Moonwell Hill was sacred ground — once the dueling court of Larethian's greatest swordmasters, now closed to all but royal heirs and guild elites.
But lately, someone had been seen training there under moonlight.
No guards. No spectators. No fear.
Just flashes of steel, bursts of displaced wind, and occasionally—
a ripple in time.
The whispers spread.
> "A phantom duelist walks Moonwell Hill."
> "He fights shadows from the past."
> "They say he's not elven-born at all."
But in truth, it was Aelric, cloaked in midnight-black sparring gear, practicing under the crescent moon.
Chrono Severance danced in his grip, slashing through conjured opponents with impossible precision. He would pause, then rewind the last three seconds, correcting his form, rerunning a different variation, optimizing his stance.
Each movement was a masterstroke—a mixture of elven sword forms and the brutal pragmatism of his past life as the Sword Saint.
Until one night, he wasn't alone.
A figure stepped from the shadows—tall, silver-haired, with an arrogant smile and an enchanted rapier sheathed at his side.
> "So you're the phantom," the boy said. "The soul-blessed sword freak."
Aelric's grip tightened. "You are?"
> "First Prince Thalor Larethian. My half-brother."
They circled each other like wolves.
Thalor was the golden child — perfect in courtly manners, magically gifted, and wielding a soul-bonded rapier called Mirrorgale, known for copying and reflecting the fighting styles of opponents after ten strikes.
> "A sword… in the hands of a Second Prince?" Thalor smirked. "You'll shame the lineage."
> "Better to shame it honestly," Aelric replied, "than poison it behind masks."
A duel began, not with declaration, but instinct.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
Thalor's elegance met Aelric's fury — one fought to impress, the other to survive.
Chrono Severance shimmered mid-duel, bending microseconds in Aelric's favor. He landed feints before Thalor could even process them.
On the ninth strike, Thalor's eye widened.
> "You… you're not fighting like a child."
> "Because I'm not."
On the tenth, Mirrorgale should've adapted.
It didn't.
Aelric had already shifted three styles ahead.
Thalor stumbled back, winded, pride shattered.
> "What are you?" the First Prince whispered.
> "Just someone who's died once," Aelric answered, sheathing his blade. "That makes me twice as alive as you."
He walked away, leaving the stunned prince behind.
And from that night on, the whispers changed.
The Phantom Duelist was no rumor.
He was real.
And he was royalty.