CHAPTER — The Roommate and the Tyrant
Sabre's new quarters smelled faintly of incense and fresh wood. The walls were bare except for a single window that let in the morning sun, casting warm stripes across the floor. For a moment, he simply stood there, chest still tightening from the memories of his trials. The silence pressed against him, but it was not unpleasant.
"Ah! Finally!" a cheerful voice called.
Sabre turned. A bulky figure bounded into the room, grinning so wide it seemed to radiate warmth. The boy's messy hair framed a face that was perpetually amused, teeth flashing in constant brightness. "You must be Sabre! I'm Sil. Your roommate!"
Sabre said nothing, simply observing. Sil's presence was overwhelming—not threatening, just… insistent. Every gesture, every laugh seemed to draw attention naturally. He shook his head slightly, inwardly mocking the boy's extreme naivety.
"Don't tell me you're the quiet type!" Sil exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. "I love quiet, but you need to talk sometimes, buddy. Otherwise, life's too boring!"
Sabre resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Boring is one thing, but naive energy like this is another.
Sil, unfazed, shoved a small bundle of belongings into Sabre's hands. "We've got a lot to cover today. Come on! I'll show you around the sect. You need to know where everything is, or you'll get lost and—" He paused dramatically. "—maybe eaten by one of those weird trial beasts."
Sabre stepped reluctantly beside him, trying to keep his expression neutral as Sil chattered on.
The sect sprawled out before them like a city built for immortals. Stone paths snaked between training grounds, gardens pulsed with mana, and cultivators moved with precision that made even ordinary humans seem sluggish. Sabre noticed hierarchies everywhere—junior disciples practicing in small groups, outer disciples overseeing them, and inner disciples walking with casual authority, their presence alone bending the energy of the surroundings.
Sil waved cheerfully at several passing disciples. "Morning, guys! You won't believe who just joined—my roommate!"
Sabre did not return the greetings. He preferred observation over performance. His eyes scanned the courtyard, noting the subtle tensing of muscles in passing cultivators, the calculated movements of those who held rank, the faint whisper of light in the hands of apprentices testing control.
"See that guy?" Sil said, leaning close. "That's my favorite vendor. Always gives me extra rations because I smile so much. It works every time!"
Sabre allowed a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Incredibly naive… but he survives.
Their laughter was interrupted by the sudden hush that fell across a nearby path. The air thickened. Sabre noticed first—a shadow, long and deliberate, stretching across the courtyard. The crowd's chatter died instantly. The tension was palpable.
Sil's face dimmed slightly, a hint of unease crossing his features. "Uh… don't go near him," he muttered.
Sabre's attention fixed. The figure approaching was impossible to ignore. A mountain of a man, broad-shouldered, each step heavy enough to make the ground tremble faintly. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse yet carried effortlessly.
"Sil," the man called, eyes narrowing. "You owe me."
Sil flinched. "I—I'll—"
"You will pay. Or you'll become entertainment." The man's tone was calm, but the implication was lethal. Around him, a small crowd of inner disciples had gathered, smirks playing on cruel lips. Whispers spread. The tyrant.
Sabre's pulse quickened. The way the man moved, the way the crowd reacted—it was instinctive. This was a predator, respected and feared for both size and cruelty. And Sil, his jovial roommate, was the prey.
Sil stammered, trying to defuse the situation with awkward charm. "Hey! I'll get it, I swear. Please—no need for… uh… theatrics?"
The tyrant's grin widened. "Oh, but theatrics are my favorite."
He shoved Sil roughly. The crowd laughed. Some jeered; others recorded the moment. Sabre's jaw tightened. He could not stand the cruelty, the way the boy's good nature was being twisted into a show.
Before Sil could be shoved again, Sabre stepped forward. His hands twitched, sparks flickering faintly along his fingers. He did not speak. The energy that simmered within him responded instinctively to his anger, chaotic and untrained, but undeniable.
The tyrant's eyes shifted toward him, narrowing. "And who—"
Sabre's voice cut through, calm, steady, unnervingly so. "Leave him alone."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. "The silent one speaks," the tyrant said, amusement twisted with menace. "Do you even know who I am, boy?"
Sabre did not flinch. He did not need to. Energy tingled along his skin, a raw pulse of lightning that answered to instinct rather than training. He did not aim, did not calculate. He simply acted.
A thin arc of blue-white lightning leapt from his fingertips, striking the tyrant's forearm. Sparks danced across the man's skin. The crowd gasped. Some stepped back instinctively.
The tyrant's smirk faltered. He lashed out, swinging a massive fist toward Sabre. Sabre dodged clumsily, the bolt of energy from his veins scattering along the deck. He barely understood the rhythm of his own power, but it responded to him, obeyed him enough to fend off the first strike.
The fight escalated. Sabre's attacks were unrefined, wild—chaotic arcs of lightning that struck wherever his instincts told him. The tyrant blocked with brute strength, his body a wall of force, but even he was caught off guard by the raw intensity that pulsed from Sabre.
Sil stumbled backward, eyes wide. "I—he's… he's actually hitting him?"
The inner disciples surrounding them whispered in awe. The crowd's laughter died, replaced by tension so thick it pressed against every bone.
The tyrant snarled, forcing Sabre to leap backward. "You dare? You don't even control that power!"
Sabre's heart pounded. He did not answer verbally. Lightning flared, arcs crackling along his forearms, surging in reaction to his adrenaline. He had no control, no technique—only instinct and raw instinctual energy. Yet, somehow, it was enough to meet the tyrant blow for blow.
The deck groaned under the force of their clash. Crates splintered. Lanterns swung violently. Crew members outside stared in disbelief through open windows of the training quarters, some raising hands to shield their eyes from arcs of electricity that danced like wild serpents.
Sil pressed close to the wall, nearly trembling. "I… I don't think anyone's ever stood up to him before…"
Sabre's chest burned. Every strike was exhausting, every movement fueled by desperation rather than skill. Yet he could not stop. He would not.
The tyrant's expression darkened. "You're strong… far stronger than I expected. But you'll pay for this insolence."
Another surge of lightning shot from Sabre's fists, striking near the tyrant's feet. He stumbled slightly, surprised by the intensity of this untrained power. A hush fell over the crowd.
Sabre's gaze swept the faces around him. Sil was cowering, but not defeated—hope flickered in his wide eyes. The spectators were stunned, some fearful, some calculating. They were witnessing something they would tell stories about.
The tyrant inhaled deeply, muscles coiling. "Enough games," he growled, his voice low, each word carrying the weight of suppressed violence. "Time to end this."
Sabre felt the heartbeat pulse again in his chest, faint but insistent. The power within him throbbed in response, electric and wild. He was not ready. Not fully. But he could not retreat—not in front of Sil, not in front of those watching.
Lightning flared along his arms. The tyrant's figure loomed large, every step forward shaking the platform beneath them. Sabre's eyes narrowed, instincts sharpening.
And then—before either could strike again—the scene froze in tension. Silence wrapped the courtyard. The storm of energy hovered, crackling in the air. Every breath drawn by the onlookers caught in their throats.
The fight was far from over.
But Sabre understood one thing with chilling clarity: he had stepped into a battle that would test him far beyond anything he had faced before.
And the tyrant… would not forgive.
The sea of spectators held their collective breath, waiting for the inevitable next strike.
The clash of raw instinct and seasoned brutality was only beginning.