The Awakening Error - The system's Greatest Error

The forest remained eerily silent in the wake of Ethan's newfound control over his blade. The mercenaries hesitated, their predatory confidence flickering as they assessed the sudden shift in the battlefield.

Ethan's fingers tightened around the sword's hilt, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from something else entirely. The sensation that had coursed through him was unlike anything he had experienced before. He had always resonated with objects, feeling their presence, but this… this was different.

This was command.

Across from him, Ronan squared his stance, his sharp eyes darting between their enemies. He had felt it too—the unexplainable weight in the air, the moment where something had clicked within Ethan. But there was no time to dwell on it. The mercenaries were moving again.

The man wielding Shifting Mass lunged, his entire body flickering between lightness and immense density, closing the distance in an instant. His fist came crashing down toward Ethan, the sheer force of it enough to crack the earth.

But Ethan didn't move.

Instead, his sword did.

It shifted mid-air, adjusting its angle before Ethan could consciously direct it. He barely had time to process what was happening before the blade intercepted the attack, the impact sending a shockwave through his arm but holding firm.

A sharp, surprised grunt left the mercenary's lips. His momentum had been stopped—something that shouldn't have been possible against an opponent with only an initial trait.

Ethan's eyes narrowed.

"Again," he thought, pushing against the invisible boundary of his ability.

This time, the sword flowed.

It moved as if it had a will of its own, responding to Ethan's instincts rather than his conscious effort. He shifted his grip, and the weapon seemed to anticipate his intent, sliding along the path of least resistance as he countered his opponent's next attack.

The realization sent a rush of exhilaration through him.

This wasn't just resonance anymore.

It was synchronization.

Across the battlefield, Ronan roared as he drove his fist into the chain-wielder's gut, disrupting the deadly arc of his Vortex Chains. Sparks flew as the weapon recoiled, its wielder stumbling. Without missing a beat, Ronan pivoted, his movements fluid and deliberate, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike again.

Their enemies, once confident, were faltering.

"They weren't expecting a real fight," Ethan realized.

These mercenaries had likely taken jobs before, preying on travelers who didn't possess the strength to resist. But Ethan and Ronan were far from helpless.

The battle shifted.

The moment Ethan fully embraced the flow of his ability, his movements became sharper, his strikes more precise. It was as if he and the sword were one entity, each responding to the other in perfect harmony.

With a final surge, he stepped forward, blade flashing.

His sword cut through the space between them, slicing cleanly across the mercenary's gauntlet. The weapon clattered to the ground, severed from his grip. A deep, stunned silence followed.

The fight was over.

Ethan exhaled, his grip relaxing. The sword in his hand hummed softly, as if acknowledging their victory.

Ronan let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. "That was a good warm-up."

Ethan smirked. "We need to work on your definition of 'warm-up.'"

The two mercenaries groaned where they lay, incapacitated. But the third—Piercing Thunder—remained standing. His grip tightened around his humming blade, his gaze flickering toward his fallen comrades.

But before he could act—

A presence washed over them.

Cold. Overwhelming. Absolute.

The leaves trembled. The air thickened. A suffocating weight pressed down upon them, as if space itself had condensed around one point.

Ethan instinctively stepped back, his senses screaming in warning.

Then he saw him.

A figure stood atop the treeline, cloaked in shadows, his silhouette barely visible against the moonlight.

And yet, his very existence demanded attention.

The mercenary turned his head toward the figure, and for the first time, his confident facade cracked.

He dropped his sword.

Without a word, the man turned and fled, vanishing into the darkness.

Ethan's pulse pounded in his ears.

"Who—"

Before he could finish the thought, the figure spoke.

"You are his disciples."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

The voice was smooth, yet edged with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

Ethan and Ronan stood frozen as the figure finally moved, stepping down from the treeline.

The moonlight illuminated sharp, calculating eyes. A warrior's posture. A presence so overwhelming it was impossible to ignore.

And then—Ethan noticed something.

The man wasn't looking at them.

He was staring past them.

"At Veyrn."

Even though their master wasn't there, the weight of his name lingered in the air.

The man's lips curved slightly, but the amusement didn't reach his eyes.

"So he has taken disciples after all."

A pause.

"Then we can finally compete on equal grounds."

Ethan didn't know why, but a chill ran down his spine.

Something had begun.

Something far bigger than them.