The dust hadn't yet settled when Raizen found himself face to face with his grandfather once more.
The wind had died. Silence reigned. Only the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps broke the stillness as the old man approached. His scarred hands still held the same blunt wooden blade, though it looked now more like a king's scepter than a weapon—he had wielded it like death itself.
Raizen stood there, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his legs shaky not from fear but from awe. He had held his own. Even if just barely. Even if his sword had shattered in the end. And that alone was enough.
The old man's intense, golden eyes flickered. "Not bad," he murmured. "I hadn't expected you to push me to use my telekinesis."
Raizen blinked. He used it? He hadn't even noticed. There had been no gesture, no glow. Just one moment he was standing—and the next, his body had collapsed under invisible pressure.
The old man turned away, beginning to walk toward the far end of the training courtyard, where the wind barely touched the tiles. Then, he spoke. "Follow me."
Raizen obeyed.
They stood before a sealed chamber within the Ashborne estate. A silent place of obsidian stone and silver inlay, untouched by time. The moment they stepped inside, Raizen felt something ancient stir in the air—a dormant pressure, like a beast sleeping beneath the floor.
The room locked behind them with a shimmer of mana.
"This," the old man said, voice low, "is the chamber of inheritance. Only direct bloodline members are allowed here. And only those worthy."
He raised his hand and let his own mana leak freely.
For the first time in Raizen's life, he felt the full weight of SSS+ rank mana crash down on him.
It was like the world itself had grown heavy. His vision warped. He dropped to one knee instinctively as his grandfather continued without pause.
"Our Ashborne bloodline is known for one thing—telekinesis. The power to control force and motion without touch. But when refined… when mastered…" His eyes glinted dangerously. "It becomes something far deadlier."
The old man drew his katana.
It wasn't ceremonial. It wasn't ornate. It was deadly in its simplicity.
With one breath, he slashed.
Raizen couldn't even track the motion.
The air didn't ripple. It didn't move.
It simply split.
Not with sound, not with pressure—but with an eerie stillness. A clean, white line appeared across the obsidian wall, and the space around it folded ever so slightly, like paper being torn by invisible fingers.
A moment later, the wall collapsed, perfectly bisected.
"This," he said, "is the first movement of Voidrend."
The Voidrend Sword Art.
An 11-star weapon art.
A killing art created by generations of Ashbornes, refined in blood and battle.
It consisted of seven movements—each one designed to overwhelm, bypass, and destroy any defense.
Sever the Stillness – A strike that cuts space itself, leaving no sound or presence.
Flickerfall – A sudden, unpredictable slice that bends light, rendering the blade nearly invisible.
Weightless Grasp – Using telekinesis to hold the opponent's weapon mid-air for a fraction of a second—just long enough to kill.
Hollow Pulse – A delayed attack; the sword slash is performed, but the damage triggers moments later, causing confusion.
Reversal Edge – Reverses the force of an enemy's attack back at them, using telekinetic feedback loops.
Phantom Shards – Splits the blade's intent into multiple vectors, launching multiple invisible slashes from one movement.
Abyssal Silence – The final movement. One strike. One death. It renders all defense irrelevant by severing the flow of mana around the target.
"No armor can stop it," his grandfather said softly. "No shield can block it. The Voidrend sword does not aim for the body—it aims for the soul."
Raizen could barely breathe. He had heard rumors of the Ashborne sword art, whispered in fear by nobles and knights. But this was something else.
"You will not be taught this by scroll," his grandfather continued. "Voidrend is too dangerous to record. It is passed only by memory. And only by mana."
He stepped forward and placed his hand on Raizen's chest.
"Brace yourself."
The surge of mana that followed was monstrous.
It wasn't painful—but it was overwhelming. It was like drinking from a waterfall, no, an ocean of raw knowledge, sensations, and instinct. Visions flashed in Raizen's mind—of duels in the rain, of blood-soaked battlefields, of invisible strikes tearing through armies.
Every movement.
Every technique.
Every ounce of experience that had been etched into his grandfather's body was being poured into him.
When it ended, Raizen collapsed to the floor, gasping.
The room fell silent again.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Raizen pushed himself upright.
His fingers twitched.
His sword—now reforged after the earlier spar—lay beside him.
He reached for it, slowly.
When his fingers closed around the hilt, he felt it—an unnatural stillness. Like the blade no longer existed within this world completely. Like it belonged somewhere deeper. Sharper.
His mana moved, almost unconsciously.
He stood. Breathed.
And slashed.
It was clumsy, far from perfect, but even that beginner's attempt left a thin mark across the stone tiles—too sharp, too precise to be natural.
Raizen's eyes widened.
His grandfather gave a rare, approving grunt. "Good. You felt it. The edge that cuts through reality."
Raizen nodded, voice hoarse. "I want to master it."
"You will," the old man said. "But not quickly. And not without pain. Voidrend is not a sword style. It is a conviction. You do not swing to fight—you swing to end."
Raizen's fingers tightened on the hilt.
He understood.
He wasn't learning this art to impress. Not to compete.
He was learning it for the future. For the threats that would rise. For the enemies that had once killed him.
He looked up, eyes steady.
"Teach me."
His grandfather smiled.
"I already have."