Chapter 10: The Blade Beneath Silence
There was no ceremony. No thunderous sky or golden light. No audience to witness the moment the world quietly lost its strongest swordmaster—and gained something far more terrifying.
Sirius Farah Von Ross turned twelve.
And somewhere in the shadows of the Grand Duke's estate, steel met silence… and silence surrendered.
He stood alone in the family's private training grounds, surrounded by blades embedded in stone, left behind by knights and lords long gone. The courtyard was cold in the early morning, veiled in mist, but Sirius didn't shiver.
He was already finished.
The ground behind him was cleaved in two. A single motion. A step forward, and the air itself had split.
Even the knights who secretly watched from afar—men handpicked by the Grand Duke himself—had no words. Their eyes wide. Their mouths dry. They had seen swordmasters rise before… seen geniuses struggle toward their peak.
But this…
This wasn't a peak. This was an awakening.
A swordmaster. At the age of twelve.
A myth, they would later say. Impossible. No one would believe it unless they had seen it themselves. And yet even with their eyes open, some still doubted.
Because there had been no effort. No trembling blade. No blood.
Only silence. And then, the fracture in the world.
Sirius turned away from the broken stones. The sword in his hand flickered with pale light—not enchanted, not blessed—just sharpened by his will. His aura no longer danced like a child's. It moved like gravity. Like something ancient remembering its purpose.
He left the courtyard without a word, his footsteps soft against the marble floor. The knights didn't follow. Couldn't.
In the heart of the estate, his mother was in the study, flipping through pages of ancient tomes. Her aura was soft yet suffocating—8th class magic coiled around her like silk. One of the six in the world who had reached such a level.
She paused when she saw her son.
And for a fleeting moment, her lips parted—surprise flickering across her face.
"You…" she whispered, rising slowly. "You've… already…"
Sirius didn't respond. He didn't need to.
His father appeared in the doorway soon after, his towering figure leaning against the frame with a quiet hum.
"Not even a ceremony," the Grand Duke muttered, almost to himself. "You surpassed the entire empire, and you didn't even make a sound."
Sirius looked up at the man—his father, the only Grand Swordmaster in the world. The strongest human alive. A being whose very presence shook seasoned warriors to their core.
They stared at each other for a long time.
Then, the Grand Duke laughed softly.
"People believe you'll become a Grand Swordmaster by twenty at the earliest," he said. "They say a human needs time. That no one can break the limits too early."
He leaned closer.
"You're going to make them all look like children."
Sirius didn't smile. But he nodded—just once. Because he knew.
He wasn't just going to reach the peak.
He was going to shatter it.
—
That night, as always, he returned to the terrace.
The moon was dim behind veils of thin cloud, but her presence never faded. He sat cross-legged, gaze fixed upward, his mind drifting somewhere far from swords and titles.
"They called me a Swordmaster today," he said softly, resting his chin on his knees. "I didn't feel anything."
His voice was calm. Distant.
"They said I should be proud. That I've accomplished what takes others decades."
He looked down at his hand—the same hand that had torn through air, stone, and steel. He flexed it once. Slowly.
"It's still empty."
There was no answer, of course. No divine whisper, no ethereal comfort.
Only the moon. Watching. Waiting.
He tilted his head and closed his eyes.
And in that stillness, he whispered—not to be heard, but because he couldn't keep the words in.
"This world is slow. Dull. But I'll keep going."
A pause. The wind brushing against his cheek like a memory.
"For you."
He said nothing else. And like every night before… he stayed there until sleep claimed him.
Beneath silver skies that remembered.