Sweet Sorrow

Ares Petrosyan grinned as Orion stepped into the final clearing.

Light filtered down through the tall canopy above, casting fractured shadows across the mossy floor. His twin blades twirled with casual ease in his hands, catching glints of sunlight as they spun. He bounced lightly on his feet, the grin on his face a mix of confidence and anticipation. He'd been waiting for this.

"So it's just you and me now?" he called out, rolling his shoulders with a cocky shrug. "Took you long enough."

Orion didn't reply.

He walked forward, slow and deliberate, dragging the butt of his spear across the forest floor. Leaves rustled underfoot, and the faint sound of distant birdsong contrasted against the quiet dread that settled in Ares' gut.

Orion's eyes gave nothing away.

Ares chuckled, but it sounded thinner than he intended.

"You've been creeping around all day like some damn ghost," Ares muttered, the edge in his voice trying to mask his unease. He adjusted his grip on the twin blades, forcing a smirk.

"Now what?" he continued, tone sharpening as he squared his stance. "Gonna try your luck in a fair fight?"

He flipped a blade in his hand, adjusting his stance. Front foot light, back heel dug in. The perfect duelist's posture. His body knew the drills. His instincts were sharp.

But something in him whispered to run.

He ignored it.

And then Orion moved.

No warning. No scream. Just a single smooth motion.

He lunged—not with the blade—but with the butt of the spear.

Thunk!

Ares jerked as the wooden end smacked clean into his chin. His teeth clicked together, skull rattled. He stumbled back, blinking. Confused.

Thwack! — another blow, this one to his shoulder.

Smack! — the back of his knee.

Crack! — across his temple.

Ares blinked again. He hadn't even registered the third hit before the fourth landed. No windup. No flourish. Just sharp, efficient motion.

His blades came up too late.

Orion was already inside his range—his steps small, body coiled low, the spear pivoting like a lever around his wrists.

Crack! — ribs. Ares felt the shock ripple through his chest, his breath catching mid-step, eyes wide with disbelief.

Whap! — forearm. The impact sent a sharp jolt down his arm, nearly dislodging his right blade from his grasp.

Tap. — nose. A light, humiliating flick that made his head jerk back and tears sting the corners of his eyes.

Smack! — hip. A jarring strike that twisted his stance, leaving his feet scrambling to find balance on the moss-slick forest floor.

"What the—!" Ares hissed, lashing out with both blades in a defensive arc.

He hit air.

Orion wasn't there.

Another strike kissed the back of his leg, then the small of his back, then his jaw.

He spun wildly—saw nothing but a blur of gray movement—and caught another hit to the sternum.

Each blow rang out.

Sixteen strikes.

Just a long, slow descent into frustration.

"Fight me!" Ares yelled. "Stop playing around!"

Orion's eyes didn't waver. He stepped forward again, patient and silent. Every motion flowed like water—conserving energy, exploiting momentum, drawing clean arcs.

Twenty taps.

Thirty.

Ares was sweating now. His footwork unraveled. His breathing stuttered. He was trying to match Orion's rhythm—but it was like trying to grab smoke with his hands. Even when he anticipated the spear, the strikes came from angles he hadn't trained for. Elbow. Collarbone. Kidney. Instep.

Thunk. Tap. Crack. Thud.

Forty hits.

Ares froze.

Orion stopped too—just long enough for Ares to think it might be over.

Then came the last six.

One—under the chin. A sharp upward thrust that snapped Ares' head back, his teeth clacking together with a sickening crunch.

Two—between the eyes. A precise jab that stopped just short of impact, close enough for him to see his own reflection in the polished metal.

Three—sternum. The blunt end slammed into his chest with bone-jarring force, a hollow thud echoing in his ears as the air was driven from his lungs.

Four—left temple. A flick of the spear's haft, more a warning than a wound, but enough to send a spike of white across his vision.

Five—back of the neck. A downward snap that grazed skin, delivering a chill deeper than pain—like a guillotine that chose not to fall.

Six—dead center of the chest. The spear paused there, not striking but resting—its message unspoken, yet undeniable.

The spear lingered there, pressed lightly against his shirt, as if asking:

"Still breathing?"

Ares' blades dropped to his sides.

His arms trembled.

For the first time in years, he didn't feel pride or anger or stubbornness. He felt... small.

Orion's voice came quietly.

"I could have killed you," he said, not cruelly, but as if stating the weather. "Forty times over if you were my enemy."

He stepped back and turned away, spear swinging effortlessly behind him.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking you are my equal… little kid."

He didn't look back.

He just walked toward the eastern path, his silhouette swallowed gradually by the trees and the golden light behind them. The faint trail of fallen leaves marked his passage.

Ares stayed on his knees, head down. He wasn't feeling proud, or even stubborn—just empty inside. His hands drooped at his sides, fingers twitching like they still wanted to hold the swords. He could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. The moss under him was cool and damp, but somehow, it felt like the only thing that made sense right now.

Orion hadn't even bothered to finish him off—and somehow, that hurt more than the beating itself.

The forest was silent again.

In a quiet chamber reserved for high-ranking officials and honored guests, Aren Zoltan stood alone.

The wide glass walls showed the forest below like a living painting.

Aren hadn't moved for several minutes.

His arms remained clasped behind his back, his stance straight, yet unmoving. No one dared speak to him—not the junior instructors, not the aides who filtered in and out. They sensed something sacred had just passed, and to break it with words would've been unforgivable.

A single drone feed hovered in front of the glass wall, playing the last few seconds again.

Orion's spear struck Ares Petrosyan—once, twice, again. The blunt end tapped, bruised, dismantled.

Aren's eyes followed every movement like a man studying scripture. His face was unreadable—but when Orion made the final strike, his hand twitched. His jaw tightened.

Then, finally, his voice cracked the silence.

"Yonatan…"

He said the name like a ghost's whisper.

A pause. His throat worked, struggling past something tight.

"That boy… is sure something, isn't he?"

Aren recognized the rhythm. The sequence. The unmistakable pattern of the Wraith's Style.

His own eyes turned glassy.

And now here it was—not just the style, but the exact same recklessness, the beauty and chaos—alive again in the hands of a boy.

A boy who carried Yonatan's legacy not in name, but in spirit.

Aren's lip curled upward, just slightly.

He tapped the display. Froze the image on Orion's back as he walked away.

"Even I don't know how far this kid can go," he murmured.

Behind him, a young assistant finally gathered the courage to speak.

"Vice Director… should we announce the final rankings?"

Aren didn't turn.

"Not yet."

The assistant paused. Then gave a silent nod and retreated, leaving Aren alone once more.

He stared at the frozen image. Orion Reyes. Damp hair clinging to his face. Back straight. Spear low. Leaving without ceremony.

And then he said it.

Softly. Almost reverently.

"Sweet sorrow. That boy reminds me of you, old friend."

He stood there for a long while after. Just breathing. Letting the moment sink into his bones. Old memories moved behind his eyes, and with them, something he hadn't felt in years.