Underestimation – Vaelor's Mistake
Vaelor exhaled slowly, lowering his sword just slightly as the thick mist began to settle. His golems remained still, their colossal figures looming protectively around him—unshaken, unbreakable, absolute. His smirk widened, a flicker of amusement dancing in his sharp, golden eyes as he gazed upon the lone figure standing in the aftermath.
Gramps.
The old warrior stood bloodied, torn apart from head to toe. Deep gashes marred his arms and torso, his coat barely holding together, its once-pristine fabric reduced to mere scraps. Blood ran down his forehead, mixing with the dirt and sweat that clung to his skin. His knuckles, bruised and raw, trembled slightly at his sides, a testament to the relentless war he had fought with nothing but his fists.
And yet—
That grin.
That damn grin.
Vaelor scoffed, shaking his head. "You really don't know when to quit, Sensei."
He rested Vaeloris lazily on his shoulder, his posture almost casual. "I gotta admit, I'm impressed. Not bad for an old man. But let's be honest here—you're finished. You can barely stand, and you haven't even drawn your sword yet. You were actually planning to win with just your fists?"
Gramps chuckled, despite the searing pain coursing through his body. His shoulders rolled as if shaking off the fatigue, but even that simple motion sent another trail of crimson down his arms. "What, and you thought I couldn't?"
Vaelor clicked his tongue, his amusement growing. "Come on, Sensei. We both know how this ends. You put up a good fight, but you're out of options. No speed left to dodge, no power to counter, no stamina to keep going. This fight was decided the moment the fifth golem entered the battlefield."
Gramps simply wiped the blood from his mouth, his smirk never fading.
Vaelor sighed dramatically. "You always told me—'Pick your battles wisely. Know when to step back.' And yet, here you are, standing in a fight you've already lost."
He took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the fractured earth. "You know," he mused, "you remind me of myself back when I was still a trainee. Stubborn. Too damn proud to accept defeat. Always pushing past my limits, thinking sheer willpower alone would be enough."
Gramps raised a brow, his voice laced with amusement. "And how did that work out for you?"
Vaelor's smirk twitched.
"I almost died. Twice." He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "But you were always there, weren't you? Standing at the top. The unbeatable Sensei. The one no one could surpass. I spent years trying to reach you, trying to prove that I was more than just your student."
His eyes sharpened, his smirk growing more confident.
"But today…"
He gestured to the battlefield—the shattered rocks, the scorched craters, the frozen wastelands left in the wake of their battle. Every scar on the land was proof of a fight that should have ended.
"Today, I surpassed you."
Silence hung between them.
Gramps didn't reply. He simply stood there, still bleeding, still battered, still grinning like a man who had yet to lose.
Vaelor frowned.
"Why the hell are you still smiling?"
Gramps exhaled. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his waist—where Scarlet waited.
His voice was low, almost entertained.
"Because you just made the biggest mistake of your life."
Vaelor's brows furrowed. "What—?"
SHING.
A single pull of the sword changed everything.
The Unleashing of Scarlet – A Sword Beyond Kings
The battlefield reacted.
The very fabric of the world recoiled.
The sky split—not from a mere storm, but from something deeper, something more ancient than the heavens themselves. The winds that had once raged in defiance halted, bowing to the presence of something far greater. The flames, so eager to consume all in their path, twisted away, their arrogance burned away by something far more terrifying.
And the earth trembled—as if in reverence.
Vaelor took an instinctive step back. His breath caught in his throat, his fingers stiffening around Vaeloris. His instincts screamed at him, primal and raw.
Something was wrong.
No—something far beyond his understanding was happening.
And then—
Scarlet.
A blade not meant for men. Not for kings. Not for gods. Not for the righteous or the wicked.
It was a sword forged in war.
Born in calamity.
Sharpened through countless annihilations.
It was a weapon that devoured the heavens and defied the earth. A blade that had never known defeat.
And as it left its sheath—the world itself rebelled.
