The training hall rang with the dull thrum of impact and the hiss of displaced air.

  Rei exhaled sharply as he adjusted his stance, boots scraping against reinforced flooring. The weapon in his hands: Legacy his weapon, felt wrong and right at the same time. Its weight pulled at his wrist, heavier than any one-handed sword had a right to be, the balance unfamiliar. The blade’s edge caught the overhead lights, segmented and reinforced, its spine thickened to house mechanisms that hummed faintly beneath the metal.

  He rolled his shoulder, testing the motion again.

  Too heavy.

  Rei lowered the blade, flexing his fingers inside the reinforced gloves Raphael had insisted on. Without them, the rifle grip embedded along the hilt would burn his palms raw. Legacy wasn’t a sword that pretended to be a gun. It was both fully committing to each form, demanding the wielder understand when to choose one over the other.

  “That’s still weird to watch,” Carter muttered nearby.

  Rei snorted softly. “Tell me about it.”

  He lifted Legacy again, pivoting his grip. With a subtle shift of pressure and a click from within the hilt, the blade folded inward along its spine. The weapon elongated, locking into a rifle configuration. The transformation sent a vibration through his arms, the recoil dampeners whining softly as they engaged.

  Rei braced the stock against his shoulder, sighting downrange.

  “It’s… different,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “Normal swords don’t fight back.”

  Caleb glanced over from where he was sparring with Rex. “That thing’s supposed to be used one-handed?”

  “Yeah,” Rei replied. “That’s the problem.”

  He fired.

  The report wasn’t loud, more of a compressed crack but the force behind it was undeniable. The projectile slammed into the reinforced target dummy, punching clean through its torso and detonating in a flash of kinetic discharge. The dummy rocked violently before settling, smoke curling from the wound.

  Rei lowered the rifle, breathing steadily.

  “As a blade, it’s too heavy,” he continued. “As a gun, it’s… manageable. For now.”

  Oliver whistled. “For now?”

  Rei nodded. “Raphael said Legacy grows with the wielder. Right now, it’s testing whether I’m worth the effort.”

  That earned a few uneasy looks.

  He didn’t blame them. Weapons that judged their users weren’t comforting.

  Rei rotated the rifle back into blade form, grimacing slightly as the weight pulled at his wrist again. He imagined trying to wield it in close combat. Parrying, striking, reacting under pressure. Right now, he simply didn’t have the raw strength or muscle memory.

  Rifle first, he decided. Sword later.

  The thought barely settled before the training hall doors burst open.

  Lysander staggered in, hands braced on his knees, chest heaving. Sweat soaked through his shirt, hair plastered messily to his forehead.

  Caleb froze. “Lys? What the hell happened?”

  Lysander sucked in a breath. “Elijah… lost.”

  The room went dead silent.

  Rei’s grip tightened on Legacy. “What?”

  Carter turned sharply. “Lost how?”

  Lysander straightened with effort, eyes wild. “Lost in a sparring match. Some random guy. Eli’s in med bay.”

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Then voices overlapped.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “There’s no way—”

  “I saw it,” Lysander said, voice hoarse. “He’s bandaged up. Real injuries.”

  Rei felt something cold slide down his spine.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Elijah didn’t lose. Not really. Not in a way that mattered.

  Carter swallowed. “Is… is he okay?”

  “Mostly,” Lysander said. “But it was bad.”

  That was all it took.

  Within seconds, people were moving. Eli’s squad first, then others close to him. Rei hesitated only a moment before slinging Legacy across his back and following.

  ---

  The med bay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air.

  Elijah sat upright on the edge of a bed, torso wrapped in fresh bandages, one arm resting in a sling. His serpent shaft leaned against the wall within arm’s reach. His expression was calm but his eyes were alive, sharp with something restless and dangerous.

  Aiden stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight. Victor leaned against the far wall, face unreadable. Violet hovered close, hands clenched behind her back.

  Stacy was the first to speak. “Are you seriously injured?”

  Elijah shrugged one shoulder. “Nah. I’ve had worse.”

  “That’s not reassuring,” Daisy muttered.

