King Neon's palace was alive with muted echoes of history—a vaulted ceiling of intricately carved stone and stained glass windows that spilled ribbons of color across the polished marble floors. The palace was a testament to ancient majesty and the enduring legacy of a kingdom that had weathered countless storms. It was here, in the shadow of legacy and ambition, that King Neon awaited the arrival of Aingo, a trusted advisor whose counsel had been invaluable over the years.
As the heavy double doors creaked open, Aingo stepped into the throne room. His presence, though modest in stature, carried an air of quiet determination. The king, resplendent in his ceremonial robes embroidered with the emblems of his reign, turned his gaze toward his old friend. In that brief moment, the vast history of their intertwined lives flashed across Neon's eyes—every hardship, every victory, every sacrifice.
Neon rose gracefully from his ornate chair. With a slight bow and a respectful nod, he addressed Aingo warmly. "I am grateful that you have come," he said, his tone imbued with both formality and heartfelt gratitude. His words were gentle, as if each syllable was an offering of thanks for the many ways Aingo had shaped his destiny.
Aingo, however, shifted uncomfortably. Though he was not one to dismiss propriety, he could not help but remark with a trace of wry humor, "you are the king now. I don't see why you should lower yourself to such formalities when speaking with me." His voice carried the edge of familiarity and the burden of responsibility—he had long been more than a subordinate; he was a confidant.
King Neon's smile did not waver. He spoke with quiet conviction. "Aingo, it is precisely because of you that I stand where I am today. Every decision, every success, has your mark upon it. I cannot begin to thank you enough." His words were sincere, each one underscored by the memories of shared trials and triumphs.
Aingo sighed softly. The weight of years spent in service, the endless nights spent plotting and planning for the greater good, pressed upon him. "Very well," he said, his tone pragmatic as he settled into a carved wooden chair near the dais. "Let's set aside these formalities. I'd like to get straight to the matter at hand. What is it that you need to discuss?"
King Neon reclined slightly upon his throne, his regal posture belying the urgency of his thoughts. "The tournament," he began, pausing as if to let the gravity of his words settle into the stone and marble around them. "We have conceived a grand contest as you know—a tournament that will be the deciding factor to announce our future Sword Master. It shall consist of eight distinct brackets, each pitting our finest warriors against one another. In each round, competitors will battle fiercely until only a single champion remains."
He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Aingo's. "There is one exception, however. Rider—along with his appointed opponent—will engage in a solitary round. The plan is that if Rider wins Rider will await the victor of the tournament and then face him, a final test of his mettle."
Aingo frowned, struggling to reconcile the simplicity of the format with the complex politics that lay beneath. "Yeah and, I do not see your point," he interjected. "Forty-eight warriors have signed up for the tournament just for eight brackets in the tournament, don't you think that's a bit miscalculated?".
Neon's expression turned pensive as he carefully explained his design. "The initial pool is vast, but for the tournament's structure to remain balanced, we require precisely eight final slots. Seven of these will be determined through a special preliminary match—a last seven-man standing contest. All competitors, Except for Rider and his immediate opponent, will converge in one grand melee. They will push, parry, and outwit each other until only seven remain. These seven will advance to the official bracket."
Aingo's brow furrowed in disbelief. "But there are eight brackets in the main competition. Why would we leave one slot—one bracket—open to such uncertainty?"
King Neon rose slightly, his tone both measured and resolute. "That is exactly why I summoned you today. The eighth slot is not to be filled by a chance survivor, but by a predetermined champion—a warrior already renowned among our ranks. An elite soldier, one of the formal ranked warriors of Dextin's once-mighty legion. This slot has been claimed by none other than elite soldier Ten, known to many as 'Tanker.'"
A stunned silence fell over the hall. Aingo's eyes widened as he recalled the fabled tales of the former elite soldiers—soldiers of such skill and renown that many believed them to be relics of a bygone era. "But, Neon ," Aingo protested, "I thought that all of the elite soldiers perished long ago. How can Tanker be among the living?"
King Neon's gaze was unyielding. "Not all legends die, Aingo. Among the ravages of time and war, some survivors endure. You and elite soldier Ten are living proof. Remember him—his unyielding strength, his tactical brilliance. His presence in the tournament is no arbitrary decision. It is a strategic move for the betterment of Xiphosia."
The hall seemed to pulse with tension as memories of past glories and tragedies danced in the flickering torchlight. Aingo's face contorted between shock and indignation. "This is unjust," he exclaimed, his voice rising. "By inserting an elite soldier into the contest, you have effectively preordained the outcome. It is as if you have already crowned him the champion!"
King Neon's response was quiet, yet carried the weight of authority and personal anguish. "Think beyond the confines of personal favor, Aingo. This is not merely about Rider or any one individual—it is about safeguarding our future. We need the strongest, the most capable warrior to rise as our Sword Master, the one who can stand against Dextin should he return. I have already granted Rider his advantage; if you doubt his ability to overcome an elite soldier, then I fear he is not worthy of the title he seeks."
For a long, silent moment, the two men regarded one another. Aingo's gaze shifted as he recalled stories of an era when the Red Katana—a legendary blade imbued with destiny—had chosen its wielders. "But Tanker was present when the Red Katana could choose its master. He was overlooked, never chosen. Doesn't that imply he is unworthy?"
