Chapter Three -The Puppet Master’s Game

Chapter Three -The Puppet Master’s Game

The morning air hung heavy with mist as Kael ascended the familiar hillside path, the sun just beginning to bleed gold over the distant ridge. Each breath felt sharp, each step more purposeful than the last. His body still ached from yesterday’s bruises, but the fire inside him was burning hotter than ever.

He found Ryzen already waiting in the dojo courtyard—an open field framed by stone pillars and worn-out training posts. Wooden dummies stood in a row, each one marked with faded paint across joints and pressure points.

“Good morning, Master,” Kael called out, brushing hair out of his eyes. “So what now?”

Ryzen didn’t answer immediately. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dummies like a commander assessing a battlefield.

“Elemental warriors,” he said at last, “depend too much on their magic. Take away their stance, their rhythm, and all that power? Useless.”

Kael stepped closer, his breath catching with curiosity. “How do I do that?”

“You strike where it hurts. Wrists, knees, throat. Precise. Disabling. Their magic requires focus and balance—disrupt one, you break the other.”

Kael nodded, adrenaline tightening his muscles. He approached the nearest dummy and began throwing punches, elbows, and kicks. But they were wild, unfocused—each hit echoing with raw effort, not precision.

Ryzen watched silently. Then, “You’re swinging like a brawler from the slums. That might work in a tavern brawl—but not on the battlefield. Precision, Kael. You're not trying to destroy. You're trying to stop.”

Kael paused, breathing hard. He lowered his stance and shifted his weight, eyes narrowing. Slower this time. Deliberate. He drove two fingers into the wrist mark on the dummy—clean, controlled.

Ryzen gave a single nod. “Better.”

He stepped forward and rolled his shoulders.

“Now it’s time to see how well you do when your target hits back.”

Without warning, Ryzen moved. His footwork was fluid, his strikes paired with sudden gusts of wind or flickers of heat. Kael scrambled, dodging the first few attacks, blocking where he could. But Ryzen was relentless. Kael waited, reading patterns—until a window opened.

A sharp pivot. A strike to Ryzen’s ribs.

Ryzen stepped back, winded but smiling. “Hah. That’s more like it. Now…”

He turned away and gestured toward the trees.

“…Let’s take this to the real world.”

________________________________________

The trees loomed tall under a starless sky. Insects buzzed low in the undergrowth, and somewhere far off, a wolf howled.

Kael crouched low, wrapped in the forest’s darkness. His breath came slow, controlled. Every leaf rustle, every twig snap, sounded louder now. Sharper.

Ryzen moved through the trees ahead, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed. His every step was cautious—but Kael was nowhere to be seen.

“Good…” Ryzen muttered under his breath. “But not good enough.”

Stillness answered him. No movement. No sound.

Then—barely a whisper of air.

Ryzen turned—but too late.

A firm grip on his shoulder. Cold steel—wooden, but unmistakably shaped—pressed against his throat.

“Got you,” Kael said, voice low, steady.

Ryzen froze for a heartbeat. Then he chuckled, not with sarcasm, but pride.

“…Now you’re ready.”

The streets of the Academy District were quiet at this hour—too quiet. Lamps flickered in their sconces, casting uneven pools of light along the cobbled path. In the distance, the wind whispered through banners bearing the Academy crest. But down here, below the gleam and prestige, shadows ruled.

A figure moved through them.

The assistant kept his cloak drawn tight, every step calculated, deliberate. The tall iron gates of the Academy Office loomed ahead—an austere building fortified more like a vault than a school. Two sentries flanked the entrance, eyes sharp despite the late hour.

He slowed, exhaling softly.

“Too obvious to walk through,” he muttered. “I’ll have to go around.”

Slipping into the alley, he raised a hand. Faint wisps of arcane light shimmered across his fingertips as he shaped an illusion—simple, believable, just enough.

From the far side of the structure, a loud clang split the silence.

“What was that?” one guard barked.

“Let’s check it out,” the other replied.

They moved quickly, blades drawn, eyes scanning the dark.

The assistant didn’t wait. He bolted from the cover of night, scaling the side of the building with practiced agility. Handholds, ledges, timing—every motion silent. At a high window, he produced a vial from his belt. With steady hands, he tipped it against the glass. The liquid hissed faintly, dissolving the pane without a sound. Moments later, he slipped inside.

