Lyra’s brow tightened the instant Kael’s name surfaced, voice sliding out edged with frost.
“Sacred Sword Manor wields considerable sway on the fifth level. They style themselves the orthodox path and dismiss our Sword Sect as mere Charlatans.”
She continued, “Kael in particular is insufferable. Gifted, yes, and popular among the city’s younger blades, but aims every thrust at disciples who rose from the third level like us. At the gate, bragged would show me ‘true sword force’. I had no intention of retreating.”
Jared nodded to himself. No wonder their sword intent had crackled so fiercely, years of buried resentment had simply erupted in public.
“Between Sacred Sword Manor and your Sword Sect, who truly holds the upper hand inside Swordmaster City?” asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.
Lyra gave a faint shrug. “Hard to say. Their roots run deep and their roster is long, while we are fewer yet bolstered by seasoned veterans. When push comes to shove, neither side can outright crush the other. Among the younger generation, though, they do dominate the stage.”
As they passed a smithy the clash of hammer on steel rang like bell strokes. Lyra pointed toward the open doorway. “Most swordsman here temper their own blades. The forgers in this district are masters, patrons line up to commission a weapon.”
He glimpsed racks of swords gleaming like frost beneath winter moonlight.
“Beyond that,” added, “There’s a dueling platform where bouts run daily, an arena to trade techniques and broaden horizons…”
“In a few weeks the city will host a grand sword tournament. Many famed blades from the fifth level will gather. You might find it worth your while.”
Jared inclined his head, filing each detail away.
Lyra guided them through narrower lanes until the bustle faded behind weather-worn eaves and moss-dark tiles. The air carried the clean scent of cedar and damp herbs.
Halting before a plain courtyard gate murmured, “My master lives here. His temper is eccentric. Once inside, say little.”
She rapped lightly on the door.
“Who is it?” an aged voice drifted out.
“It’s me, Lyra, Master,” replied. At the invitation to enter, slid the gate aside and ushered Jared and Flaxseed across the threshold.
The courtyard brimmed with orderly vegetable beds, and an old man in coarse linen, hoe in hand, worked the soil like any farmer. Not a hint of cultivator’s aura stirred the morning calm.
Lyra bowed low, sunlight gliding the raven sheen of hair.
“Master,” said, voice a soft blend of deference and anticipation, “l have brought two friends who wish to pay their respects.”
The elderly man turned, gnarled hands still resting on the worn handle of his hoe. Though his pupils were clouded with age, the gaze leveled at the newcomers felt as penetrating as moonlight on clear water.
He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves brushing stone. “Lyra, child, you spend every waking hour sparring with phantoms. Since when do you bring visitors back to my humble patch of earth?”
Color touched Lyra’s cheeks. “Master, this is Jared. He has learned our Sword Sect’s style.”
A quick gleam cut through the elder’s milky eyes. He tipped his head, appraising Jared as though weighing steel. “Oh? The art of our sect? Show me a stroke, lad, just enough to wet my memory.”
Jared hesitated, unwilling to boast. Yet the elder’s quiet authority hinted at answers only a true swordsman could offer. Perhaps can tell me what the ruins left unsaid.
Drawing a controlled breath, Jared summoned the Dragonslayer Sword from the shimmer of his aura. Without flourish or fanfare, released a single cut, clean, unhurried, almost conversational.