A single note rang through the battlefield.
A chime.
Not just any sound—but a requiem.
A death knell so pure, so absolute, that it sliced through existence itself. The sky cracked, fractures of light splintering across the heavens as if the cosmos itself had suffered a wound.
And the battlefield?
It shattered.
The ground beneath them, once solid, now fractured like brittle glass, unable to bear the presence of a sword not meant for this world.
Then—came the pressure.
A weight unlike anything Vaelor had ever experienced.
A presence so dense, so suffocating, that even breathing felt like a battle against gravity itself. The air no longer flowed—it obeyed. The land no longer stood—it submitted.
For the first time—Vaelor felt his own sword tremble in his grip.
Scarlet wasn't just a sword.
It was a calamity incarnate.
The blade itself—blacker than the void, darker than the deepest abyss—swallowed the very light around it. A weapon so merciless, so absolute in its existence, that even the sun refused to shine upon it.
But within that darkness—
Veins of deep crimson pulsed.
Not like mere engravings.
Not like decorations.
No.
It breathed.
Like something inside was alive.
Like something inside was hungry.
And then—Scarlet exhaled.
A pulse of energy, so violent, so untamed, erupted from its edge. The very battlefield collapsed beneath its weight. The air itself was torn apart, sound itself unable to keep up.
The mist that had once blanketed the field?
Obliterated.
The golems—entities of legend, forged from the primal forces of nature itself—faltered.
For the first time, they hesitated.
Vaelor, for all his arrogance, felt it too.
For the first time—he knew fear.
Gramps rested Scarlet on his shoulder, his grip unyielding, his stance unchanged. His body still bore the marks of war, but in his eyes—there was no exhaustion.
Only certainty.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement. "At last, you won… making me draw this damn thing. Thought I could handle this without it, but—" he rolled his shoulders, a smirk playing on his lips, "—what a shame."
Vaelor's breath hitched.
For the first time—he felt it.
Not amusement.
Not confidence.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
Gramps shifted his stance. The world buckled.
Hakai – "Annihilation: Jet-Black Flash."
Then—he was gone.
No sound.
No motion.
No warning.
Just—obliteration.
Vaelor's mind failed to process it.
One moment, the golems stood—indomitable. Titans forged from the elements themselves. The next—
Five silent flashes.
Not even the sound of steel meeting stone. Just—flashes.
And then—
Heads rolled.
The five golems—beheaded.
Gramps reappeared. His blade, still unsheathed, rested at his side.
A single breath escaped his lips.
And then—they collapsed.
Stone, ice, wind, fire, and water—reduced to nothing. The very essence that once held them together severed beyond repair.
Silence.
The battlefield, once drowning in chaos, now held only one man standing.
But Gramps didn't move.
Because he knew.
His eyes lifted—past the shattered remains of the golems—straight to Vaelor.
"You're still standing," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Guess that means—"
The golems reformed.
Stone reattached. Ice regrew. Fire blazed back to life.
They weren't dead.
Because as long as Vaelor lived— they could not die.
Gramps exhaled sharply. He already knew the answer.
Slowly, his fingers returned to the hilt.
His stance shifted.
And then—Scarlet was drawn.
The world—shook.
---
The Ranking of Scarlet
There were many swords in this world.
Legendary blades wielded by heroes. Divine weapons blessed by gods. Ancestral steel passed down through generations.
But among them—a few stood at the pinnacle.
Scarlet was one of them.
Not the strongest.
Not the most divine.
But among the Eight Blades of Supremacy—it stood unrivaled in destruction.
It did not heal.
It did not protect.
It did not purify.
It existed only to destroy.
A sword feared not for the power it granted its wielder—
But for the price it demanded in return.
It did not choose its master.
It consumed them.
And Gramps—
Was the one who had ever tamed it.
Or so the world believed.
Because there was one truth that had been buried in history—
Scarlet was never truly tamed.
It was merely waiting.
---
TO BE CONTINUED…