  Rei edged closer, scanning Elijah carefully. Bruises marred his skin, deep and ugly, the kind that came from repeated impacts. His breathing was steady, controlled but he wasn’t unhurt.

  “What happened?” Violet asked quietly.

  Elijah exhaled, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “The guy was… strong.”

  That alone sent a ripple through the room.

  “How strong?” Violet pressed.

  Elijah’s lips twitched. “Strong enough that I stopped counting halfway through.”

  Aiden’s head snapped up. “Counting what?”

  “Clones,” Elijah said flatly.

  Silence again.

  “He had some kind of cloning grace,” Elijah continued. “Perfect replicas. Same weapons. Same movements. At first, I thought durability varied between them.”

  Victor nodded. “Standard clone limitation.”

  “Yeah,” Elijah said. “That wasn’t the problem.”

  Aiden leaned forward. “Then what was?”

  Elijah’s gaze sharpened. “The quantity of them.”

  Rei’s breath caught.

  “There were hundreds,” Elijah said. “Every time I destroyed one, two more took its place. No lag. No delay. I wasn’t fighting a person, I was fighting attrition.”

  Carter muttered, “That’s insane.”

  “It gets better,” Elijah added. “They learned. Adjusted. The longer it went on, the more coordinated they became.”

  Victor frowned. “You’re saying—”

  “That it wasn’t even a fight,” Elijah interrupted. “It was a one-sided beatdown.”

  The words hung heavy.

  Victor spoke slowly. “So there’s someone out there who can beat us.”

  Elijah nodded once. “Yes.”

  From the back, voices rose. His squad, trying to inject energy, reassurance.

  “You’ll get him next time.”

  “No one adapts faster than you.”

  “You were probably holding back—”

  “Enough.”

  Elijah’s voice cracked like a whip.

  The room fell silent as he gripped his head, fingers digging into his hair. His expression twisted. Anger, exhilaration, but something almost feral beneath it.

  “It’s been so long,” he said quietly, “since anyone’s made me feel like this.”

  He laughed under his breath. “My blood’s boiling.”

  Aiden’s lips curled slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

  Elijah looked up, eyes bright. “Aren’t you?”

  Victor and Violet exchanged a glance. They didn’t deny it.

  Elijah straightened. “This means something important.”

  Victor nodded. “There’s finally someone in this world who can challenge us.”

  The atmosphere shifted.

  Rei felt it. A pressure, heavy and electric, rolling off the four of them. Their presence sharpened, something ancient and dangerous stirring beneath the surface.

  Iris whispered to Caleb, “They’re fired up.”

  Caleb nodded. “He doesn’t even look humiliated.”

  Sure enough, Elijah swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his polearm, and stood.

  “I’m done resting,” he said casually. “Time to train.”

  And with that, he walked out.

  The others followed soon after, waving off questions, dismissing concerns. Eventually, the room thinned until only murmurs and unanswered questions remained.

  Rei drifted back toward the training hall.

  ---

  Raphael was waiting in the corridor.

  He looked… tired. Not physically but something deeper, heavier.

  “What was that about?” Raphael asked.

  Rei explained everything. The spar. The clones. Elijah’s loss.

  Raphael listened without interruption.

  When Rei finished, Raphael nodded once. “I see.”

  “Where were you?” Rei asked.

  Raphael’s lips curved faintly. “Meeting an old friend.”

  Rei accepted that without pushing. “So… what now?”

  “Tomorrow’s a day off,” Raphael said. “After that, everyone relocates to the Troylon Wall. Spend the day with people who matter.”

  Rei’s eyes lit up instantly.

  He was already pulling out his phone. “Thanks.”

  Raphael watched him go, expression unreadable.

  ---

  Raphael stopped walking.

  The corridor was empty. Too empty for comfort. The hum of the Avionis systems faded into a low, distant throb, like a heartbeat echoing through stone. Even the lights overhead seemed dimmer here, as if the space itself was holding its breath.

  “Deimos,” Raphael said, voice calm but edged.

  The shadows along the wall moved.

