Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

One by one, the matches ended.

Some with roars. Some with gasps. Others with silence.

Arena after arena cleared — warriors stepping off stone rings drenched in sweat, blood, or regret. The crowd leaned forward as names were announced. Favorites advanced. Underdogs fell. 

Soon, there would be half as many fighters.

And soon, Lyriq Raveline's name would be called.

He waited just beyond the boundary walls — seated on a low step, where shadow and wind crossed.

Eyes closed.

No tension in his jaw. No shift in breath.

His wooden sword rested across his lap.

But his fingers moved — slow, subtle, following a rhythm.

He wasn't watching the crowd.He wasn't watching his future opponent.He was counting.

Watching wind.

Mapping pressure.

Tracking sound.

Match at Arena 25 ended six seconds ago. Footstep pattern suggests a decisive finish. Cheers lasted only two seconds. Audience unsure.

Arena 34 just ended — delay in applause. Possibly a drawn-out match.

Arena 38… it's clearing.

His eyes opened.

There. That was the signal.

It was time.

Arena 38 held its breath.

Gorsova stood tall, his shadow stretching across the circle like a wall. Broad frame, chest high, wooden blade balanced across his back like a hammer waiting to fall.

Twelve matches.

Twelve victories.

Every one of them decisive.

"Gorsova of Carcel," someone muttered. "The north's hammer."

"He breaks guards, not reads them."

"Who's he fighting?"

They glanced at the other side of the ring.

A boy stepped forward.

Lean. Calm. Silent.

His wooden sword rested at his side like an afterthought.

He didn't posture.He didn't glare.He didn't even speak.

Just walked.

"Lyriq Raveline… from Ravelinora?"

The name passed like a breeze.

Someone laughed. "Didn't know they grew fighters in flower country."

But then the bell rang.

Start.

Gorsova moved first — a heavy, predictable step, eager to start the crushing momentum.

But Lyriq moved faster — not toward him, not away, but sideways. Diagonal.

Distance increased.

The audience blinked.

"Why's he retreating?"

But lyriq wasn't.

He was adjusting the field.

Gorsova noticed the gap. His brow furrowed. His footwork changed.

He had to speed up.

The blow he meant to land in two seconds now had to happen in one.

To reach the target, Gorsova threw his weight forward — accelerating, pushing harder, his entire frame surging to close the unexpected space.

He lunged with everything.

That was the moment Lyriq struck.

No pause.No hesitation.

His sword flashed.

Not wide.Not upward.Forward.

Straight into the velocity Gorsova had created.

The thrust landed clean to the neck — not blocked, not deflected, not even seen.

Wood cracked against throat.

Gorsova's momentum stopped mid-air.

His body jolted backward from the sheer redirect of force.

Then silence.

Pure, stunning silence.

Even the referee hesitated — then slowly raised a hand.

"Winner… Lyriq Raveline."

Gasps rippled.

Not just at the strike.

At the precision.

At the audacity to force Gorsova to charge — only to break him with his own speed.

In the stunned crowd, a noble leaned to his companion. "Did he just… make him accelerate into his own loss?"

A mercenary whistled. "That wasn't luck. That was geometry. That was murder disguised as movement."

Someone whispered louder, stunned:"He's from Ravelinora…?""Since when could they fight like that?""That boy's not here to survive.""He's here to create his own name."

But Lyriq had already left the ring.

The crowd stood.

And for the first time all day, the arena echoed with something Ravelinora had never heard before —

"Lyriq Raveline!""LYRIQ! LYRIQ!"

He didn't raise his sword.He didn't smile.

But as the cheers rang louder behind him, and his name rolled across the stone arenas like thunder, one truth settled in everyone's mind:

Something terrifying just entered the tournament.

And it had already moved five seconds ahead.