"You... you..."
The young noble stared at Blake, who had stepped up beside him, his eyes wide with terror. He stumbled backward, one hand clamped over his bleeding shoulder, his mouth agape as he struggled to find words. He wanted to turn and flee, to escape this accursed place at once—but he could not move. Blake's gaze was cold and impassive, an invisible pressure coiling around him like a serpent, pinning him to the spot. His body trembled violently, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. The only thing keeping him standing before Blake was the pride and arrogance inherent to all nobles—and nothing more. Without that shred of dignity, he would have collapsed into a whimpering puddle of mud on the ground.
Just then, a hoarse, elderly voice cut through the tension.
"That's enough, young man. Let us end this here."
At the sound of that voice, everyone present turned to look. A burly old man clad in heavy plate armor parted the crowd and strode forward. His beard was pure white, but his stern, resolute face brimmed with a vitality and energy that belied his advanced years. When the onlooking nobles caught sight of the old man's face, many of them let out gasps of astonishment.
What was he doing here? How could he possibly be in this place?
"Don't you think you've gone a little too far?"
The old man's gaze fell on the young noble, and he frowned slightly before smoothing out the wrinkles on his face, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.
"While he is indeed in the wrong, he is, after all—"
"I have no interest in who he is, nor do I care."
Blake's smile remained as elegant and gentle as ever, but he cut the old man off without the slightest hint of politeness. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers lightly. The patrol guards, who had arrived on the scene moments earlier after hearing the commotion but had dared not intervene while their lord was personally involved, immediately rushed forward at the gesture. Blake merely jerked his chin toward the young noble and issued his command.
"Take this man to the castle dungeons and hand him over to Charlotte for processing."
"At once, My Lord!"
Upon hearing Blake's order, the captain of the patrol nodded sharply, then gestured to his men. Several soldiers immediately surged forward, roughly pinning the young noble to the ground. At the sight of the guards, the young man finally lost all composure. He thrashed wildly against their grip, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Hey! You can't do this! You damned Wester bumpkins—I am the son of—!"
The man never got to finish his sentence. On Blake's unspoken signal, the patrol captain delivered a brutal punch to his stomach. The poor fool gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head as he fainted dead away. The captain then ordered his men to bind the young noble along with the burly men Blake had knocked down earlier in the fight. They hauled the prisoners out of the crowd and marched them swiftly toward the castle.
Throughout the entire ordeal, Blake's eyes never left the elderly man standing beside him. Only after the patrol had vanished from sight did he turn to the old man with a smile, releasing his grip on the hilt of his sword.
"Greetings, honored sir."
"You should not have done that, young man."
Although Celtic's face still bore a calm, amiable smile, his heart was in turmoil, filled with shock and disbelief.
As one of the Kingdom's three great Legion Commanders, Celtic had personally sought the King's permission to come and meet this young lord—rumored to be a high-ranked swordsman—for himself. After all, this territory fell under his jurisdiction. From a personal standpoint, Celtic had hoped to recruit such a promising young talent; having him in his ranks would prove invaluable in the coming battles. It was for this reason that Celtic had decided to make the journey in person to meet the young lord—and he had come prepared. Ever since the incident involving the "princess," Celtic and his fellow commanders had sensed that this young man possessed an unusually extensive network of connections and influence. Before departing, Celtic had even consulted Larrybold, the Royal Court Mage, for advice.
Celtic had approached the old mage purely out of caution, but he had never expected Larrybold to stare at him for a long, strange moment after hearing his request—as if he were looking at a dead man. That unsettling look had left Celtic with a nagging sense of unease, and the cryptic, inexplicable warnings the old mage had given him before he left had only deepened his confusion.
"If you truly insist on going to meet him, then I have but one piece of advice for you: do not cross him. Not in any matter, great or small."
"No, no, no, Lord Celtic. Even if you do cross him, he may not show it. He might brush it off with a laugh, or even agree with you to your face. But mark my words—if you make an enemy of him, you will meet a fate worse than death. This is not the King's court, so I will speak plainly: that man has never once regarded the Kingdom or its three great legions with anything but disdain. If he is indeed *that* man—forgive my bluntness—not even the combined military might of the entire Kingdom could hope to gain the upper hand against him."
