Reign of the War King: Heavens Must Fall

Chapter 3: The Broken Blade

The cyclone around Julian's rapier screamed through the air like a thousand hornets, carving shallow white grooves into the granite floor, kicking up sparks and stone dust.

To the crowd, it looked like a display of real power.

"He's using the Storm-Shedding Thrust!" a second-year shrieked. "He's going to kill him!"

Sophia's calm cracked instantly. She stepped forward, frost already gathering on her fingertips. "Julian, stop!"

Too late. Julian's face had gone somewhere past reason. He'd poured most of his reserve into this single strike, and he didn't much care about the rules against harming staff, not with his father's name behind him. A "training accident" involving a mana-less Son-in-Law would vanish from the record before dinner.

The rapier's tip flashed toward Leon's throat, faster than an ordinary eye could follow.

Leon didn't move his feet. Didn't raise a hand. He tilted his chin back, a fraction of an inch.

The blade grazed empty air a half-inch from his throat, slicing a thread-thin line through his collar.

Julian's eyes went wide with confusion. He dodged? No, I missed.

He'd put his full weight and momentum into a straight line, and missing broke his balance completely. His right shoulder, two inches too high, exactly as Leon had said, took the whole force of it.

Before he could pull back, the rapier's tip slammed into the steel-core dummy standing beside Leon.

A metallic boom cracked across the arena.

The iron didn't give. The impact bounced straight back up the blade, and the fine mana-crystal rapier shattered into a dozen jagged pieces, raining onto the stone.

The recoil tore through the tendons in Julian's wrist and popped his shoulder from its socket with a wet snap.

"AAAAAGH!"

He dropped to his knees, cyclone collapsing into smoke, clutching his ruined arm, sweat pouring down a face gone bone-white.

Silence took the whole arena. Even the birds overhead sounded loud in it.

Hundreds of students stood frozen, staring at the top student of the third year, kneeling in the dust, screaming, while the "useless" commoner stood untouched, one hand still on his tool bag.

"I told you," Leon said, quiet and unbothered. "Your shoulder was too high."

"You, monster, what did you do to me?" Julian gasped through gritted teeth. "My arm, my blade, that was some kind of trick!"

Leon didn't answer. He looked down at the scattered shards catching the morning light.

There was no trick. Julian had thrown himself at a wall and let his own flawed form do the rest. Any raw recruit in the War King's old army learned that principle on their first day.

Erick and three others from the Vanguard Club snapped out of their shock and ran into the ring.

"Get the healer!" Erick shouted, pale, eyes on Leon with a mix of fury and something closer to fear. "Trash, you attacked a noble of the Vance Marquisate!"

"He lunged at a dummy and broke his own sword," Leon said flatly. "Everyone here saw it. Are you saying your Senior can't control his own weapon?"

Erick opened his mouth and found nothing to say. Something in Leon's flat, unbothered stare put a chill down his spine, like standing next to a mountain that happened to be sleeping.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?"

The voice came from the main archway, booming and certain. Students parted and bowed as Vice-Director Harold approached, a High Archmage in gold-trimmed robes, four armored Royal Guards behind him.

"Vice-Director!" Erick pointed a shaking finger at Leon. "This technician used some hidden cursed artifact; Julian's arm is shattered!"

Sophia cut in before Harold could answer. "That's false. I saw the whole exchange. Lord Julian thrust at the technician, missed, hit the steel dummy, and the recoil came from his own bad posture."

Harold's eyes swept the shattered rapier, Julian's ruined shoulder, the dummy. As an Archmage, he could read the residual mana in the air, plenty of Julian's chaotic wind, and not a trace of anything from Leon.

"Enough." Harold's voice went heavy with disappointment as he looked at Julian. "Take Lord Vance to the infirmary. His posture was unstable. The recoil tore his own channels."

Julian whimpered something bitter as two guards hauled him off toward the medical wing, his voice fading down the corridor.

Harold turned to Leon.

Plain grey tunic. No mana signature. No crest. Nothing remarkable about him at all, except the thin, precise cut across his collar. Standing still enough to let a wind-thrust graze your throat by a half-inch without flinching took either total stupidity or nerves nobody in this arena had.

"You're the new auxiliary worker. Leon?"

"Yes, Vice-Director." A slight bow.

"You've got a good eye for combat form." Harold's tone stayed neutral. "But your job is maintenance, not offering advice to students. Clear the shards and get back to your workshop."

"Understood."

Harold turned and left, robes trailing behind him. The crowd broke apart slowly, whispering. By the end of the morning, the story of the "Trash Son-in-Law" had changed, no longer just a mute servant, but something stranger. Something that seemed to bring bad luck to anyone who pushed him.

Sophia stayed at the edge of the ring, watching Leon kneel and gather the rapier shards with his bare hands.

"You knew his blade would break," she said. Not a question.

Leon kept picking up the metal. "Anyone who's seen a real fight knows a light rapier doesn't pierce reinforced steel at that angle."

"He's a third-year elite." She stepped closer. "Fast enough to drop a low-tier monster in a second. How did you dodge that without mana movement?"

Leon stood, swinging the bag over his shoulder, and looked at her directly.

"He was slow."

Sophia went still. Slow? A combatant praised across the capital for his speed was slow, to a man with no mana at all?

Before she could push further, a horn cut through the courtyard, not the class bell, but the deep golden bugle of the Imperial Court.

Every student and teacher on the grounds froze.

A procession rolled through the front gates: military carriages, a hundred knights in black-and-gold dragon armor, and at the front, a velvet-draped carriage bearing the crest of the Imperial High Command.

"The Royal Generals," Sophia breathed, eyes wide. "Why would the Supreme Commanders come here?"

Leon turned his head toward the procession. Through the tinted glass of the lead carriage, he recognized the grey-haired, scarred face inside instantly.

General Marcus. One of his old vanguard commanders, from the Abyssal War.

Leon's eyes narrowed to thin slits.

Marcus is here. His hand tightened on the strap of his bag. The northern border must have fallen. They're not here for recruits. They're here for me.