King Neon's eyes flashed with an inner storm of determination and regret. "The era of the Red Katana's awakening has passed," he declared. "Now, the blade lies dormant, incapable of choosing its champion. It falls upon us, the living, to make that choice. We must select our Sword Master with haste and wisdom before Dextin's return—a return that haunts my every waking moment. I see visions of our unpreparedness, nightmares of calamity. I cannot, in good conscience, allow our kingdom to be caught unguarded. As king, I bear the responsibility of ensuring that our defenses are strengthened, and our legacy secured."
Aingo's jaw tightened. After a long, measured pause, he let out a sharp tsk of resignation and frustration. "Then do as you must," he muttered bitterly. "I fear that reason will have little sway with you this day." With that, he turned and departed, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of the hall—a poignant reminder of a friendship strained by the heavy burdens of duty and destiny.
King Neon watched his old friend leave, his heart heavy with understanding and sorrow. The decision had been made, but its cost, both personal and political, would ripple through the corridors of power for years to come.
Meanwhile, at Bianca's Arena
The atmosphere in Bianca's training arena was charged with perspiration and determination. The high ceiling of the facility, draped in banners of past victories, bore silent witness to the relentless dedication of its occupants. Rider and Bianca were entrenched in a grueling training session—each move, each breath, designed to push them ever closer to the peak of their abilities.
Rider, his face slick with sweat, lay sprawled on the rough-hewn floor. Every muscle screamed in protest, yet his eyes glimmered with the stubborn spark of determination. Beside him, Bianca—stood over him, her voice cutting through the heat and exertion.
"Come on, get up!" Bianca demanded, her tone both commanding and caring. "We still have a long day ahead if we want to win this tournament." Her arms, toned and agile, moved with precision as she directed the next sequence of their training drills.
Rider, clearly at the limits of his endurance, raised a hand in protest. "I need a timeout," he panted. His voice was heavy with fatigue, each word a struggle against his exhaustion.
Bianca crossed her arms and leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "If you truly aspire to become the Sword Master, you must learn to push past your limits. Get up and show me what you're made of." There was an unspoken challenge in her tone—a test of willpower as much as physical strength.
Summoning every ounce of determination, Rider forced himself to rise. His body trembled with the effort, but he managed a nod. "You're right," he admitted, his voice steadying as he regained his composure. Bianca's approving smile was like a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. "That's the spirit," she said, retrieving a large wooden board and a piece of chalk from a nearby bench. Rider looked on, confusion mingling with curiosity.
"What's all this for?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. Bianca's eyes danced with enthusiasm as she replied, "We've honed your combat skills, refined your fighting style, and increased your endurance. But now, we must cultivate two equally vital qualities: fighting observation and battle IQ. These are the keys to outsmarting any adversary."
Rider's brow furrowed, a trace of annoyance creeping into his tone. "If that's all it takes, why did you make me push myself so hard just now?" he inquired. Bianca chuckled lightly, her tone both teasing and instructive. "That, my friend, was a lesson in itself. You had to break through your self-imposed limits. Sometimes, the act of rising is as important as the strategy that follows."
The pair settled into a rhythm as Bianca launched into a detailed lesson on the art of combat strategy. For hours, she demonstrated various scenarios, pointing out the subtle cues in an opponent's stance, the momentary lapses in defense, and the strategic value of patience. Rider listened intently, his earlier fatigue now channeled into a fervent focus. Every movement Bianca made was accompanied by an explanation, and every demonstration became a stepping stone toward mastering the elusive art of battle intelligence.
The Dawn of a New Day
The next morning, Rider was sleeping comfortably when Bianca shifted in her sleep, making the bed feel cramped. Trying to find space, Rider rolled to the edge, settling back into sleep—until a sudden slap across his face woke him up. Startled, he sat up, rubbing his cheek, only to realize Bianca was still fast asleep. He glared at her for a moment but then chuckled at her peaceful expression. Shaking his head, he pulled the blanket over her to tuck her in.
Just as he was about to lie back down, Bianca suddenly jolted upright, shouting, "We're late!"—without realizing her abrupt movement had sent her head crashing straight into Rider's face. The impact sent him flying off the bed, landing hard on the floor. Dazed, he lay there, staring at the ceiling while Bianca blinked in confusion, wondering where he'd gone. Crawling to the edge of the bed, she peeked down and saw Rider clutching his bleeding nose.
Instead of showing concern, she pouted and muttered, "Pervert," assuming the nosebleed was for a different reason. Rider just lay there in silent.
Then Bianca suddenly remembered why she had woken up in a panic. "Rider, hurry up! The tournament is today!"
Still groggy, Rider sat up. "What's the rush?" he mumbled.
Bianca shot him a baffled look. "Wait… you didn't read the sign-up card?"
Rider blinked. "The what now?"
Bianca groaned. "It clearly says all competitors must be present before 7:30!"
Rider's eyes widened as he turned to the clock. 6:55 AM.
His heart nearly stopped. "What happens if we're late?!"
"If we don't make it in time… we're eliminated."
Rider froze. Then, at the top of his lungs—
"WHAAAAAAT?!"