent—a burly, axe-wielding warrior covered in scars—advanced with a sneer. The man towered over Saber, his steps heavy enough to leave small imprints in the sand.

  “You think you can just stand there and scare me?” the warrior growled. He twirled his axe, the weapon glinting in the sunlight, before charging forward.

  Saber didn’t respond. His eyes remained half-closed, his posture completely relaxed, as if he were bored.

  The axe-wielder roared, lifting his weapon high and bringing it down with a thunderous swing aimed directly at Saber’s head.

  But in that split second, the air seemed to crackle with tension.

  Saber’s hand moved.

  There was no grand gesture, no wasted motion. In one fluid, lightning-fast movement, his sword was drawn. A single, shimmering arc of steel cut through the air, its path almost imperceptible to the human eye.

  Shing.

  The sound of the blade sliding back into its sheath resonated as Saber stood upright again.

  The axe-wielder froze mid-swing. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing had happened. Then, the man’s axe split cleanly in half, clattering uselessly to the ground.

  A thin red line appeared across the warrior’s chest.

  The crowd collectively gasped as blood sprayed from the wound, and the towering fighter collapsed in a heap, utterly defeated.

  Saber adjusted his coat, his expression unchanging. He didn’t spare his opponent a second glance as he turned and walked away, already scanning for his next challenge.

  From the sidelines, Shinjiro’s breath caught in his throat.

  “That... that wasn’t human,” he muttered, eyes wide.

  Ryuma, who had taken a position nearby after his own victory, smirked. “That’s Saber for you. His country isn’t known for its warriors for nothing.”

  Shinjiro watched as Saber’s gaze landed on another approaching fighter. The man’s calm, calculating demeanor never wavered, and Shinjiro couldn’t help but feel the gulf between them.

  Even among elites, Saber stood apart—a force of nature with a blade that struck faster than the eye could follow.

  The Trial Master announces, “Ryuma and Saber pass the first trial. They may pass on to the rest area,”

  It was no shock to the participants, Ryuma and Saber were just too skilled for the trial.