The training ground was silent, save for the scraping sound of Asvard's boots dragging through dust.
A shimmer exploded behind him. In a split second, he twisted his body, just barely avoiding the illusion-blade that thrusted through where he'd stood.
Mirage Reversal.
He panted, shoulder heaving. The ability was cruel. It didn't just make illusions, it reversed actions for an instant, replaying movements that could have been... and making them real.
Prwyer stood with his arms folded, expression unreadable. His cloak fluttered faintly with the breeze.
"You're getting faster" he muttered. "But you're still too honest with your movements. Show me again"
Asvard groaned, wiped the blood off his lip, and returned to stance. His hands trembled slightly. This was the third round without rest.
He focused. Again.
The dust split. Shadows flickered. His own after-image lunged ahead, then reversed back with a trailing strike. Mirage Reversal danced like a trickster between what was and what seemed.
But again, he was too slow. Prwyer stepped forward, slamming the base of his staff into the dirt. A wave of controlled force sent Asvard staggering.
"Enough"
Asvard collapsed to one knee. His breathing came heavy, heart drumming in his ears.
"You push like someone who doesn't want to die" Prwyer said calmly, walking over. "Good. That part's right. But Mirage Reversal doesn't answer to strength. It answers to instinct"
Asvard clenched his jaw. "I am trusting my instinct"
"Then listen harder" Prwyer crouched beside him. "You think a blade cuts because it's sharp. No. It cuts because the wielder wants it to"
A silence passed between them. Dust drifted like ash through the fading crimson sky.
Asvard looked up. "What was this place"
Prwyer's eyes grew distant. For a second, he looked older.
"This valley was once a dueling ground. Back when the First King was still remembered for more than just his disappearance" He ran a hand through the dirt. "Some of the earliest masters trained here. But when he vanished, so did purpose. And Hell... forgot how to grow"
Asvard glanced toward the horizon. Jagged stone pillars reached up like broken fingers. "You knew him, didn't you"
Prwyer didn't answer right away. "Only as a shadow. I was never one of his favorites, nor strong enough to draw his eye. But he taught something... something no one else saw value in. The others called it cowardice. I call it survival"
"And you think I'll survive with it"
"I think" Prwyer said slowly, "you remind me of what he feared most, change"
They both sat in the fading light, the silence a companion rather than a void.
"You ever heard of the Fang of the Unleashed Legion" Prwyer asked out of nowhere.
Asvard blinked. "Ashar"
Prwyer nodded. "Not many Hellspawn earn that name. Fewer deserve it. He protects something, no one knows what. Not relics, not soldiers... something older. Some even whisper the Throne of Blades left him there on purpose"
"Is he dangerous"
"He's kind"
Asvard flinched at the answer. Kindness was not common currency in Hell.
Prwyer continued, "But don't mistake kindness for weakness. He wields void art with a grace most can't even perceive. A scythe that sings before it strikes. They say he once tore through an entire front line alone, just to reach a comrade caught behind enemy territory"
Asvard frowned. "Then why does he serve the Throne"
"Because someone has to" Prwyer replied. "Not all duty is choice"
A stillness passed over the valley. Cold. Faint.
"Hell feels… different" Asvard said quietly.
"It is. The elites stir. Territories shift. Balance breaks. But no one speaks it aloud. They all pretend the old rules still hold. But this place... it's breathing again"
Asvard looked up at him, eyes narrowing. "Breathing like something about to wake up"
Prwyer just smiled, the kind that didn't reach the eyes. "Get some rest. We start again at first shadow"
The dust had just begun to settle.
A blade of obsidian flickered through the air, disappearing before it could meet flesh. Asvard's breath was uneven, shoulders tense, sweat dripping down his back as he slid his foot across the shattered stone, resetting his stance.
"Again" Prwyer's voice was calm, but commanding. "You hesitated."
Asvard gritted his teeth. His hands ached, fingers sore from gripping the worn handle of a weapon older than most demons in this region. The air shimmered around him, the remnants of Mirage Reversal still clinging to his skin like scars.
"I didn't hesitate" he muttered, swinging once more. The blade phased mid-arc, warping space in a brief pulse before reappearing behind Prwyer.
The old man tilted his head. "That's better. Still sloppy."
"Then show me the clean version."
"You're not ready for that."
Asvard exhaled sharply and lowered the weapon. "You say that every time."
Prwyer was already walking away, boots crunching over dry gravel. "That's because it's always true."
Asvard didn't reply. He just followed, sheathing the blade across his back with a flick of his wrist. Even that movement had gotten sharper over the days.
Training had become his rhythm. Wake. Fight. Learn. Bleed. Rest. Repeat.
And slowly, very slowly, he was starting to understand why this man, of all the demons in this cursed land, had once been taught by the First King.
They sat around a low fire, the flames crackling against the windless cave. The space wasn't warm, but the firelight danced in comforting patterns across the stone walls. Asvard stretched his leg, still bruised from their last spar.
Prwyer stared into the flames, silent for a while.
"Did I ever tell you why the Void Arts were never passed down?"
"No" Asvard replied. "You just said the masters died off. And the rest were too weak."
Prwyer nodded once. "That's the surface. The real reason was fear."
He picked up a nearby shard of black glass and held it over the fire. It didn't melt. It just shimmered.
"The Void isn't just a technique. It's a fracture. The moment you master it, you start to become part of it. And if your soul's not anchored…"
"You vanish" Asvard said.
Prwyer glanced at him. "No. Worse. You become something else."
Asvard didn't speak. The shard in his chest pulsed once, faint but steady.
Prwyer placed the glass down carefully. "Ashar didn't vanish. He mastered it. Balanced it with his scythe. That's what made him dangerous."
"And the other three?"
"Three?"
Prwyer chuckled "Asher is not of the four, he protects them"
Prwyer's lips pressed into a thin line. "No one speaks of them. Not because they're forgotten. But because they're too important. Too sacred."
"Sacred? In hell?" Asvard gave a short laugh. "You serious?"
Prwyer nodded. "There are rules, even here. Sacred doesn't mean holy. It means untouchable."
Asvard leaned forward. "You said Ashar protects them."
"He does. That's what the public thinks anyway. They don't realize he's not guarding them. He's guarding everyone else from them."
A silence settled.
"What do you mean?" Asvard asked quietly.
Prwyer's eyes met his. "Those four swords aren't weapons. They're people. Ego-forms. The physical manifestations of the Throne's true power. And Ashar… he's the wall that keeps them from waking."
Asvard blinked, stunned.
"You're saying those four-"
"Are sleeping gods. In flesh. Each one holding a piece of the Throne of Blades' soul. They're not meant to be disturbed. But lately... they've been restless."
Asvard felt the hairs on his neck rise.
"Why?"
"Because something broke the cycle. Something appeared that wasn't part of the script."
Prwyer didn't say more, but he didn't need to.
Asvard knew who he was talking about.
Him.
(To be continued...)