A Blade That Never Fell

"You..." Tommy was so angry that he almost vomited blood. If the old man beside him hadn’t stopped him, he would have raised his saber and killed Harry.

His chest rose and fell sharply, each breath heavier than the last.

The humiliation burned.

It wasn’t just anger—it was insult carved straight into his pride.

Who dared to speak to him like this?

Who dared?

Other than his father...

Other than the crown prince...

No one.

Absolutely no one.

Yet here—

In this forsaken stretch of land beneath a burning sky—

A nobody had mocked him openly.

And worse—

He couldn’t immediately cut him down.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his saber, knuckles whitening, veins faintly bulging under the strain. The urge to strike was overwhelming—raw, instinctive.

But—

The hand on his wrist didn’t move.

Steady.

Firm.

Unyielding.

"Nephew, don’t be angry!" the gray-robed elder said, his tone calm but carrying quiet authority. "We’re here on behalf of the Blue Empire. It’s not appropriate to have a conflict with a household from the Drake Empire."

His words were measured.

Careful.

But his eyes—

Never once left the figure in the sky.

Leon.

Floating there without a ripple of movement.

Still.

Silent.

Yet somehow—

He dominated everything.

The elder’s gaze deepened.

There was something wrong.

No...

Not wrong.

Dangerous.

A chill crawled up his spine—subtle, but undeniable.

He had lived long enough, seen enough battles, stood before countless experts. As a sage Realm powerhouse, very few things could shake him anymore.

But this—

This quiet pressure...

This invisible weight pressing against his senses...

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t aggressive.

Yet it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff—

One step forward, and you fall into death.

The elder’s fingers twitched slightly inside his sleeve.

This person...

He’s stronger than me.

The realization hit quietly.

And it hit hard.

He swallowed it down, keeping his expression steady, but inside—

Shock rippled.

How many monsters does the Drake Empire hide?

Is every young master followed by someone like this...?

That thought alone made his chest tighten.

Beside him—

Tommy forced himself to breathe.

Slowly.

Painfully.

He dragged his rage back down, burying it under layers of forced control.

His eyes locked onto Harry.

Cold.

Sharp.

Filled with a promise that hadn’t yet been fulfilled.

"Very good..." he said, his voice low, almost hoarse from restraint. "I’ll remember you."

A pause.

His gaze sharpened further.

"Tell me your name—if you have the guts."

The air grew heavy again.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even blink.

"Tsk... a coward," he said, clicking his tongue with open disdain.

Then he straightened slightly, crossing his arms.

"Listen carefully."

His grin returned.

"My name is Harry Taylor."

Simple.

Direct.

Without fear.

The moment the words landed—

Something snapped.

Tommy’s restraint shattered like thin glass.

"I don’t care about you!" he roared, his voice echoing across the desert. "You’re dead today!"

The saber left its sheath in a flash—

A sharp metallic ring slicing through the silence.

Mana surged violently from his body, erupting outward like a storm breaking free.

An eighth-star Astral Realm aura exploded into the surroundings.

Sand lifted.

Wind spiraled.

The younger fighters staggered back instinctively, their faces paling as the pressure crashed down.

Tommy moved.

Fast.

His blade arced through the air—

A killing strike.

Direct.

Unhesitating.

But—

Before it could fall—

Something changed.

The world... shifted.

No.

It didn’t shift.

It stopped.

A presence descended.

Silent.

Absolute.

Unavoidable.

A sword intent—

Cold.

Sharp.

Endless.

Locked onto him.

Tommy froze.

Mid-motion.

His body refused to move.

His mind—blank.

Then—

In that single heartbeat—

He saw it.

His death.

Not imagined.

Not guessed.

Seen.

Clear.

Vivid.

Unavoidable.

The blade never reached its target.

Instead—

His vision filled with darkness.

Blood.

Silence.

His own body collapsing into the sand.

Gone.

Erased.

Like he had never existed.

A suffocating chill wrapped around his soul.

His grip loosened.

The saber trembled violently in his hand.

Sweat burst from his pores instantly, soaking his robes.

His face turned pale—almost gray.

And then—

Reality snapped back.

The desert returned.

The heat returned.

The sound returned.

But Tommy—

He was no longer the same.

His hand shook uncontrollably.

His breathing became uneven.

And his eyes—

They slowly lifted.

Toward the sky.

Toward that figure.

Leon stood there.

Unmoving.

Calm.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just—

Decided life and death in a single thought.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

But to Tommy—

He looked like a sword.

A sword that pierced straight through fear itself.

At this moment—

Everything became clear.

This... is why that man dared to speak like that.

Because this person stands behind him.

"Peak of the sage Realm..." the elder whispered, unable to hide his shock this time.

His voice was low—

But it carried weight.

Tommy heard it.

And his last trace of arrogance shattered.

"Peak of the sage Realm... how is this possible..." he muttered, his lips trembling slightly.

In the wasteland—

In this chaotic battlefield—

To casually encounter someone at that level?

It felt absurd.

Unreal.

Impossible.

His confidence—

The foundation he stood on—

Came from the man beside him.

From his Uncle.

From the strength that had always protected him.

But now—

Even that pillar showed fear.

Even that steady presence... had shaken.

And that meant—

One thing.

This person—

Was someone they could not afford to offend.

A bitter realization settled into his chest.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Father... was right.

The Drake Empire... is not a place to act freely.

Slowly—

Tommy lowered his saber.

Not willingly.

But because he had no choice.

His voice came out quieter now.

Tight.

Restrained.

"Uncle... what should we do now?"

He knew he had crossed a line.

He knew the atmosphere had shifted.

The killing intent earlier—

That had not been an illusion.

They had stepped too far.

His uncle didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on Leon.

Long.

Careful.

Measured.

Then—

He exhaled softly.

A decision made.

He stepped forward slightly.

Lowering his posture—just a fraction.

But enough.

"I am the Prince of the Blue Empire," he said, his tone respectful, controlled. "May I know your name... and which immortal mountain you cultivate on?"

His voice carried sincerity.

And restraint.

The kind born from understanding danger.

The desert fell silent.

The wind passed.

The flames crackled faintly in the distance.

But—

No answer came.

Leon didn’t move.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t respond.

It was as if—

He hadn’t heard anything at all.

Time stretched.

The silence grew heavier.

His brows furrowed slightly.

A flicker of dissatisfaction passed through his eyes.

So this is how the experts of the Drake Empire behave?

Ignoring others like this...

Still—

He didn’t speak again.

Because deep down—

He understood.

He simply didn’t have the right to demand anything.

The atmosphere stiffened.

Locked.

Like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

And then—

A sound broke it.

From afar.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

The creaking of wheels.

Everyone turned instinctively.

Through the sea of flames—

A carriage slowly emerged.

Its form outlined by firelight, its structure elegant, unmistakably refined.

"Eh... it’s the royal carriage of the Drake Empire..." Harry said, his eyes narrowing slightly in recognition.

A trace of surprise flickered across his face.

He had seen it before.

More than once.

This wasn’t something ordinary people could ride.

Only the royal family had that privilege.

A memory surfaced in his mind.

Back then—

Rias had ridden in a carriage just like this.

That same symbol.

That same presence.

And because of it—

She had crossed dangerous lands without harm.

Now—

That same carriage appeared again.

Rolling slowly through fire.

Approaching.

Silent.

Unstoppable.