Chapter 3 — Memories of Weakness

The sun had not yet fully risen over the kingdom when Kaelen found a quiet corner of the city to rest. He leaned against the cold stone wall, pulling his hood slightly forward, the golden glow of his eyes hidden from curious passersby. Yet, even in silence, his mind roamed the past—ten years, countless failures, endless nights of struggle.

He remembered the boy he had once been. Weak. Fragile. Unnoticed. Every opponent he faced seemed insurmountable. Every strike against him landed with brutal precision. Pain had been a constant companion, and despair had often swallowed him whole.

He closed his eyes, and the memories came unbidden.

A young Kaelen, barely fifteen, had stepped into a small, local arena, eager to prove himself. His limbs had trembled, his heart pounding with hope. The first fight ended in humiliation—his legs buckled beneath a skilled opponent’s kick, his sword flung aside like a twig. The crowd had laughed, the trainers had scolded, and the boy had crawled from the arena, bloodied and broken.

But it was not talent that would define him—it was observation.

Kaelen remembered standing in the shadows during other fights, watching every move, every feint, every rhythm. He mimicked footwork in the dirt, practiced sword swings in empty rooms, and studied the way the strongest fighters bent their bodies and controlled their energy. He could not beat them with raw power, so he would become them.

At first, it had felt like cheating. But survival demanded more than morality—it demanded adaptation. Each failure became a lesson. Each opponent, a blueprint. Slowly, painfully, he began to replicate what he saw.

He could copy the swing of a blade, the thrust of a spear, the acrobatic flip of a martial dancer. He could mirror movements perfectly, anticipate attacks, and counter with precision. Over the years, this ability became his most lethal weapon.

Yet, mastery came at a cost. Nights were spent in solitude, muscles screaming, bones aching, fingers bleeding from repeated training. Friends were rare. Laughter even rarer. Only the echo of steel against steel kept him company.

And so, he became a Mirrorblade—a man who could emulate any technique to perfection. But in doing so, he had also built walls around himself. Trust was scarce. Friendship was a luxury he could not afford. And yet… there was a part of him that longed for something more than victories.

Kaelen opened his eyes and looked toward the horizon, where the city’s walls gleamed in morning light. Prince Aric’s enthusiasm, his desire to learn, reminded Kaelen of something he had lost long ago: the joy of fighting for more than survival.

A faint smile tugged at his lips beneath the mask. Perhaps, for the first time in years, he could guide someone without fear or resentment—without the weight of the Colosseum watching.

The world had once seen him as weak, then as a cheater. But now, as he prepared to train the young prince, Kaelen realized that strength was not just in mastering techniques—it was in knowing when to use them, and why.

And for Kaelen Drayce, the path of the Mirrorblade was only beginning.