The arena thundered with anticipation.
Raiden stood tall, his armor gleaming with golden etchings, a curved blade in hand. The son of a general. Trained by the kingdom's finest since childhood. His every movement was precise—controlled.
Across from him stood Ichigo.
No armor.
No title.
Only a borrowed blade… and eyes burning with a quiet storm.
The gong struck.
Raiden dashed forward like a lightning bolt, his sword a blur of silver. Ichigo barely sidestepped, the blade grazing his ribs—drawing first blood. But Ichigo didn't flinch. He dropped low, swept Raiden's legs, and followed with a slash that carved across his opponent's shoulder.
The crowd gasped.
Raiden rolled away, blood trickling down his arm. His eyes narrowed. This wasn't going to be the easy match he'd expected.
He lunged again, this time faster. Sparks flew as blades clashed. Raiden slashed left—Ichigo blocked. Raiden twisted low—Ichigo met him with a knee to the chest. Raiden coughed, stumbling back.
"That movement… it's like his father's," whispered one of the old generals, eyes wide.
Ichigo pressed the attack. His strikes weren't refined—but they were unpredictable, wild, full of raw instinct. His sword carved through Raiden's guard, drawing blood from his thigh, then his shoulder. Ichigo's face was smeared with crimson—his own and Raiden's.
The arena was no longer cheering. They were silent.
Raiden gritted his teeth and shouted, summoning a burst of chakra to reinforce his speed. He vanished in a blur.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Steel rang through the arena as they exchanged blows faster than the eye could follow. Ichigo blocked a strike, then another, but the third caught his arm. Blood sprayed, painting the arena floor.
Ichigo growled, using the pain as fuel. He spun midair, driving his heel into Raiden's jaw. The older boy crashed into the wall, coughing blood.
Ichigo staggered forward, chest heaving. Blood dripped from a gash above his brow, soaking into his shirt. But his grip on the sword remained strong.
Raiden pulled himself up, wobbling. His blade trembled in his hand.
Ichigo raised his weapon, the tip aimed at Raiden's throat.
He had him.
Then… his legs gave out.
The crowd leaned in. Ichigo's sword lowered. His body shook.
Raiden saw the moment—and struck.
With a roar, he surged forward and drove his blade across Ichigo's side. The boy screamed, staggering backward. Blood burst from the deep wound, soaking the arena floor.
Ichigo collapsed to one knee, eyes still blazing—but fading.
Raiden stood over him, victorious… barely.
The gong struck again.
But no one cheered.
Not even Raiden.
They had witnessed something far greater than victory—
They had seen the rise of a warrior.
Ichigo, the son of a legend.
And perhaps, one day… the one who would surpass him.
The arena lay still.
Ichigo, bloodied and barely standing, staggered forward. His grip loosened around the shattered remains of his borrowed sword. Only the handle remained in his hand—the blade was gone, shattered into a dozen jagged pieces scattered across the stone floor like fallen stars.
An old general stepped forward from the royal stands, face stern—then stopped cold.
His eyes locked onto the sword hilt in Ichigo's hand. Recognition dawned, followed by fear.
"That sword…" he muttered under his breath. "It belonged to him."
He said nothing more. Only silence clung to him as if the weight of memory had frozen his tongue.
Without a word, Raiden turned his back to the arena. He took a long leap and vanished from sight, slipping into the shadows of the corridor like a ghost retreating from light. No words. No pride. No farewell.
And then—
Rain.
Gentle drops began to fall from the sky, washing the blood from the stone like nature herself wept for the boy who lost, yet stood like he'd won something deeper.
The royal guards stepped forward quickly, raising golden umbrellas to shield the king. Two of the generals broke away, hurrying after Raiden in silence. But Kyra did not move.
She remained still.
A strange weight lingered in her chest. She didn't know why she stayed. Her mind searched for a reason—but her heart already knew.
Ichigo approached the shoulder of the guard who had given him the blade and handed him the broken handle with both hands. The soldier looked down, stunned by the boy's humility.
Then, with a firm nod, he placed his hand on Ichigo's shoulder.
"You fought with honor," he said.
Ichigo simply nodded, eyes tired but unbroken.
From the royal platform, the king finally spoke—his voice calm, but edged with emotion.
"Your father… was one of my closest friends. A man I trusted not only with my kingdom—but with my secrets."
Gasps stirred in the crowd.
"Now, Ichigo," the king continued, his gaze sharpening, "I offer you the same. You have earned the right to stand where he once stood."
He turned to the old general.
"Leave us. Give the boy his moment."
The scene faded, and the next opened inside the general's palace—not far from the king's, but smaller in size. The room was quiet. Regal. Rain tapped against the wide windows.
Ichigo sat alone, freshly bathed, shirtless, wounds barely dried. His gaze was distant, thoughts far away.
The door creaked open without a knock.
It was Kyra.
She walked in without a word, a medical kit in her right hand. She knelt beside him and opened the kit, her fingers steady.
"That looked painful," she said, her voice low.
Ichigo didn't answer. He only watched as she cleaned the wounds gently, applying green-mixed herbs that burned at first, then soothed.
Silence fell between them. Not awkward—but familiar. A silence that held meaning.
She wrapped the final bandage with care, her fingers brushing against his skin.
Then she spoke again, softer this time.
"You did your best. Don't be upset."
Ichigo turned his head slightly.
"Thanks."
Their eyes met for a heartbeat—two warriors who had never spoken, now bound by something unspoken. Both nervous. Both uncertain.
Kyra stood up.
Without another word, she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
But something had changed.
And neither of them could quite explain what.
Add to collection — your support is my sword.