The House of Warriors, a colossal arena of stone and reinforced steel, nestled in the heart of Littlefoot, was Stella's proudest architectural feat. Designed as both a training ground and stage for diplomacy, it stood as a symbol of unity and might.
That day, it reached its full capacity of 222,000 people. The banners of each STELLA county waved in the upper stands, and the energy in the air was thunderous—a duel between two of the most beloved figures in the Empire was about to begin.
---
Marquis of Law vs. Marquis of Bravery
Jacob stood in his side of the ring, his robes light and functional. His blade was simple—an unmarked sword he'd carried since his earliest days in the South. Calm and silent, his eyes swept the arena, breathing in the people's excitement but not letting it unsteady him.
Across from him, David bounced on the balls of his feet, loose-limbed and grinning. His twin sabers shimmered under the sunlight like dancing lightning. He winked at the crowd, then at Jacob.
> "Don't think your Eastern fame gives you an edge, Jacob," David called across the ring. "We haven't dueled since Littlefoot was just a town."
> "Then you'd best take me seriously," Jacob replied. "I've been sharpening more than just my paperwork."
The bell rang.
And they moved.
---
Steel and Echoes
The first few strikes were testing, fast and elegant—Jacob's blade moving in clean arcs, almost too efficient, while David's sabers dazzled with unpredictable flourishes and sudden shifts in rhythm. The contrast was thrilling—precision vs. spontaneity, structure vs. flair.
But then, something shifted.
Midway through the bout, their strikes began to mirror each other. A spiral-step counter from David met a pivot-lunge Jacob used in the East. A parry Jacob made matched a high-crescent block David once used in the southern raids.
They noticed it too—pausing briefly in the center of the ring, swords locked.
> "That move… where did you learn it?" Jacob asked between breaths.
> "I could ask the same," David replied, narrowing his eyes.
The crowd was breathless. Then they broke apart and surged again—clashing with renewed speed, echoing each other with such uncanny familiarity that even trained warriors began to murmur.
In the upper box seats, three cloaked figures watched in frozen silence.
---
Whispers of the Past
They were elders from the Obsidian Moth Cult, embedded deep within the Empire. Though the match was public entertainment to most, the elders' eyes were focused—not on the crowd, but on the moves.
One of them leaned forward, voice hoarse with disbelief.
> "The Tiger's Fang… and the Mirror Lotus Turn. That form hasn't been seen in thirty years."
> "They're using fragments of the Celestial Wolf Form," another whispered. "That's impossible. That sect was slaughtered by our order in the Righteous Purge."
> "Or so we believed," the third said grimly. "We must report this. The descendants may yet live…"
---
The End of the Match
The duel blazed into its final moments—both warriors landing simultaneous strikes that canceled each other, their blades stopping just inches from each other's throats.
The silence was thick, then roared into applause.
A draw.
Jacob and David lowered their weapons, breathing hard, sweat dripping.
> "I think we're overdue for a very serious conversation," Jacob said.
> "And maybe a visit to some dusty old libraries," David replied.
They clasped wrists in the center of the arena as the crowd thundered, but beneath the celebration, seeds of old mysteries had awakened.
Night cloaked the Empire like velvet when Jacob stepped quietly from his chambers in Littlefoot, sword sheathed, heart restless. The duel with David lingered in his mind—not because it ended in a draw, but because something in David's footwork, his precision… it was familiar. A memory long buried stirred to life.
Far across the city, David left his post at the newly-built Southern Security Command. He'd smiled and joked his way past his captains, but as he slipped into the silent night, the grin faded. Something tugged at him—not fear, not worry—just a quiet, undeniable call.
Neither man spoke of it. Neither knew the other felt it. But both began a journey toward the same place.
---
The Western Range — Path of Memory
The Neverending Mountains, ancient and veiled in mist, stretched like the spine of a god across the Empire's west. Few dared its paths. Fewer still returned.
Jacob's path was steep and disciplined. He remembered the trail clearly, every jagged rock and shadowed ridge carved into his mind like law into parchment.
David's was wild—rushing streams, hanging bridges, wind roaring like battle drums. It suited him. Yet even he tread with uncharacteristic reverence, drawn not by logic but by something older.
By the stroke of midnight, the two arrived—one from the north, one from the south—before the same weather-worn gate:
Falcon Arts Sword School.
They froze when they saw each other.
> "You came too," Jacob murmured.
> David blinked, then laughed. "Don't tell me you've been feeling that itch in your bones too?"
They stared at the quiet doors, their hearts suddenly heavier with unspoken memories.
---
The Forgotten School
They stepped into the mountain-clan fortress together. Stone halls lit themselves with warm torchlight. The same familiar silence greeted them. But it was not empty—rather, expectant. The air remembered them.
Here they had trained once, as boys. Sword drills at dawn. Meditation in caves. Riddles in scrolls. They had sparred and learned side by side for five years—until the day they were split.
Jacob had been sent to the Cave of Order, to learn the hidden judicial doctrines, moral philosophy, and sacred sword forms rooted in balance and judgment.
David was sent to the Cave of Vigil, where he studied battlefield control, counterinsurgency, survival, and the way of the defensive blade.
Neither was told the other's fate.
---
The Grandmaster's Return
At the center of the hall stood Grandmaster Yen, ancient yet unbowed by time, sitting atop a high stone dais. His white robes were unmarked, his breath as calm as the winds that shaped the cliffs.
His eyes opened as the two approached.
> "At last," he whispered. "The falcons return—not one wing, but both."
Jacob stepped forward, his voice low. "We trained here together. Why were we split?"
David added, "Why did we never know?"
Yen rose with effort, his expression both proud and grave.
> "Because the Empire needed two guardians—one to uphold its laws, the other to shield its people. Separate wings for balance. You were not meant to meet again… not unless the world tipped out of order."
He turned and motioned toward a sealed stone door.
> "Come. There is one last truth to show you—about the origin of your techniques… and the enemies that now stir."
---
Echoes in the Shadows
Unseen in the heights above the school, cloaked watchers knelt in the trees, peering through spiritual glass.
They were cult spies, older than the wars they served, sent to track the two "Marquises" after the duel.
But what they had seen… chilled them.
> "No," one whispered. "That sword form… I've seen it before. Thirty years ago. The Righteous Sect. The one we destroyed."
> "Or so we believed," another muttered. "If the Falcon Arts still lives… then the Empire has more teeth than we thought."
Far below, in the mountain's heart, Jacob and David followed their old master deeper into the stone… toward their forgotten legacy.
And toward the war yet to come.