The halls of the Academy Office were dim and silent, the air thick with dust and candle smoke. Scrolls and papers lined the walls—each one a thread in the great web of the tournament. Match records, participant files, arcane sigils of fairness and fate.

But fate could be rewritten.

He moved quickly, avoiding the low patrols, until he reached a door marked:

Match Coordinator – Ezra

He placed his palm against the lock, murmuring a short incantation. The metal shivered, then clicked.

Inside, the room was cramped and cluttered. A lone candle flickered atop a desk strewn with parchment. Behind it sat Ezra, an older man with hunched shoulders and weary eyes. He jolted upright as the door swung open.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?!”

The assistant stepped forward, calm as still water. “That’s not important. What is… is Kael’s next match.”

Ezra narrowed his eyes. “The tournament is fair. No one gets special treatment.”

“Then let’s make this easy,” the assistant said, gliding across the room. He reached into his cloak and drew a blade—polished, ceremonial, but unmistakably deadly—and placed it on the desk between them.

“You will change Kael’s opponent. Put him against your strongest fighter.”

Ezra stared at the blade. A flicker of defiance rose behind his eyes, but it melted into fear. He knew what this meant.

“That’s suicide,” he whispered. “The system—”

“You misunderstand.” The assistant leaned forward, voice like ice. “I wasn’t asking.”

Ezra swallowed. His hand trembled as he reached for the scrolls. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. The strongest fighter… he’s not just powerful. He’s a monster.”

A smirk curled at the assistant’s lips. “Then Kael will have fun, won’t he?”

Ezra hesitated a moment longer, then unrolled the tournament logs. His quill hovered briefly before scratching out a name.

“He’s called Veylen.”

________________________________________

Scene Shift: The Arena Grounds – Memory or Omen

The battlefield was silent save for the groans of the defeated.

A towering figure stood in the center, armor cracked but unyielding, his aura rippling with unrestrained force. Scars laced his skin like a history written in blood. One opponent lunged, desperate—but Veylen raised a single hand.

The air bent.

Bones cracked. The fighter collapsed mid-stride, clutching his chest in silent agony.

They called him an experiment. A weapon crafted, not born. Veylen didn’t fight.

He demolished.

Another challenger tried to run. Veylen caught him by the throat and drove him into the ground with a force that split stone.

Ezra’s voice echoed in the silence.

“They say he was forged by the eastern alchemists. No emotion. No mercy. If Kael steps into the ring with him…”

The crack of breaking stone.

“…he won’t be stepping out.”

________________________________________

The assistant reached the door, already half in shadow.

“Perfect,” he murmured, before vanishing into the dark as silently as he had come.

Ezra sat in silence, staring at the blade still on his desk.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he dipped his quill one final time.

Across the parchment, in clean, shaking script, he wrote the name:

VEYLEN

He sealed the scroll.

Outside, night swallowed the truth whole.

The sun hung low in the sky, a molten orb casting long, golden rays across the silent outskirts of the Academy. Shadows stretched between the towering stone structures, ancient and weatherworn. Birds had gone quiet. A breeze whispered through the grass, carrying the faint scent of ash and iron from distant training fields.

Kael followed closely behind Ryzen, their footsteps echoing softly on the worn path. The mentor walked with purpose, eyes forward, silence wrapped around him like a mantle. Kael wasn’t sure where they were going, only that Ryzen’s mood had shifted—heavy, thoughtful.

They stopped.

Before them stood a monument carved of black stone, rising like a sentinel above the clearing. A warrior, immortalized in stone. He gripped a massive sword driven deep into the earth, its hilt worn with time. His carved eyes stared forward, fierce and eternal, carved in a glare of unrelenting defiance.

Kael looked up, his voice quiet in the settling dusk. “Who is he?”

Ryzen crossed his arms, gazing at the statue as though it spoke only to him.

“Rovan the Unyielding,” he said. “A warrior who stood alone against an empire. He was not the strongest. Not the fastest. But he had something most warriors lack—conviction.”

Kael furrowed his brow. “Conviction?”

Ryzen nodded slowly. “He was a soldier in a war he didn’t believe in. His kingdom… it fought for gold, not for justice. They sent him to burn villages, to slaughter innocents under the guise of glory.” He paused, voice lowering. “But Rovan saw the truth. Saw the rot beneath the crown.”