"You may think I am fearmongering, Lord Celtic, but I am an old man now, and my days are numbered. You are the eldest of the three Legion Commanders. I trust you can understand what I am trying to say. In my youth, I witnessed many victories that bordered on miracles, and many defeats that were nothing short of nightmares. I have fought tooth and nail to survive in the space between life and death. I have come to realize that there are things in this world that we mortals cannot hope to comprehend—or perhaps it is only when we reach our twilight years that we are willing to accept such truths. If it were Baron or Ashe standing here instead of you, I would not waste my breath saying any of this—they would never listen. But you are different, Lord Celtic. That is why I am telling you this."
"Of course, I cannot be certain that he is *the one*... but I dare not go to meet him myself. If it truly is him, I would not know what to say. No, no, Celtic—you cannot possibly understand that feeling. You have never experienced it... Very well, I will give you a clue. When you meet him and reveal your identity, feel his aura subtly. If he treats you with unfailing courtesy and charm, yet makes it abundantly clear that he does not take you the slightest bit seriously—then nine times out of ten, he is indeed *the one*."
The Royal Court Mage's words echoed in Celtic's mind once more. But at this moment, he cared little for those warnings. All he could think about was the swordsmanship Blake had just displayed!
Most of the onlookers had been too far away or too distracted to see what Blake had done. But Celtic was no ordinary man—he was one of the Kingdom's three great Legion Commanders, a high-ranked swordsman with thirty years of experience under his belt, and thirty more years spent honing his craft. Though he had never managed to attain the rank of Knight, his understanding of swordsmanship far surpassed that of most men. In fact, the moment Blake had first drawn his sword, Celtic had immediately recognized the technique he was using.
*Flash Sheathe?!*
The second Blake had moved, Celtic had known beyond a shadow of a doubt that this young man possessed strength far exceeding that of an average high-ranked swordsman—this level of mastery over the Flash Sheathe technique was something few swordsmen could ever hope to achieve!
Even so, Celtic had not been particularly surprised. Every high-ranked swordsman had a few signature techniques up their sleeves. Celtic himself specialized in Charging Combo Strikes—Blake's skill with the Flash Sheathe was impressive, but hardly unheard of. But then, Celtic had watched as Blake drew his sword a fraction of an inch before snapping it back into its scabbard with a sharp clang—and his face had drained of color in an instant.
It was common knowledge that the Flash Sheathe was a rather obscure technique, its practical applications limited at best. While it allowed a swordsman to draw their blade with explosive speed and power, transitioning instantly into a combat stance, it had no other uses beyond that initial strike. But not everyone viewed it that way. In fact, Celtic recalled a time when someone had taken this basic technique and turned it into a devastatingly powerful sword style!
That style was known as **Flow Flash**.
Flow Flash was a combat technique that combined the three core components of the Flash Sheathe—drawing, rapid strikes, and sheathing—into a seamless, fluid sequence. The greatest strength of the Flash Sheathe was also its greatest weakness: its explosive, instantaneous power. In the split second when the sword was drawn, its might was almost unstoppable—but once the blade was fully unsheathed, the technique lost all its momentum. Thus, the Flash Sheathe relied entirely on catching the enemy off guard, striking before they could react. But if that initial strike missed, the swordsman was left vulnerable, as defenseless as a toothless tiger.
The creator of Flow Flash had found a way to overcome this fatal flaw—and his solution was deceptively simple. If the problem lay in the sword being fully drawn, then why not sheath the blade and strike again?
Easy to say, but nearly impossible to execute. Battle was a chaotic, ever-changing dance; enemies were not mindless puppets who would stand idly by and allow a swordsman to sheath and redraw their blade at will. To master Flow Flash required a level of speed and precision that bordered on the superhuman. In essence, the core principle of Flow Flash was this: strike the enemy with the initial Flash Sheathe. If the attack missed, follow up with a flurry of rapid strikes to force the enemy back, creating space to sheath the blade—and then repeat the entire sequence all over again.
