Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

The sun had barely breached the Carcel skyline when Lyriq stood, silent and barefoot, on the cold inn floor.

A rope tied to a heavy stone swung before him like a pendulum, its rhythm cutting the morning air in crisp arcs. Each pass taught him something. Each second held a pattern.

He had calculated dozens of strikes in the last week, but today — today the world felt different.

The day of the tournament had arrived.

He moved outside, eyes still half-closed, letting the morning chill bite into his skin.

His feet followed the rhythm.His sword tilted — not to block, but to deflect.

"A strike stays linear up to 2 seconds… unless disrupted at the third," Lyriq murmured, watching the stone shift.

A thrust doesn't curve unless doubt or correction creeps in. A beginner's hesitation at second 2.5 would cause a break — and the creation of a new sequence.

One motion dies.Another is born.In that instant — timing changes.

"That's the opening," he whispered.

He tilted his sword by a degree — not to clash, but to guide the momentum away, using the opponent's force against them.

He smiled to himself.

"If I can't stop power… I'll redirect it."

By midmorning, the streets of Carcel had transformed into celebration.

Banners waved, fruit-sellers shouted, children stood on tiptoe for a glimpse of the fighters heading to the arena. Knights, merchants, nobles — all gathered.

Lyriq and Boselin entered the tournament grounds unnoticed.

But by the time Lyriq found his name on the slot board — whispers had already started again.

"Lyriq Raveline… from Ravelinora?"

"He's a swordsman?"

"Didn't know they left their gardens."

Lyriq ignored it all.

The arena was a vast plain, sectioned into hundreds of stone circles — each the size of a small courtyard.

Each circle was alive with tension.

Lyriq found a quiet one — Arena 32 — where two swordsmen were circling each other.

One tall, with a long wooden blade, his stance rooted like a tree.

The other, lean, fast, with a shorter wooden blade and rapid feet.

Lyriq narrowed his eyes to predict the sequence

"Five seconds," he whispered.

Second 1.0

The tall one steps forward — heavy swing building from the shoulder. Wide angle. Standard.

Second 1.5

The shorter one braces — plants back foot, raises guard. He predicts the path.

"He read the arc," Lyriq noted.

Second 2.0

The tall one suddenly shifts — footwork repositions, bringing the sword down in a vertical cut instead of a horizontal slash.

Second 2.5

"Sequence broken," Lyriq murmured. "New motion born. Impact coming."

The shorter one adjusts — but his blade is too short.

His counter is 0.5 seconds too slow to reach the new strike.

Second 3.0

Contact.

The heavy sword crashes down. The lean swordsman tries to tilt his blade and deflect, but the force drives him down.

He stumbles, topples backward, landing hard on the ground.

"He calculated the swing, but not the reach."

"And he didn't factor weight transfer — heavier build, downward force.

The smaller one couldn't absorb it."

Checkmate.

The whistle blew. The taller swordsman stepped back. Applause followed.

But Lyriq had already turned away — five seconds earlier.

He didn't need to see who won.

He'd walked the fight second by second, long before the blades had clashed.

In his mind, the outcome wasn't a question.

It was a solved equation.

And now, it was time for someone else to be the variable.