Shakes limped back toward the hut, each step leaving a faint trail of blood in the dust. Master Tharion walked beside him in silence, only breaking it once they passed through the wooden doorway.
"Sit. Eat something before you collapse again," Tharion muttered.
Inside, a simple breakfast waited—stewed roots, coarse bread, and a pitcher of cold water. The scent was plain but warm. Shakes sat slowly, wincing with every motion. Soriel joined them, placing Severflame beside him on the table like it was just another utensil.
As they ate, Soriel kept glancing at Shakes.
After some time, he spoke.
"There's something I want to show you. A place I don't take just anyone."
Tharion raised an eyebrow. "You mean that place?"
Soriel smirked. "Of course. He's earned at least a glimpse."
They finished eating, and Soriel led them deeper into the hut, past racks of old scrolls and shelves crowded with forgotten relics. He stopped before a thick iron door covered in rusted chains and strange markings. With a whisper under his breath, the seals broke.
"This," he said, pushing it open, "is the Cursed Library."
Inside, it was cold and heavy, like the air itself was burdened with memory. Books lined the walls—some wrapped in chains, others still whispering as if they dreamed. At the far end, resting on a black stone pedestal, was a tome bound in hide that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Soriel approached it with reverence.
"This," he said, placing his hand on the cover, "is Nyrix: Echoes Through Motion. The original guide to the twin blades you now carry."
He lifted the book and handed it to Shakes.
"Study it. Every word. Every sketch. The blades respond not to strength, but to rhythm, momentum... intention. The more you understand, the more they'll give back."
Shakes took it with both hands. It felt warm. Alive.
The next days blurred.
Shakes read until his vision blurred. The Nyrix Blades had forms—Whisper Steps, Pulse Chains, Shadow Rings—each one crafted for speed and efficiency. He trained in silence, only the rustle of pages and the crack of movement filling the air.
When he returned to the field, bruised but alert, Soriel was waiting again.
This time, Shakes moved like wind. Faster. Tighter. His blades cut in arcs, flowing from one stance to the next. The Edge Pulse rang clearer now—sharper, more controlled.
And then—something clicked.
Mid-spin, as he deflected a strike, one of the blades shimmered. A pulse of light burst from the runes, sending a shockwave into the Graveman before him, disintegrating it in a blink. Shakes froze, panting.
Soriel's eyes narrowed.
"Ah... you touched the core. That's the Shear Break—a base awakening of the Nyrix bond. Not bad, Burnedead."
But the Gravemen came again.
Shakes cut them down with new flow, slipping between hits, bending low, spinning tight. He even took down six before exhaustion caught him.
But it wasn't enough.
Soriel entered the fray himself this time. A flick of his fingers, a twist of his wrist—and Shakes was sent flying again. Blade stripped from his hand. Dust choking his throat.
Defeat.
Again.
But as Soriel stepped back, expression unreadable, he said only, "Better. Much better."
That night, while the others rested, Shakes remained awake under the crooked tree. The Nyrix book open beside him. His hands moved in slow patterns—ghost swings of the blade—each motion etched into his bones.
No sleep.
Only motion. Only practice.
The path forward was brutal. But Shakes had started to walk it.
Shakes didn't count days. He counted bruises.
Two weeks alone in the canyon had stripped him down to bone and instinct. He trained until his arms failed and his legs gave out. By lantern light, he studied the ancient combat book Nyrix: Echoes Through Motion an instruction manual. The twin short blades, Nyrix, weren't just tools—they were lightning vessels. They rejected him at first, flaring once before fading cold in his hands.
But he kept pushing. Imagining enemies. Creating them in his mind. A Graveman with four arms. A mage with no eyes. A shifting assassin. He fought these phantoms in silence, again and again.
Until one night—his blades struck stone, and lightning ripped the earth in half. The Nyrix had accepted him.
Now, Shakes stood beneath the stars, bruised but ready. At the top of the ridge, Soriel was tending to something laid across a black altar: Severflame by his right.
But Soriel had taken it two weeks ago. Said he'd return it when Shakes proved worthy.