The move Blake had just performed was one of the most advanced techniques within the Flow Flash style: the **Reverse Draw**.
Since Flow Flash centered around the rapid drawing and sheathing of the sword, the impact force generated when the blade was returned to the scabbard was unavoidable. While this force was not particularly strong, it could easily disrupt the accuracy and precision of the next Flash Sheathe—and accuracy was everything when using that technique. The creator of Flow Flash had anticipated this problem and modified the style accordingly, adding the Reverse Draw as an advanced countermeasure. In simple terms, the Reverse Draw involved sheathing the sword with extra force, using the impact of the blade hitting the scabbard to redraw the weapon at lightning speed, adjusting the strike mid-motion. What Blake had just done was take this single advanced technique and use it in isolation, separate from the full Flow Flash sequence.
It was this realization that filled Celtic's heart with growing doubt and unease. He had only ever seen this technique used once before in his entire life—during the war against the now-defunct Kingdom of Descartes. The Flow Flash style was a high-level technique exclusive to the Descartes Royal Guard!
But Descartes had fallen long ago! Where on earth had this young man learned this sword style? Celtic had no doubt that Blake had mastered the complete Flow Flash style. Though he had not performed the full sequence in front of him, Celtic had dedicated his entire life to the study of swordsmanship—he could see the truth in Blake's movements.
Now, Celtic's mind was swirling with questions. He found himself more and more intrigued by this young man. What was his true background? How had he learned a sword style that belonged to a long-dead kingdom? And why had Larrybold, the Royal Court Mage, spoken of him with such reverence and caution?
"Frankly speaking, I never thought I would meet a noble like you in Wester."
"May I take that as a compliment?"
Blake's expression remained calm and unflappable, but the other nobles present were anything but composed. These were men who had spent their entire lives navigating the treacherous waters of high society—how could they fail to recognize one of the Kingdom's three great Legion Commanders? The only thing that surprised them was his presence in the Duskwood Forest. By the Light of the Divine! With the Sith Empire looming on the border, why wasn't the Legion Commander stationed at the front lines? What could possibly bring him here?
"Certainly."
Celtic paused, then hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. In truth, he had never expected to find himself in such an awkward situation before stepping forward. As a Legion Commander, Celtic was a celebrity in the Kingdom of Wester—everyone from octogenarians to toddlers knew his face. But now, this young lord was treating him with perfect politeness and courtesy, yet it was clear from his expression that he did not recognize him at all!
What was he supposed to do? Introduce himself right here in front of everyone? "I am the special envoy sent by His Majesty the King..." That would be far too humiliating!
"Frankly speaking, I did not expect you to arrive so soon, Envoy Sir."
Just as Celtic was stuck between a rock and a hard place, Blake's demeanor suddenly shifted. He bowed deeply to Celtic, performing a flawless noble's salute. Then he placed his left hand behind his back and extended his right hand, gesturing for Celtic to follow.
"It is an honor to meet one of the Kingdom's three great Legion Commanders. I apologize for you having to witness that unsavory scene just now. If you would not mind, may I buy you a drink?"
In truth, Blake had recognized Celtic's identity the moment he appeared. It had not been difficult. Though Blake had never met any of the three Legion Commanders in person, their names and appearances had been clearly described in the letters he had received. Add to that the fact that high-ranked swordsmen were a rarity in this day and age—and this elderly man clearly possessed high-ranked strength—and the pieces had fallen into place easily enough. The identity of this white-bearded old man had been obvious from the start.
"That... would be most agreeable."
Hearing Blake's invitation, Celtic frowned slightly, but he had no good reason to refuse. He nodded his head in agreement.
The two men then turned and walked away together. The onlooking nobles dispersed, their minds racing. Though they would have given anything to follow Blake and Celtic, to curry favor with both the young lord and the Legion Commander, they knew better than to intrude at this moment. To do so would only put them at a disadvantage. In the end, the nobles left reluctantly, silently resolving to make every effort to win the young lord's favor at the upcoming banquet.