  They peeled themselves away from the concrete like living things, folding inward until a figure stepped forward. Crimson armor caught the dim light, scarred and dented as if it had walked through centuries of war without pause. A tattered cape hung from his shoulders, edges burned and torn, refusing to fully decay. His helm shaped like a skull tilted slightly, hollow eyes glowing faintly.

  “Sharp as ever, Ralph,” Deimos said, his voice low, layered, as though more than one presence spoke at once.

  Raphael exhaled through his nose. “Why is one of Bellum’s preservers standing in my halls?”

  “Because I was ordered to,” Deimos replied. “And because I wanted to.”

  Raphael turned fully now, meeting him head-on. “Your duties are in his domain. War. Conflict. The forging of champions.”

  Deimos stepped closer. The air grew heavier with every pace. “And you,” he said, “are one of Bellum’s greatest works.”

  Raphael’s jaw tightened. “I left that behind.”

  “You changed,” Deimos corrected. “You didn’t leave.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then Deimos’s helm angled slightly, gaze drifting down the corridor Rei had vanished through earlier.

  “That boy,” Deimos said. “You’re involved with one of Soteria’s children.”

  Raphael didn’t answer immediately.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  Deimos gave a slow, knowing hum. “So it’s true.”

  Raphael’s eyes sharpened. “You already knew.”

  “I suspected,” Deimos replied. “The way her light bends around him. The way fate leans in his direction.”

  Raphael’s voice was quieter now. “He’s Hiroshi’s son. Rei Moutsuki.”

  That made Deimos still.

  “Hiroshi,” he repeated, almost reverently. “The Goddess’s favorite blade.”

  “He was never a blade,” Raphael said sharply. “He was the light that saved the world.”

  Deimos chuckled, dark and low. “That’s what made him terrifying.”

  A pause.

  “I remember him,” Deimos continued. “Standing in front of an entire collapsing district, refusing to retreat while others begged him to. Soteria herself wept that day.”

  Raphael looked away.

  “And now,” Deimos said, “his son walks the same path.”

  “That’s why I’m guiding him,” Raphael said. “This world needs that same light again.”

  Deimos turned back to him. “Or a weapon.”

  Raphael’s eyes flared. “No. I'm not making the same mistake again”

  Deimos studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

  “Do you know why Soteria chose him?” Deimos asked.

  Raphael didn’t answer.

  “Because this world is nearing judgment,” Deimos continued. “Not destruction. Judgment. And when that time comes, she doesn’t want another god to decide humanity’s worth.”

  Raphael’s breath slowed.

  “She wants a human to do it.”

  The words settled like ash.

  Raphael spoke carefully. “Who is assigned to him?”

  Deimos didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he reached up just slightly and tapped two armored fingers against his helm. The sound echoed, sharp and metallic.

  “The same one,” he said, “who watched Hiroshi take his first step onto a battlefield.”

  Raphael’s heart sank.

  “The same one,” Deimos continued, voice steady, “who stands at the threshold between mercy and execution.”

  Raphael whispered, “Michael.”

  The air shifted.

  “Archangel Michael,” Deimos said. “Sword of Divine Justice. Commander of Heaven’s Hosts. The one who does not guide but only prepares.”

  Raphael clenched his fists. “That’s not guidance. That’s a sentence.”

  Deimos’s tone softened, just a fraction. “Michael does not protect children, Raphael. He tempers them. He sharpens them until they either break… or become absolute.”

  Raphael closed his eyes.

  “Soteria trusts him,” Deimos went on. “Because when judgment comes, Michael will not hesitate. He will not compromise. And he will not fail.”

  Raphael opened his eyes, something fierce burning behind them.

  “And if Rei refuses that path?”

  Deimos stepped back into the shadows.

  “Then Michael will teach him why refusal is not an option.”

  The shadows swallowed Deimos whole, leaving the corridor empty once more.

  Raphael stood alone.

  Far away, a phone vibrated in a boy’s hand and a future quietly shifted course.

  Rei’s phone screen glowed softly with a familiar name.

  Kristine Ley.

  [End of chapter]