From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 43: The Unbroken Line

The crest shimmered to life above the Eastern Terrace. A low hum spread through the air like the bow of a cello dragging over ancient strings. Blue light laced the sky, arcing like veins, branching outward. The signal was clear—one only the old instructors and crest-bearers truly recognised. But everyone felt it. On the Northern Wall, cadets froze mid-drill. In the lower courts, sparring blades slowed. Even Roth, crossing the central yard, stopped mid-step and turned his head toward the light. At the base of the terrace, Elric stood with arms folded. Unmoving. Above, Leon remained still beneath the crest’s glow. Ashveil was sheathed, yet the blade still hummed against his spine like it was answering the call. Steps echoed behind him. Not rushed. Not loud. Measured. Fena returned, this time not alone. Six figures emerged from the stairwell. Older. Each bore a different mark—shoulder sigils denoting elite cadres: the Ivory Circuit, the Hollow Guard, the Winded Chain. They weren’t here to challenge him. They were here to recognize him instead. Fena spoke quietly beside him. "Every generation, one cadet is given the Unbroken Mark. Not for strength. And not even for victory." Leon didn’t speak. He waited. Fena turned toward the others. "But for endurance. For bending without breaking. For reshaping the blade without shattering." The tallest among the six stepped forward and extended a palm toward Leon’s chest. "You carry more than a sword now." He touched Leon’s shoulder lightly. For a moment, nothing changed. Then the crest above them flared—twice. The final recognition. "Leon Thorne," the man said, his voice steady and without hesitation, "is the Unbroken of this age." The moment passed as quickly as it came. The crest dimmed. The six bowed. Then left, their purpose fulfilled. Fena remained. "You’ll be tested even much harder now. Not in the open. Not with duels. But in shadows. In silence, where no one else can see but you." Leon’s voice was quiet. "i’ll be ready." Fena nodded once. "Then come with me." They walked side by side down the terrace steps. And as they crossed the yard, every cadet they passed stood aside. None bowed. But none blocked his path. The rhythm of the academy shifted again. And Leon didn’t just walk through it. He had set it.

—

By nightfall, the Eastern Crest had vanished from the sky. But the echoes remained.

Instructors reviewed schedules in silence. Patrol routes shifted. Gate guards were doubled.

Some said it was tradition.

Others whispered the last Unbroken hadn’t lived to wear the title past winter.

Leon didn’t sleep that night.

Ashveil rested against the wall beside his bedroll. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t polish it. Just listened. Listened to the way the academy creaked in the dark like old bones shifting in their sleep.

Sometime near midnight, someone knocked once.

Only once.

He rose immediately.

Opened the door.

No one stood outside.

Just a token—small, obsidian, shaped like a broken eye.

He’d seen it only once before.

On a corpse brought back from the upper ridge.

He closed the door and strapped on Ashveil.

—

They came for him before dawn.

Not instructors.

Not peers.

Three cloaked figures stood at the edge of the courtyard, expressionless. One carried a scroll. Another, a sealed box.

The third simply pointed.

Toward the outer ring.

No words were exchanged.

Leon simply followed.

The path led beyond the barracks, beyond the marked rings and weapon racks. Past the walls where the old banners had rotted into moss and colourless thread. Where only the old blood duels used to be fought—long before the academy had rules for such things.

There, beneath a leafless tree older than the Crest itself, the cloaked one with the scroll finally spoke.

"This is not a trial," she said. "But a memory."

The box was opened.

Inside: a blade.

Thin. Barbed. With a handle that looked worn by time and bone.

Fena’s voice cut the silence from the shadows, unseen. "It’s called the Thornblade. Forged from the remains of the academy’s first traitor."

Leon didn’t move.

"You will face it," the scroll-bearer said, "because your name bears its echo. Because your house once stood beside that traitor."

Leon took the blade.

The metal bit his palm like it was thirsty.

The third figure stepped forward.

Unarmed.

But his crest shimmered with white flame.

He didn’t speak.

Just raised his hands into stance.

No signal was given.

The fight began.

—

It wasn’t a duel.

It was punishment.

Every blow Leon landed, the Thornblade pushed back. Every opening he found, the man closed with ruthless, inhuman speed.

But Leon didn’t stop.

Blood welled under his gloves. His knees buckled once. Twice.

He stood again.

When he finally caught the man’s ribs with a turn-cut, the blade hissed, and the air around them shimmered.

A mark burned itself across Leon’s shoulder.

The crest-bearer stopped.

And bowed.

Low.

The others vanished.

Only the Thornblade remained, red now, as if awakening.

Leon looked down at his arms, shaking.

Not from fear.

From control.

From the thrill.

He looked up to the dark sky.

And whispered to no one.

"I won’t carry their shame."

The wind answered in silence.

And somewhere, high in the Hall of Names, the Thorne of Old stirred in its stone.

—

He didn’t return to his quarters.

Instead, he decided to climb.

Past the Watcher’s Stair, past the Courtyard of Echoes, up to the bell tower that no cadet was allowed to enter without crest authority.

The doors were locked.

He kicked them open.

Ashveil hung at his back, Thornblade sheathed in hand like a whisper that wouldn’t leave his fingers. He laid both weapons on the highest stone slab beneath the open arch.

The wind was sharper here. Real. Cutting.

He needed it to stay awake.

Below, the academy looked still. But he knew better now. Nothing was still. Nothing was ever silent. The silence only meant something worse was lurking in the dark, waiting to begin.

Footsteps behind him.

He turned.

Elric.

The old instructor didn’t ask how Leon had broken the locks. Didn’t flinch when he saw the Thornblade either.

Only said: "What did it whisper to you?"

Leon met his eyes. "That I don’t belong here."

Elric nodded once. "Neither did the last one who stood here."

A pause.

Then: "He changed the world before it broke him."

Leon didn’t blink. "Then I’ll have to change it before it tries."

Elric stepped forward and ran a hand along the hilt of Ashveil.

"You’ve carried blades. Forged one. Bled another into existence. But it’s not the steel that makes a swordsman unbreakable, Leon."

He placed a sealed letter on the slab between the blades.

"It’s the man inside."

Then he turned and left, boots echoing like tolling bells down the tower steps.

Leon opened the letter.

Inside, a single line:

She’s here. They’ve brought her inside the walls.

The ink was still wet.

He didn’t finish reading.

He bolted from the tower, blades in hand.

—

The sun had not yet risen.

But light poured from the eastern gates as if the dawn had arrived early—pale, silvery light that pulsed unnaturally across the court.

His mind racing.

His elder sister that had gone missing in the academy.

In his previous life, the family had done everything to find her but all efforts failed.

And that was just the beginning of the family’s downfall.

Leon crossed the lower yard in five strides, then leapt the wall, the wind tearing at his cloak.

The gates were already open.

Too open.

As if waiting for him.

He passed no guards.

He passed no sounds.

Just the whisper of footsteps ahead—delicate. Familiar.

Then he saw her.

Standing in the middle of the moonlit courtyard with a hood pulled low, sword across her back, and the old sigil of House Thorne stitched crudely into her sleeve.

His sister.

Alive.

Older than he remembered.

And bearing a mark that should not exist anymore.

His voice barely escaped. "Marien?"

She looked up.

And smiled.

"You came back too late, little brother."

The air around her rippled.

And her crest flared black.