Kael’s gaze returned to the statue. “So he fought his own kingdom?”

“Not fought,” Ryzen corrected. “Ended. He led a rebellion when others bowed. Crushed an army sent to silence him. For one year, he held back the tide alone, fighting not for banners, but for the people left behind.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Kael asked, more softly, “He died, didn’t he?”

Ryzen’s eyes didn’t waver from the stone face. “He did. But not on his knees.”

A gust of wind rolled through the clearing, rustling Kael’s cloak. The fading sunlight lit the contours of the statue in warm firelight, casting Rovan’s shadow far across the grass.

Kael stood still, absorbing it.

“…So why bring me here?” he finally asked.

Ryzen turned then, and his eyes—sharp and steady—found Kael’s. “Because strength alone won’t carry you through what’s coming. You will be outmatched. Overpowered. You’ll face warriors who have trained longer… killed more. But if you have conviction—if you have something worth fighting for—then no one, no matter how strong, can truly break you.”

Kael looked back up at Rovan, the wind tugging at his sleeves.

“I understand,” he said at last, voice steady.

Ryzen studied him for a moment. Then, with a satisfied nod, he turned and walked back toward the academy.

“Good,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s go. You have more to learn.”

Kael lingered a moment longer beneath the unyielding gaze of the stone warrior… then followed.

The sky faded into dusk, and the monument watched over them in silence.

The arena lay hidden beneath the Academy, carved deep into the stone like a scar beneath polished marble. It was not meant for spectators—yet it had them. Silent figures in dark robes, scattered around the torchlit perimeter, murmuring like insects in shadow. Flames licked the damp walls, casting twisted silhouettes across the blood-stained floor.

In the center stood two men.

One was a mountain of iron—Oren the Iron Fist, his arms thick as tree trunks, skin gleaming beneath overlapping plates of armor. His breath came heavy, fogging the cold air. He bounced on his heels, knuckles crackling as he stretched them.

Across from him stood a smaller figure.

Shirtless. Lean. Still.

Veylen.

His form looked carved rather than trained—muscles not bulky, but taut with unnatural tension. His arms hung loose at his sides, fingers unmoving. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted just slightly, as though even breathing required little effort.

Above them, a voice boomed from the upper balconies.

“The challenger, Oren the Iron Fist!

Against the undefeated… the untamed…

VEYLEN!”

The crowd erupted. Cheers, jeers, and laughter rolled through the cavern like thunder. Oren grinned and turned in a slow circle, raising his fists.

“Hope you last longer than the last one,” he said, smirking.

Veylen didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

A pause. Then—

The bell rang.

Oren lunged.

His fist swung like a wrecking ball—meant to crush ribs, end fights in one blow. But just before the impact—

Veylen vanished.

There was no sidestep. No dodge. One moment he was there. The next, he wasn’t.

Oren stumbled forward, thrown off balance. The crowd fell into stunned silence. A flicker of confusion twisted Oren’s brow.

CRACK.

A sound like snapping timber filled the air. Oren screamed.

His right arm dangled, twisted at the elbow. His armor buckled—not shattered, but useless.

Veylen stood behind him now. No dramatic pose. No glowing eyes. Just… present.

A wisp of motion, an afterimage still burned into the air where he’d been.

Oren turned, his breath ragged.

“H-How—?!”

Veylen spoke at last.

His voice was flat, mechanical.

“Too slow.”

Oren tried to lift his other hand. He never got the chance.

Thwip. A blur of motion—faster than a blink.

Veylen struck once, a precise blow just below the ear. Oren’s body seized, spasmed—

Collapsed.

He was unconscious before he hit the dirt. Dead weight. A heap of iron and muscle, stilled like a broken automaton.

The crowd didn’t cheer. Not at first.

There was a silence. A reverent pause. Then one voice whispered it.

“Veylen…”

Another joined. Then more. Until it rolled through the chamber, wave after wave of sound.

“Veylen… Veylen… Veylen…”

He didn’t react.

Didn’t bow. Didn’t smile. Simply turned, stepping over Oren’s crumpled form as though it were a rock in the road.

And walked into the shadows beyond the torchlight.