Martial Demons Ascension

"Well then, Cerys, or apprentice, discipline, whatever title you'd prefer," Rhyka drawled, smirk curling at the edge of his lips, "if you're up for some learning, I wouldn't mind."

His golden eyes narrowed faintly as he extended his hand, palm up. His movements were deliberate, sharp but strangely graceful. It wasn't the awkward hand of a boy being mocked. It was the hand of someone who knew exactly how much confidence the gesture would radiate.

Cerys didn't hesitate. She let out a short, derisive snort, the kind meant to be heard, and clapped her palm into his with deliberate pressure. Her grip was strong, honed from years with the spear, calloused skin rough against his.

And then she paused.

Her brows twitched slightly as her eyes flicked down to his hand.

Soft.

Not just soft. Unnaturally soft. Her own skin bore the inevitable ridges of hardened training, scars hidden beneath the roughness of her palms. But his hand… it didn't match his words, his arrogance, or even his aura. The skin was smooth, supple, almost delicate, as though he'd never gripped a weapon in his life.

And then, in the lantern light, she saw it.

The faint glow.

His skin wasn't just clean, it was luminous, catching the golden edges of the flame in a way no ordinary flesh should. It was the same glow she had thought was a trick of the eyes earlier, when the mask and the shadows had hidden most of him. But now, with their hands pressed together, it was undeniable.

The corners of her mouth twitched as laughter bubbled up. She tightened her grip and let out the jab.

"Well, well," she said, loud enough for the others to hear, "what soft hands you've got there. Like you've never worked a day in your life." She tilted her head, eyes dancing with mockery. "And this skin… smooth, glowing even. You're not wearing makeup, are you? Because if not, you must keep up with your skincare routine religiously."

The snort of laughter she'd been holding finally slipped out, sharp and cutting. "From this alone, I'd assume you've lived the life of a pampered noble lady with too much free time. But," she jerked her chin toward the group, "we've been needing more feminine presence around here anyway. You'll be a great addition."

The other mercenaries didn't hesitate.

Selvara let out a quiet laugh behind her hand, shoulders shaking faintly despite her composed demeanor. Kael chuckled outright, his smirk sharper than before, tapping the hilt of one of his knives like a metronome to her words. Even Doran, the peak-stage giant, let out a low grunt of amusement, his broad chest rumbling like shifting stone.

The group laughed together, unified in their silent joke.

But Rhyka didn't flinch.

He didn't snarl, didn't protest, didn't snap like they likely expected. He leaned into it. His lips curled into an easy smirk, and when he spoke, his voice was calm, cool, and cutting.

"I mean," he said casually, "by comparison to all of you, I do seem rather lady-like."

The laughter cut abruptly. His words hung in the air, carried on the cold wind, and for a moment there was a flicker of silence.

"And as for the lack of feminine energy here…" Rhyka's golden eyes flicked slowly across the group, deliberately ignoring the fact that each of them, in their own way, bore the marks of hardened attractiveness that came from surviving combat. His smirk deepened, merciless. "I can't say I'm greatly surprised."

The words dropped like a stone.

Cerys's grin stiffened, a muscle twitching at her jaw. Selvara's brow arched, faintly amused but no longer laughing. Kael's smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second, though he covered it with another lazy tap of his knife hilt. Doran simply stared, his steady eyes narrowing the smallest amount.

It wasn't a joke anymore.

The cold silence pressed down on the group, thick with unspoken tension.

And then Rhyka broke it, still smirking, his tone turning deceptively instructional.

"Of course, all of this," he gestured faintly to his own glowing skin, his smooth hands, his unscarred face, "isn't the result of leisure or pampering. It's the result of living like a warrior. A true one."

His words carried an undertone they couldn't place. He didn't say martial essence, but the conviction behind his voice was absolute.

"If you want skin like mine," he added coolly, "become a great fighter first. Train until your body itself ascends beyond the ordinary. Until it refines itself."

The mercenaries glanced at each other, their expressions caught somewhere between confusion and irritation. They didn't understand what he was implying. To them, great fighters carried scars, callouses, wounds that mapped their survival. His claim sounded like the wild arrogance of someone who had never bled.

But there was something in his eyes.

Something golden, steady, and untouchable.

The accommodations were simple: a long, wide room sectioned with thin partitions, meant for men to share space together. The air was faintly smoky from old lantern oil, and the floor smelled of pine and earth where hay had been used to fill gaps against the cold.

Rhyka and Nero were given a corner alongside the other male fighters. They hadn't complained; mercenaries didn't travel with luxury unless they paid for it themselves. Both had brought their own sleeping rolls; Nero's was elegant but compact, lined with fine silk stitching, while Rhyka's was plain and worn, but sturdy enough to last a campaign.

As the others joked lightly and settled in, Rhyka did what he always did. He lay down, controlled his breath, and slipped into unconsciousness almost instantly. The discipline of Martial Essence allowed him to quiet his mind and body on command. Sleep took him like the snuffing of a candle.

It startled Nero.

The noble lay on his own roll, hands folded behind his head, gray eyes watching the boy beside him. The caravan was still alive with faint noises, boots being shuffled, laughter leaking through walls, the distant clop of tethered beasts outside. And yet, Rhyka was already breathing slow and even, body still, golden eyes closed.

Nero had trained with soldiers, traveled with retainers, lived among people hardened by discipline. But even then, he hadn't seen someone fall asleep like that, absolute command over their own state. For all Rhyka's arrogance, it was proof again that there was something real beneath it.

Hours later, Rhyka's eyes snapped open.

It wasn't noise that woke him. It was the absence of it. His heightened senses, sharpened by months of Martial Essence tempering, could detect things most wouldn't even notice. And now, something was missing.

The subtle, steady rhythm of several heartbeats that had been in the room earlier… were gone and had been for a while.

His eyes gleamed faintly gold in the dark, Martial Vision stirring as he sat up silently. Lines spread across his sight like a glowing web, threads of motion, intent, and presence filling the world around him.

And what he saw made his face heat despite himself.

A cluster of figures not far outside the room, their motions tangled, rhythm broken and mismatched. Obscene movements that needed no explanation. His heightened perception didn't stop at shapes; he could see every twitch of muscle, every misplaced angle, every awkward shift of balance. To make it worse, his Martial Vision broke down those movements like it did in battle, highlighting flaws, inefficiencies, and "openings." It was instinctive. Analytical. Merciless.

And then the sounds followed. Faint at first, but with his senses sharpened to near-painful acuity, he couldn't miss them. Low breaths. Soft gasps. The occasional muffled moan.

His face burned red.

The realization struck harder than a punch. None of the men besides Nero were in the room. Which meant...

He shut his eyes quickly, dismissing the golden web of Martial Vision with force. It was worse knowing he could see. That he could measure even this through lines of essence.

His breath caught in his throat. He turned his face away, forcing his body back down into his roll.

For once, the arrogant smirk was gone. Instead, his jaw clenched as heat lingered across his cheeks.

Just sleep, he ordered himself, burying deeper into the roll. Forget it. Sleep.

It took effort, more than he liked to admit, but eventually, the rhythm of his breath steadied again. The blush faded. The golden glow dimmed.

And Rhyka drifted back into restless dreams, pretending he hadn't seen anything at all.