Soriel looked up as Shakes approached.
"I see the Nyrix finally woke up," he said, voice low.
"I'm ready," Shakes replied. "Give me my blade."
"Not yet." Soriel raised his left hand—and his spellbook, Vellmorre, unfurled midair, its pages glowing with arcane script. Severflame vanished into the book, sealed away once more.
"If you want it," Soriel said, stepping down into the dirt ring, "earn it."
Up on the ridge, Master Tharion watched silently. The old man said nothing—but his hand gripped the stick tighter.
Shakes exhaled and entered the circle.
No count. No signal. The fight began instantly.
Shakes dashed forward, lightning trailing his blades, striking with clean, hard precision. Soriel whispered a phrase, and a spectral blade burst from his palm—blocking the strike with a clang. Another word, and two glowing spears appeared beside him, spinning through the air.
One grazed Shakes' shoulder.
He bit back pain and lunged in, slicing one spear from the sky before it hit again.
"Good control," Soriel muttered, casting another sequence. A chain of arcane light snapped toward Shakes, wrapping his wrist. Shakes twisted, slammed his other blade into the ground, and let lightning erupt—shattering the spell and blasting Soriel back three steps.
The Nyrix glowed brighter. Sparks crawled along his arms. But Soriel was already whispering again—pages flipping in midair.
A Graveman rose from the dirt, formed from pure energy—glowing white and faceless.
Shakes gritted his teeth. He pivoted, slid beneath its first strike, and drove both blades into its back—detonating it in a burst of static.
But he didn't see Soriel's next spell.
A whip of arcane force struck his side—he staggered, coughing blood.
"Still slow," Soriel said.
Shakes didn't answer.
He moved faster.
The air cracked as he struck again—faster, harder, forcing Soriel to dodge now. The Nyrix blades flashed—each move synced with stored energy. One cut grazed Soriel's arm. Another nearly caught his side.
"You're improving," Soriel said mid-dodge, tone almost amused. "But are you stable?"
Shakes spun, driving a surge of electricity into the ground. It cracked beneath Soriel's feet—lightning bursting upward in jagged lines.
Soriel blurred backward with a warp spell, landing hard.
For a moment, both stood—panting.
Then Soriel raised Vellmorre again.
Dozens of glyphs burst into the air, forming arcane symbols that shaped into twin broadswords.
He launched them at once.
Shakes tried to dodge but it was too fast and sliced through his arms and legs.
He growled through clenched teeth. Blood ran. The Nyrix blades flared—feeding off the pain, the desperation.
He ran at Soriel again—struck high, then low, then faked out and pivoted into a shoulder slam that knocked Soriel off balance.
Shakes brought both blades down—lightning trailing behind the arc.
CRACK!
The impact blasted Soriel from the circle. He hit the ground hard, skidding through dust and cinders.
He didn't rise.
Silence.
A soft laugh.
Soriel pushed himself to a seated position, blood on his lip. "You win. Just barely."
Shakes fell to one knee, blades trembling, vision swimming.
Soriel stood. Dusted himself off. Offered a hand.
Shakes took it.
He opened Vellmorre one last time—and Severflame reappeared, rising out of the pages in a swirl of red fire.
But this time, it didn't just sit dead.
It ignited in Shakes' presence. Alive. Blazing.
Soriel held it out.
"Take what's yours."
Shakes stepped forward. Gripped the sword.
The fire bent toward him controlled. Bound to him.
"Keep the Nyrix too," Soriel added. "They'll be useful."
From the ridge, Master Tharion descended at last. His eyes were wide with pride.
He rushed to Shakes' side, throwing an arm around him before he collapsed fully.
"You did it, boy," Tharion said, voice tight. "You did it."
Inside Soriel's hut, the old man tended to his wounds. Cleaned the blood. Bound the cuts.
Only after Shakes could breathe again did he speak.
"...Am I ready?"
Tharion looked at him for a long moment.
"Not yet."
A pause.
"One last gate stands between you and whats next."
To be continued.....