Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

As Lyriq walked through the crowded streets of Carcel, something stopped him in his tracks.

Low voices. Whispered awe.

"Did you hear? Augustis Volcaro defeated Marlan Carry…"

"The same Marlan who took down five Blue Flame Dragons alone—by himself…?"

"Didn't stand a chance. They say Augustis didn't even draw fully."

Lyriq's chest tightened. The name Augustis Volcaro was no longer just a legend told by his master. It was alive, echoing on the lips of the world.

He turned sharply to the man beside him.

"Master," he asked, breath sharp. "Who is Marlan Carry?"

The man didn't stop walking, but his tone dropped low.

"Marlan Carry is no ordinary swordsman. He's the Crown Prince of the Sincoa Kingdom—one of the central powers in Meredica. Born with nobility, raised with blades. He's a champion of the Meredica Sword Tournament, a competition held once every five years. Only the best of the best even enter—Marlan won it. He's a name nations cheer for."

"And Augustis defeated him?" Lyriq asked.

The man smirked, just slightly.

"It wasn't even close."

A silence hung heavy.

"Marlan is a mountain inside Meredica. But Augustis? He's the sky over the world."

Lyriq's stomach churned. He clenched his fists.

I'm nothing. Not yet.

But the hunger in his chest grew sharper. He didn't want to walk among mortals. He wanted to stand in the same breath as gods.

That night, training resumed. But this time, the focus had changed.

The man handed him a short bow.

"Draw," he commanded.

Lyriq raised it, aimed—snap. The string shook, the aim collapsed. His hands trembled from the strain.

He tried again. Snap.

And again. Snap.

The man said nothing. Then finally, he pointed to a heavy, jagged stone in the courtyard behind the inn. It was wide, flat, and edged with cracks sharp enough to tear flesh.

"From today, that's yours," the man said."You'll pull it. Push it. Drag it until your hands bleed, then scar, then harden. No gloves. No break. Grip until pain forgets you."

Lyriq stared. The stone was larger than him, brutal in shape.

"This is how archers become killers," the man added. "A bow is not for aiming. It's for tearing. A weak hand fires nothing. A trembling hand kills no one."

Lyriq looked at his bruised fingers.Looked at the stone.Then looked at the stars above.

Up there—somewhere—was Augustis Volcaro.

Down here, he was just a boy.

But not for long.

He'll never end up like the last life, Lyriq swore.This time… I climb.