2582.
That was the number etched into the broken wall of his subconscious arena. A silent testament to the battles fought, the time endured, and the will sharpened like a blade.
He had enough time to think over all his goals. Returning home would be next to impossible. His body might already have died, but he will fulfill his role in this world - this second chance he got. Live his life and see the end of the story.
Caelum stood at the threshold of the field, the grass swaying gently under a sunless sky. The air was crisp, solemn.
His footsteps were steady now. No longer that of a boy forcing himself forward, but that of a swordsman who understood his path.
Three years had passed in this mental world.
His hair now brushed past his shoulders, streaks of silver running through the cyan—residue of the trait that had nearly consumed him.
Before him stood his final opponent.
The obsidian replica.
Identical in appearance, in weaponry, in stance.
But not in spirit.
This time, the replica did not raise its blade first.
It watched.
Studied.
Like a mentor waiting for a student to prove their worth.
Caelum's violet eyes narrowed. He breathed in the air of his created world—lush trees, distant birdsong, a quiet stream in the backdrop. A far cry from the barren coliseum this place should have been.
He gripped the hilt of his sword.
The silence was heavy.
A storm waiting to break.
"Come."
The replica moved.
Steel shimmered in the lightless sky. Caelum vanished—his first [Flash] chained into a diagonal strike from the left. The replica blocked, but Caelum was already gone again, flickering behind it like a shadow carried by thunder.
Second Flash. A spinning horizontal cut.
The replica parried, turning with him.
Third. A thrust aimed for the side. Deflected.
Fourth. A high arc swing as he launched into the air.
Fifth. He used the recoil to land behind, slashing low.
The lightning was flowing now—not through his legs, but through his entire form. His movement was a current, and his blade the conductor.
Sixth Flash.
Caelum blurred, his figure warping into a streak of blue-white light that crackled and curved midair.
The replica ducked, swiping upward. Caelum twisted mid-flash, using the force to redirect his blade—Seventh Flash.—the final strike.
Their swords collided mid-spin. A pulse echoed outward.
Caelum landed, skidding back.
The replica stood still.
For the first time… it spoke.
"You've grown, Caelum Veris."
His breath hitched.
The voice wasn't metallic or distant—it was warm. Deep. Familiar in a way that made the hairs on his neck rise.
"…You can talk?"
The replica nodded. "I was not permitted to speak until you surpassed me. That was the final gate."
Caelum frowned. "Then… who are you? Why have I been trapped here for so long?"
The replica sheathed its sword and stepped forward. "I am the Guardian of Ruin—a vessel created from the fragments of those who bore this trait before you. I exist to temper the one who inherits the title of Knight of Ruin. To prepare them. Test them. And one day, serve them."
Caelum's eyes flickered with confusion and restraint. "You said 'those before me.' So I'm not the first?"
A pause.
"There were two before you. The First—a tyrant who burned the continent. The Second—a martyr who shattered the heavens to save it. And now, you… the Third. The youngest. The most conflicted."
Caelum looked down at his hands. "Then this trait… why does it feel like it's killing me? Why did it awaken now?"
"Because you met the conditions," the Guardian said. "Loss. Grief. Isolation. Strength. You fulfilled the catalyst. This trait… awakens in those who walk the edge of despair with the will to stand again."
Caelum shook his head. "I never wanted this. I just wanted to go home…"
The Guardian smiled faintly. "And yet, you remained. You built this world instead of letting it become a prison. Lush. Alive. A memory of the place you miss. You gave it… lifeI know you must miss that place dearly."
Caelum looked around—the soft rustling trees, the birds, the warmth of the air.
"…I just thought of home."
The Guardian nodded. "And if you reach higher realms, you'll gain control. You'll be able to summon others here. Allies. Creations. Even revisit this space while your body acts on instinct. Or summon it into the real world."
Caelum stayed quiet.
"…Will I ever meet the others?"
"In time. The order you belong to—The Fragments—awaits their Commander's return. Reunite them. And maybe… create your own. You will find traces of them in the northern ruins of the martial continent."
Caelum's eyes dimmed. "There's a younger version of me I keep seeing in this space. Sad. Lost. Filled with resentment."
The Guardian's expression grew somber. "That is a phantom. A splinter born from the grief of your heart. A shadow of your past… It will follow you until your goal is fulfilled. Until your soul finds peace."
Caelum closed his eyes.
Three years.
Thousands of battles.
He had run from fate once.
He can't run anymore.
"…And you?"
The Guardian knelt. "I am your sword now, Third Commander of Ruin. Whether your path leads to salvation or destruction—I will walk it with you. Awaiting the day you call my name again."
Caelum nodded slowly.
Then turned.
His heart was steady.
The path ahead, uncertain.
But he no longer feared it.
"I'll reunite you with your comrades," he said.
"And maybe… I'll create something even greater."
The world began to blur.
The forest dimmed.
The birds fell silent.
The wind faded.
And then—
—Caelum opened his eyes.
Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds.
Dust swirled gently in the air.
He was back.
His limbs felt heavy, but his body was intact.
At the desk beside him sat the Headmaster, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"…Welcome back, boy," he said. "You've been asleep for six months."
Caelum looked out the window, expression calm.
"…It only felt like three years."