Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

The hall buzzed with energy as swordsmen young and fierce stood in line — their expressions carved from stone, their eyes filled with the lust for blood and glory.

Lyriq stood quietly among them.

When his turn came, the registrar looked up with practiced boredom.

"Name?"

"Lyriq Raveline."

The pen halted. Eyes blinked. A pause.

"…Did you say Raveline? From Ravelinora?"

Lyriq gave no answer.

The man leaned in. "You don't look like a peacekeeper and you are someone young. What's someone from the softest kingdom in Meredica doing here? They haven't sent a swordsman to Carcel… ever."

Still no reply.

Just as the man turned away to write the name, Lyriq spoke.

"I am not the one of peacekeeper."

He stabs the registration knife into the desk with a sharp thud

"But I'm the only swordsman they'll talk about when it's over."

And he walked away.

The whispers began immediately.

"Did you hear that?"

"Ravelinora? That quiet kingdom?"

"Why would they send someone?"

"No, he said no one did — he did."

In just minutes, the name spread like a flicker of fire on dry grass.

****

Two Days Before the Arena

Lyriq didn't sleep.

He returned to the inn — eyes sharper than before, hands blistered, arms aching. And yet, he trained.

Not with his master.

Alone.

He wasn't practicing swings. He wasn't testing brute force.

He was studying movement.Time.Sequence.

The Concept of Sequence

Everything that moves follows a pattern. Even chaos leaves a footprint.

A frog bends its legs before the jump. A snake coils before the strike. A swordsman shifts his weight before the lunge.

That space between action and reaction — Lyriq called it the "Sequence Window."

His body wasn't strong. But his eyes… they would be faster.

A rope tied to a heavy stone hung from a tree outside his inn, moving like a pendulum. Lyriq stepped in rhythm with it — not dodging at random, but waiting for the arc.

If the curve bends at second one,The strike will fall at second five.Don't block the swing.Be where it ends. Before it ends.

Over and over, he repeated. Eyes measuring. Feet adjusting. Breaths held.

He tied two ropes. Then three.

Then tied his legs to drag weight behind him while dodging, calculating. A misstep sent him crashing into the wall.

His forehead bled.

He didn't stop.

Thoughts Between Blades

"They call me weak."

"They don't understand. I'm not here to hit harder."

"I'm here to be where they don't expect — a second before they act."

"If someone swings wide — they give me a second."

"If someone raises their shoulder — it means they're winding up."

"If I learn to read seconds, I can own the moment."

 Whispers Grew in Carcel

"That boy from Ravelinora… they say he doesn't spar with anyone."

"He trains with… rocks?"

"Madness."

"He's wasting time. Just wait until Someone powerful or one of Carcel's princes faces him."

Some laughed.

Some watched silently.

But Lyriq heard none of it.

"Strength is one kind of sword."

"Prediction is another."

"Two days, That's enough time to learn one second ahead."

He stared at the moon.

No longer afraid. No longer doubting.

Not a hero. Not a prince. Not a prodigy.

Just a swordsman from a forgotten kingdom — planning to cut through time itself.