Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

As Lyriq and his master walked through the bustling streets of Carcel, the City of War, Posters of the grand Under-20 Swordsmanship Competition fluttered from every wall, street lamp, and even the occasional drunk man's back. The whole city buzzed. Young warriors roamed the streets with swords strapped to their backs like badges of pride. Training duels broke out in alleys. Children mimicked sword swings using sticks. Merchants yelled about "special-priced lucky charms for first-place winners."

Lyriq walked quietly beside his master, trying not to look nervous. This wasn't just a local event — it felt like a war parade disguised as a competition.

Two boys clashed swords in the street — steel rang out like thunder. Lyriq paused. Their movements were fast, clean, controlled. Not wild swings like beasts — this was skill. He swallowed.

"If I want to stand before Augustis Volcaro one day," Lyriq thought, "then these two… I must crush them. Crush them all."His eyes burned with new resolve.

Just then, a commotion erupted at the square. A chariot pulled by black-horned horses rolled to a stop. Two boys — sharp-eyed, confident, and dressed in refined combat robes — stepped out.

"The Princes of Carcel," someone whispered.

The crowd parted instinctively, like water around blades. The princes didn't look at anyone. One of them had a smug grin that said, "I already won."

Lyriq looked around. The queue was long — a storm of disciples and their masters, some young, some scarred from real battles. This wasn't training. This was a battlefield in disguise.

He clenched his jaw."How many of them are monsters in disguise? I've only trained, hunted animals. This…" he looked around, "…this is different."

Then, a voice cut through the air like a sword slash."Oi! Boselin! You old crow, still alive?"

Lyriq's master — whose name hadn't ever been spoken aloud — turned slowly with a soft smirk.

A man with wild white hair and a bulky build marched toward them, laughing. He wore black robes that looked burned on the edges and beside him walked a tall, dark-skinned boy with striking red eyes, clothed in crimson.

"Did he just say Boselin?" Lyriq blinked.That's my master's name?! He never told me.

The white-haired man grinned."Still searching for disciples, Boselin? Who's this twig beside you? Your nephew?"

Boselin didn't reply, only nodded with an unreadable smile.

The man laughed. "Name's Jovar, by the way!" He turned to Lyriq. "And this little demon here is Cynil — my disciple. Say hi, boy."

Cynil said nothing. He just stared at Lyriq with intense eyes, sizing him up like a wolf watching a rabbit who might secretly be a lion.

Lyriq forced a stiff nod.

Jovar kept talking, "You know, Boselin, it's time we give up this whole 'Augustis Volcaro' dream. He's in a different stratosphere, man. We're just fleas hoping to bite a dragon."

He grinned.

"You should just settle down, marry a nice village widow or a grandma. At your age, it's either that or becoming a monk."

Boselin sighed, "Maybe you'll find love in a graveyard, Jovar. That's more your age bracket."

"Ha!" Jovar bellowed. "Still sharp-tongued, I see."

Lyriq's blood boiled. This loudmouth just called him weak, a twig — in front of everyone. He didn't speak.

Instead, he reached for the small blade strapped to his chest, walked forward, and stabbed it into the stone ground between his master and Jovar — not in threat, but like a line being drawn.

A bold, silent declaration:"This isn't just your rivalry anymore. I'm stepping in."

The tension cracked like thunder.

People turned to look. Cynil narrowed his eyes.Boselin raised a brow but said nothing.

Jovar blinked… then laughed."Well, well, the stick has spine! I'll give you that. He's got the fire, Boselin — maybe not the brains, but fire."

Boselin smiled faintly. "He's raw. But there's something in him. Just like back when we were idiots chasing legends."

Jovar's expression darkened briefly. "Legends… like Augustis Volcaro."Then his smirk returned. "Let's see how your little ember burns when it meets my wildfire."

As rain began to fall, soaking the dust and banners, Cynil stepped forward.

He didn't speak — he just unsheathed an inch of his blade, the glint of steel catching the light. His eyes locked with Lyriq's.

A silent vow."I'll show you what it means to be a swordsman."

And Lyriq — still staring down the blade line he had drawn — smiled.

"Good," he muttered. "Then teach me. But I'll be the one writing the lesson's end."