The early morning light crept through the towering windows of Raizen's room, casting soft golden lines across the floor.
As he stirred from his bed, the faint sound of a door opening broke the silence. His crimson eyes opened calmly.
"You're awake already, Young Master Raizen," came a soft voice.
He turned to see her—elegant in every sense, her black and silver uniform fitted perfectly. Long jet-black hair flowed past her shoulders, eyes cool and watchful. She bowed slightly, her movements precise. Her presence was almost unnoticeable, yet oddly reassuring.
"Good morning, Aira," Raizen said with a nod. "You're earlier than I expected."
"I've always been assigned to your mother. But she requested I serve you from today onward," she said softly. "She said it was about time."
Raizen studied her for a moment. He remembered Aira from before—an orphan adopted and personally trained by his mother, Lady Elira Ashborne. Quiet, loyal, and extremely capable.
"I don't need a babysitter," Raizen murmured, but his tone lacked any real protest.
"I am not here to babysit," Aira replied evenly. "I am here to ensure nothing interferes with your future."
A small smile played on Raizen's lips. "Fine. Just don't get in my way."
With a bow, she stepped back, leaving him to change and prepare for the day ahead. The faint trace of her aura told him enough—Aira wasn't just strong. She was deadly.
By the time Raizen reached the Ashborne estate's private training hall, the sun had risen high enough to bathe the courtyard in light. His grandfather was already there, shirtless and meditating cross-legged on the polished wood floor, katana resting beside him.
The old man opened one eye as Raizen approached.
"You're late."
"I wasn't told we were training at dawn," Raizen replied, tightening his grip on his sheathed blade.
A grin spread across the old warrior's face—one of a man who lived for challenge, for war.
"Then consider this your punishment."
With a sudden motion, the SSS+ ranked Ashborne patriarch rose to his feet. In a flash, he drew his own blade. It sang as it left the sheath—a sound like a whisper of death.
Raizen felt it instantly.
Weight.
Not just the pressure of power, but the sheer gravity that his grandfather exuded when he was serious. It pressed down on the courtyard like a storm. Even Aira, watching quietly from the shadows, tensed ever so slightly.
The young heir exhaled slowly.
He unsheathed his own katana.
The air was still for one breath.
Then they moved.
Clang!
Steel met steel with a flash of sparks. Raizen twisted his wrist, stepping to the side in a fluid arc, his blade grazing his grandfather's robe.
The old man's eyes gleamed. "Your stance. It's sharper than last time."
Raizen didn't answer. He pushed forward, slashing low and then feinting a strike to the left.
But his grandfather wasn't a man who could be deceived so easily.
With a step that cracked the floor beneath him, the elder Ashborne brought his katana crashing down. Raizen barely parried, his arms trembling from the impact.
He flew backward from the force, flipping mid-air and landing gracefully.
His breathing slowed.
Telekinesis.
Invisible tendrils of force wrapped around his limbs, flowing in sync with his movements. He didn't lift things like most telekinetics—he enhanced his body, his strikes, the control of his weapon.
The katana shimmered faintly in his grip, guided not just by his hands, but by will.
With renewed speed, he charged again.
This time, their blades didn't just clash. They danced.
Each strike carried precision. His grandfather's style was raw, brutal, honed through a thousand battles. But Raizen's was graceful, unpredictable, weaving Ashborne technique with his own.
A spin. A kick. A backward slash that came from an impossible angle.
His grandfather narrowed his eyes as his robe was sliced just barely.
"You're mixing your own patterns in already?" he asked, almost amused.
Raizen didn't stop.
The battle intensified.
To the untrained eye, they were a blur.
Each movement held meaning—Raizen's footwork used circular momentum, his blade arcs were powered by kinetic telekinesis. He no longer fought like a raw beginner. His body remembered what his mind couldn't.
Or rather, what it shouldn't remember.
A flicker of the past. A duel he lost before.
Not this time.
He roared and brought his katana upward in a rising arc, amplified by a sudden gravitational burst from his bloodline. The force was enough to split the air.
His grandfather caught it.
Then, in one terrifying motion, disarmed Raizen.
The young heir stood frozen for a heartbeat, panting.
Then, the old man threw the katana back to him.
"Again."
They fought until the sun stood at its peak.
Sweat poured down Raizen's face, his chest heaving. His arms ached. He couldn't feel his fingers properly.
The training hall was scarred. Sword marks littered the floor. One column had a deep cut carved through it.
Finally, his grandfather stepped back.
Silence.
And then a slow, approving nod.
"You've surpassed my expectations. You're still F+, but your blade… it's already at the level of some B-ranks."
He sheathed his sword, the tension vanishing.
"I've made my decision."
Raizen straightened.
"You're ready to learn the Ashborne family's true sword art," the old man said.
Raizen's eyes widened.
"You mean—"
"Yes. The 11-Star Ashborne Art. voidrend . The weapon art even the Empire covets but never obtained."
Even Aira stirred slightly at those words.