Martial Demons Ascension

The moment Rhyka slipped out of the classroom with a curt, "I'll be back," the energy inside swelled like a dam breaking.

He was gone barely a heartbeat before the chatter started.

This sparring session was different Not simple pairs trading blows under restrictions, but a real free-for-all Two groups, two rings. Last one standing in each No excuses, no holding back Whoever won today would have bragging rights that lasted for months.

Students shuffled their chairs closer together, whispering and speculating with the excitement of gamblers before a big match.

The names on everyone's lips were the same three.

Millis Recently, he'd been strutting through the classroom like he owned it. Not because he was suddenly stronger, but because of how he had positioned himself By standing close to Hella, amplifying her bullying, and intimidating anyone who resisted, he'd created an aura of false dominance Nobody liked him much, but plenty feared him and that counted for something.

Eto She had been a favorite for a long time. Natural charisma, wide spell repertoire, good instincts Her fan club swore by her, and even the people who didn't like her admitted her strength was undeniable Her recent failures in judgment didn't erase her actual combat ability.

Rinnte Quiet, precise, efficient He didn't seek attention, didn't boast, didn't bully He simply performed always near the top His classmates acknowledged his strength but, because he wasn't popular and kept to himself, he was rarely celebrated Now, with Millis puffing himself up, many students had started putting Millis ahead of Rinnte in whispered rankings.

"Millis will crush it," one boy muttered confidently, arms folded "He's been untouchable lately."

"Untouchable because he cherry picks," another snapped back "One on one, Rinnte's cleaner. Stronger, too."

"No way Eto's got both of them beat. She's the most balanced."

"Yeah, but balance doesn't mean much when you're swarmed in a free-for-all. Millis is aggressive That works here."

The debates grew louder, split along lines of loyalty and bias Hella's clique, naturally, hyped up Millis Eto's fan club praised her endlessly, dismissing the others A handful of students insisted Rinnte was still the quiet top dog, though they were drowned out by the louder voices.

Rinnte sat at his desk, posture calm, not engaging in the noise Outwardly, he was stone-faced Inwardly, though, there was a flicker of excitement he couldn't completely suppress.

This was what he lived for not the politics, not the drama, but the clash itself The raw test of skill, where talk didn't matter.

He didn't smile, but his grip on his quill tightened slightly as the anticipation settled in his chest.

Across the room, Eto caught his eye.

For a moment, the class noise dimmed as they locked gazes in a silent challenge.

Her look was sharp, almost defiant like she was declaring she wouldn't back down His, cool and unyielding, carried no bravado, just certainty.

Seconds stretched Neither blinked Neither looked away.

But the room had its biases Whispers flared around them, and the momentum of the crowd pushed in Eto's favor Her fan club leaned forward in their seats, grinning, clapping her on the back, muttering encouragement.

She broke eye contact first, pulled back by the noise, cheeks warming at the pressure of so many expectant eyes.

Rinnte remained where he was, still, unmoving, the faintest crease of irritation at the corner of his mouth.

To him, it wasn't a real loss But the room had already decided: Eto had the edge.

Rhyka didn't waste the money Emmet had given him on food or supplies like a normal student might The thought didn't even cross his mind.

He had only one goal in mind as he left the school grounds: to shape the image he saw in his head, the figure he had been daydreaming about since the night he first tasted martial essence.

The streets were quiet at this time of day, most villagers working or tucked away indoors Rhyka moved with purpose, scanning the small shops and stalls until his eyes caught on the one he wanted: a weaponsmith's storefront.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside.

The shop smelled of iron and oil, the air warm from the forge in the back Weapons lined the walls swords, spears, daggers, even a few decorative pieces clearly made more for show than for battle.

Rhyka walked slowly past the racks, fingers brushing the hilts of blades, ignoring the shorter swords and practical farm tools until his eyes stopped on one piece that immediately called to him.

A long, curved blade.

It wasn't a simple farmer's machete or a soldier's short sword it was a weapon with presence The steel shimmered faintly even in the dim light, and etched along its surface was a subtle but intricate design, patterns that curled like smoke across the metal.

It was the kind of blade that wasn't just meant to kill it was meant to be seen.

Exactly what Rhyka wanted.

The shopkeeper, an older man with soot on his hands, raised an eyebrow as the boy lingered on it "That one's not cheap," he said.

Rhyka untied the pouch at his belt and tossed it once in his hand so the coins clinked loudly. "I can afford it."

The old man gave him a look half skeptical, half amused but didn't argue. A few minutes later, the blade was his.

Rhyka left the shop with the curved weapon strapped across his back, the weight of it unfamiliar but satisfying Every step made him feel taller, heavier, more dangerous.

But he wasn't finished yet.

A few stalls down, another shop caught his eye one selling trinkets, jewelry, and masks. Most of the masks were gaudy festival pieces: bright colors, feathers, exaggerated expressions But one, tucked near the back, was different.

A half-mask, covering the upper half of the face.

It was painted a deep, dark red with sharp gold accents tracing along the edges and around the eyeholes Striking, elegant, not overly ornate It was exactly the kind of thing he had imagined in his fantasies.

When he held it up to his face and looked into the small cracked mirror the vendor offered, he could almost see it: the ruthless mercenary, the masked bounty hunter, the figure who walked into a room and demanded silence.

"Perfect," he muttered, handing over the coin.

As he stepped back onto the street, mask tucked under one arm and the curved blade glinting in the fading light, Rhyka's lips twitched into a smirk.

It wasn't just shopping It wasn't just spending money.

This was the first step in turning his delusions into reality.

He wasn't just a boy anymore He wasn't just a bullied, friendless orphan.

He was becoming the image he had seen in his head: a tall, masked killer, blade in hand, feared by all.

And for the first time, he felt like the world was starting to bend toward that fantasy.