Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 65: Twin Stars of Selene

Orion leaned back on the couch, mug of tea in hand, a lazy scroll through combat rankings hovering in front of him on a translucent holo-tab. The ship was quiet. Varun was off somewhere judging people for existing, and Orion was in no mood to train.

He sipped his tea and blinked at the screen as the rankings updated.

[SECOND TRIAL RANKINGS | FINAL ROUND ]

#1: REN REYES

#2: ARGON ASCANIA

Nice. His little sister was the apex again. Made sense. She was sharp, smarter than most kids her age, and obsessed with training.

He went to swipe to the match footage but paused when he saw the headline floating just beneath the rankings.

[TWIN STARS OF SELENE | THE RISE OF THE REYES SIBLINGS]

PFFFFT

Tea went everywhere.

He coughed, trying not to choke, and set the mug down way too hard. Liquid sloshed over the edge of the table, some even splattering onto the floor.

"What kind of name is that?" he muttered, wiping his mouth. "Twin Stars? Really?"

He pointed across the room. "Deploy a cleaning bot."

A spherical bot hummed to life from its dock near the wall, spinning up. It beeped twice and zipped toward the mess.

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Orion peeled off his now-soaked shirt, tossed it into the laundry chute, and grabbed a clean one from the wall rack.

Still shaking his head, he returned to the screen and tapped the replay on Ren's most recent match.

It was still kind of crazy to him—how often people still fought with swords.

You'd think that by now, with all the advances in mecha warfare, kinetic rifles, drone tech, and neural-linked ballistics, close combat would've died out completely. But it hadn't. Not even close.

The logic was simple, really.

When humanity made long-range weapons smarter, deadlier, and faster, they also made armor to match. New alloys, shielded body-suits, reactive defensive plating—every time a rifle round evolved, the battlefield evolved with it.

So, when the armor caught up with the guns, the game shifted again.

That's where close-quarter combat came in.

The battlefield stopped being about overwhelming fire from a distance and became more about adaptability and precise execution. If a soldier survived the first barrage, if the shielding held, if the terrain was tight enough or the interference too dense, the fight almost always devolved into short-range engagements.

And when that happened, skill mattered. Reaction time mattered. And nothing beat the reliability of a weapon in your hand—especially one tuned to your nervous system via a NEX-compatible suit.

The NEX suits didn't just mimic movement by syncing with your nervous system, that was too dangerous. It only synced your movement to your peripheral nervous system. Limbs, reflexes, core engagement—all of it enhanced and buffered to minimize the strain on your brain and spine. So even rookies could move like seasoned duelists after a few months in simulation. And because it was all nerve-assisted, the suits favored weapons that didn't require complex inputs.

That's why the trial used standardized swords, spears, rapiers—old-school weapons. They were safer for training, forced fighters to learn movement, control, rhythm. And in real battle, they were still lethal.

He tapped the screen again, watching Ren step into the arena, short sword in hand.

Orion grinned.

"Let's see how she handled Dominion's golden boy."

Ren Reyes stepped forward, blade at her side, every movement fluid and precise. Her long platinum hair was tied back, her posture deceptively relaxed. But beneath the calm was focus—razor-sharp, honed from years of relentless discipline. Her weapon of choice, a medium-length sword optimized for speed and control.

Across from her stood Argon Ascania—taller, broader, and every bit the image of a future Dominion warleader. His grip on the heavier bastard sword was loose, confident. Muscles coiled under his sleeveless suit, his body built for collision. His stance was wide and grounded.

Ren moved first. A low lunge, slicing the distance in an instant. Her sword arced up, fast and elegant—an opening strike meant more to test reaction than land a hit. Argon caught it with a hard parry with a counter slash.

Ren didn't retreat.

She slid inside the swing, twisting her hips to redirect his force while her foot swept his leading leg. He staggered back half a step, not enough to fall but enough to reset.

Ren didn't hesitate to press in.

She spun into a rising slash, then feinted at his shoulder only to roll beneath his guard and slice at his hip. He caught her blade just in time, steel-on-steel reverberating through the arena.

Argon fought like a fortress. Every strike he threw could end a match. Ren fought with tight footwork, balanced strikes, each movement building on the last, fluid and unpredictable.

She baited him again. He took it. A high overhead swing meant to cleave through any lesser fighter.

She stepped into it.

Her left foot angled, shoulder dipped, and in a blink, her blade was up, deflecting his with a curved motion that sent his momentum sliding off target. Her elbow slammed into his ribs the moment his balance shifted. Then came the flat of her blade, smacking against the back of his exposed thigh.

Argon reset. His jaw tightened, but he didn't rush. He adjusted, just slightly—stance narrower, weight forward. This time, when Ren advanced, he didn't swing. He locked into a tight guard.

Smart. But she was smarter.

She changed pace. Instead of pressure, she circled. Small arcs, subtle shifts in angle. Testing. Studying. Argon turned with her, pivoting with practiced patience. But the moment he blinked—she moved.

A blur.

She struck low, blade slicing just short of his shin. When he dropped his guard to intercept, she jumped—not away, but up. One knee landed on his thigh, propelling her higher, and from midair she twisted and brought her sword down toward his shoulder.

He blocked it—barely. The impact forced him down to one knee. He growled, throwing her off with a shove, but her momentum had already carried her past him.

Argon was struggling. Not from lack of strength—but from how little of the fight he controlled.

He came hard after that. Power surged with each step. His blade carved the air, each swing forcing Ren to give ground.

But she never looked cornered.

She moved around him like water flowing past a rock. Her parries didn't stop his blows—they redirected them. Her side-steps were timed with the crests of his swings. Each attack he made cost him more stamina, while she danced just out of reach.

But even Ren couldn't avoid everything.

One feint caught her.

Argon dipped his blade, shifted his shoulder as if going for another wide slash—then abruptly stepped in and drove his knee toward her midsection.

It connected.

She folded around it, breath escaping in a sharp exhale, and he swung to follow up.

She ducked under it, rolled sideways, and recovered instantly. The pain didn't even show. Her eyes narrowed, and her stance sharpened.

Now it was her turn.

She blitzed.

Strike after strike came with machine-like precision—no wasted movement. Each swing came from a different angle, her footwork blurring in rapid succession. Argon blocked two, three, four—

On the fifth, he missed.

Her blade touched his chest.

Ren lowered her sword and gave a crisp, respectful bow. Argon stood still, panting, staring at her like he couldn't quite believe what just happened.