Martial Demons Ascension

The four stood in a neat line, waiting, their introductions finished. The night wind tugged at their cloaks, lantern light flickering across their faces. Their gazes shifted, inevitably, toward the boy with the half-mask and golden eyes.

Rhyka didn't hesitate.

He stepped forward, arms loose at his sides, and let his smirk spread wide across his face. There wasn't a shred of humility in his tone when he spoke.

"Rhyka," he said, his voice ringing sharp in the cold air. "Magicless. And still, the greatest weapon master you'll find in the last three decades at least."

The words landed heavy, dripping with arrogance. He didn't stop there.

"I haven't even trained with most of your weapons for any real amount of time," he continued, smirk widening as his golden eyes flicked over the spear on Cerys' back, the knives at Kael's belt, the staff strapped across Selvara's shoulder, and the massive warhammer leaning against Doran's frame. "But I'd wager I'm already better with them than you are."

He folded his arms across his chest, chin lifting ever so slightly, daring them to react.

The silence that followed was pointed.

Selvara's face remained impassive, her braid shifting faintly in the wind. She blinked once, slow and deliberate, before turning her gaze elsewhere, as though refusing to waste energy on posturing.

Cerys let out a sharp snort of laughter, not mocking exactly, but amused in the way a seasoned fighter is when they hear a rookie's big talk. Her spear dipped just slightly as she leaned on it, grin wide and unbothered.

Kael's eyes narrowed. He didn't laugh, didn't scoff. His fingers simply drummed against the hilt of one of his knives, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his lips. It wasn't respect it was the look of someone adding a mental note, deciding exactly how he'd respond if the arrogance went too far.

Doran, the peak stage, didn't so much as blink. He stared down at Rhyka with the same heavy, steady eyes he'd had before, as if the boy's declaration was little more than another gust of mountain wind. His silence was more dismissive than any insult could have been.

None of them looked impressed. None of them seemed moved.

To them, Rhyka's words were just that—words. They had heard arrogance before. They had seen pride shatter on the road. And if this boy was truly strong, they would see it in battle, not in boasts.

The smirk on Rhyka's face didn't falter. He saw their reactions, registered the lack of awe, the quiet dismissal.

The introductions should have ended there. Normally, a mercenary company would exchange names, a nod of acknowledgment, and move on. But this wasn't normal.

The four Rank 3s didn't step back.

Instead, something subtle flickered across their faces—a shared smirk, brief but unmistakable, the kind of silent expression fighters gave one another when they'd spotted an opening. Not the kind of opening you strike at in combat. The kind you poke at to amuse yourself.

Selvara's lips curved faintly, her dark eyes glittering in the lamplight. She spoke first, her tone smooth, but her words sharp.

"Well," she said softly, "a weapon master of three decades, is it? Remarkable… considering you don't even look like you've lived one and a half."

Cerys chuckled outright, leaning her spear against her shoulder as she grinned at him. "If you're better with a spear than me after 'not training,' then I must've wasted the last ten years of my life. Maybe you can give me lessons? Enlighten me on what I've been doing wrong."

Kael's smirk was thin, his words quieter but no less pointed. His fingers still tapped lightly against his knives as he added, "Confidence is good. Even necessary. But confidence without scars? Without the weight of killing behind it? That's just theater."

Doran, the oldest and most silent, finally let out a low rumble of a sound, almost a laugh, but more like gravel grinding. "Arrogance burns hot. Burns fast. Seen plenty who boasted like that. Most of them are bones by the roadside now."

The words weren't shouted, weren't cruel. But together, they painted a picture. Not impressed. Not convinced. Prodding, poking, watching to see how the boy with golden eyes and a half-mask would squirm under the weight of veterans' dismissal.

It wasn't open hostility. It was subtler, nastier: the kind of professional mockery born from fighters who had survived long enough to enjoy watching pride unravel.

Rhyka caught it immediately.

This wasn't random. It wasn't even personal. It was deliberate. A tactic.

Why provoke teenagers? he asked himself, the answer arriving almost instantly. Because most can't take it. Most will puff up, shout, swing blindly to prove themselves. And once they overextend, you put them in their place. You remind them the road belongs to those who've bled for it.

That was the trap. And it was a good one.

But it wasn't going to work the way they thought.

Because Rhyka had no intention of backing down, or showing the slightest hint of humility.

His smirk widened, his golden eyes flashing faintly in the lamplight. He let his chin tilt higher, his tone dripping with the same arrogance as before, as though he hadn't noticed the hidden edges in their words at all.

"Oh, I'll teach you, spear girl," he said to Cerys, his tone mock-generous. "And when you realize you've been holding it wrong this entire time, don't cry about the wasted years."

He glanced at Selvara, his smirk sharp. "And you're right I haven't lived three decades. Which means I've outpaced entire generations in a fraction of the time."

His eyes flicked to Kael, amusement dancing in them. "Scars? Please. Real masters don't need to be hit to win. The only thing scars prove is that you weren't good enough to avoid the blow."

Finally, he looked at Doran, the peak stage, the anchor of the group. Rhyka's tone didn't falter. "Bones by the roadside? That won't be me. That'll be the ones who thought I was just another arrogant kid."

He delivered it all with the perfect blend of haughtiness and ignorance, exactly the kind of response they expected. Exactly the kind of answer that would "confirm" their suspicions that he was nothing more than a talented brat with a swollen ego.

But inside, Rhyka's mind was sharp, cold, and clear. He knew what they were doing. Nero did too.

Standing just behind, Nero's expression didn't shift much, but his gray eyes gleamed faintly, watching the exchange unfold. He caught the concealed barbs, the way the mercenaries were needling. And he caught Rhyka's deliberate performance, the arrogance, the smirk, the biting words designed to look like an overreaction.

It was strange. Very strange.

Because while the mercenaries thought they were in control of the exchange, both Rhyka and Nero knew they were seeing something else.

A game. A provocation. A mask.

And if the mercenaries thought they had trapped a boy, they hadn't realized yet that the boy was playing them back.