As the nobles scattered to make their preparations, Blake and Celtic left Elysium City behind, heading toward Duskwood Castle perched on the hillside. Little Irene trotted along beside Blake as usual, clinging to his side like a faithful little shadow. Celtic walked alone. It had to be said that the Legion Commander was a man of considerable courage and confidence—given the dangerous state of affairs, most men would have brought an entourage, yet he had chosen to travel alone. Whether this was due to his unshakable faith in his own strength or for some other reason, Blake could not say. But from the faint, lingering aura of magic emanating from the old man's body, Blake could tell that Celtic was far more dangerous than he appeared to be on the surface.
"Though I know I should not say this, you really should not have done what you did, Mr. Blake."
Celtic fell silent for a moment, then finally spoke up. The young noble's background was no trivial matter—if any harm came to him, it could easily spark an international incident! Celtic did not know if Blake was aware of the young man's identity, but he felt compelled to make one last attempt to reason with him.
"Honored Envoy Sir, I will say this once more: this is my territory. Anyone who dares to cause trouble here will pay the price."
Blake's gaze remained fixed ahead as he cut Celtic off without hesitation, then added a cool, calm afterthought.
"That being said, I assure you there will be no repercussions from this incident. You have no need to worry."
"...I hope you are right."
Hearing Blake's words, Celtic knew that further discussion on the matter was futile. The young man had made his stance perfectly clear, and there was no point in arguing with him. Celtic sighed and fell silent, finally understanding what Larrybold had meant. This young man was indeed charming and polite on the surface, his every action exuding deference and respect—but when it came to matters of substance, his words were as unyielding as steel, leaving no room for negotiation. He had not even bothered to show the slightest deference to Celtic's authority as a Royal Envoy. It was clear that he did not take Celtic—or the Kingdom's authority—seriously at all!
With that thought, Celtic shook his head and set the matter aside. Since Blake had no intention of backing down, there was no point in pressing the issue further. Instead, he turned his attention to the other question weighing heavily on his mind.
"Mr. Blake, your swordsmanship is truly unique and extraordinary. If I may be so bold as to ask—where did you learn such a technique? Frankly speaking, I have never seen a combat style quite like it in all my years of battle."
"Technique?"
Blake blinked in feigned confusion. He glanced at the older man, whose gentle smile masked a hint of wariness, then looked down at his own right hand. It did not take him long to figure out what Celtic was referring to.
"It is nothing more than a trivial trick, really... hardly worth mentioning. As a fellow high-ranked swordsman, I would have thought you would recognize it, Envoy Sir."
"Ah, yes—I have some passing familiarity with it."
Blake's response had neatly turned the tables on him, leaving Celtic inwardly cursing his luck. He had originally suspected that Blake had some connection to the fallen Kingdom of Descartes, but the young lord had skillfully redirected the conversation back to the technique itself. If Blake insisted that it was nothing more than a basic Flash Sheathe, there was nothing Celtic could do to prove otherwise. The more Celtic thought about it, the more he realized he could not fathom this young man. Was he feigning ignorance, or was he truly unaware of the technique's origins?
"That being said, Mr. Blake, your combat style is truly unlike any I have ever seen. The way you wield that technique is vastly different from any application I have witnessed in my long career."
Old age and experience had sharpened Celtic's wits. Though Blake's response had been flawless, Celtic was no fool. After all, to rise to the position of Legion Commander of one of the Kingdom's three great legions required more than just reputation and strength—it demanded cunning and shrewdness as well.
At these words, Blake finally came to a halt. Duskwood Castle loomed before them, its spires piercing the sky.
"Actually, Envoy Sir, I find your swordsmanship equally intriguing."
Blake turned slowly to face Celtic, his expression warm and harmless, a gentle smile playing on his lips. His right hand curled around the hilt of his sword as tenderly as a lover caressing their beloved, his long, slender fingers flexing slightly around it.
"Since we have such a rare opportunity, why not engage in a friendly duel? What do you think of my proposal?"