Chapter 4 — The Price of Copying

The room was small, dimly lit by a single flickering torch. Splintered wooden swords and practice dummies lined the walls. Sweat soaked Kaelen’s tunic, his muscles screaming with fatigue, but he did not stop. Not once.

Years of training had taught him one harsh truth: perfection required obsession. Survival demanded it. Every opponent he had faced, every technique he had learned, had been copied, honed, and refined—until he could replicate it flawlessly.

He swung his blade again, faster, sharper. The edge of the Aether Morphblade shimmered faintly in the torchlight, its subtle hum echoing in the empty room. Every strike had a purpose. Every movement was calculated.

But the cost had been immense.

Kaelen remembered the countless nights he had spent alone, hands blistered, fingers cracked, sweat and blood dripping to the floor. Nights when his body begged for rest, but his mind refused to stop analyzing, observing, learning. He could not rely on raw talent—he had none. He had nothing but mimicry, and mastery demanded perfection.

Sometimes, he had questioned it. Was it cheating? Was it fair to copy another fighter’s style and surpass them? The whispers in the Colosseum had accused him of dishonor. Yet every strike, every victory, had been earned in the shadows before the crowds ever saw him.

Kaelen knelt, pressing his palm against the cold stone floor, breathing heavily. The agony was both physical and mental. His mind calculated angles, remembered sequences, anticipated counters. Every technique he copied had left its mark, every motion etched into his body like invisible scars.

He stood, adjusting the mask over his face. Another sparring dummy awaited, another fight to replicate. He would not rest. Weakness had been his first teacher, but now discipline and repetition were his only companions.

He thought of the Colosseum audience, their jeers, their disdain. They had no idea. They saw only results, victories, perfection—and called it cheating. But Kaelen knew the truth: the price of mastery was solitude, pain, and relentless pursuit. That price had made him the Mirrorblade, undefeated, feared, and misunderstood.

Outside, the sun began to rise over the city. Kaelen paused for a moment, gazing at the horizon. One day, perhaps, someone would understand. Someone would see beyond the mask and the flawless techniques. Someone like Prince Aric, maybe—someone willing to see the struggle behind the skill.

The torch flickered, and Kaelen resumed his practice. Perfection was a path with no end. And he would walk it alone if he must.