Chapter - Training field

The air outside was crisp and charged, the scent of grass and steel mingling under the overcast sky. The training field behind the Dacre estate stretched wide, its sandy ground marked by years of combat. Scattered training dummies and weapon racks lined the perimeter, and the faint hum of enchantments woven into the field's very foundation lingered in the air, remnants of old battles fought here.

Cevar rolled his shoulders, exhaling as he cracked his knuckles. "Alright, Varian. Time to see if those legendary Einherjar skills are still in you, or if you're just a relic from an old era."

Varian stepped onto the field, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. His movements were precise, guided by instinct rather than thought, as though his body remembered something his mind had long forgotten.

Cevar smirked and unsheathed his sword, the steel glinting faintly under the dim light. "Let's not waste time. I'll be using Albion Style—you know, something proper." He twirled the blade once before pointing it toward Varian. "And you? You got some fancy Einherjar technique, or are you just going to flail around?"

Varian flexed his fingers, and in response, inky black tendrils slithered out of his shadow, curling and twisting like living entities. "I don't remember the name of my style," he admitted. "But my body does."

Cevar arched an eyebrow. "Creepy." Then, with a flash of movement, he lunged.

Their blades clashed—steel against black. Cevar moved with the precision of a seasoned duelist, his footwork impeccable, his strikes sharp and relentless. Varian, on the other hand, fought like something not entirely human. His shadow tendrils lashed out unpredictably, striking from angles impossible for a normal swordsman.

Cevar ducked under a whip-like shadow and retaliated with a sweeping arc of his blade. Varian twisted unnaturally, evading the strike as if his body were unshackled from the usual constraints of flesh and bone.

"You're quick," Cevar admitted, narrowly dodging a tendril aimed at his ribs. "But how's your endurance?"

As if responding to the challenge, the ground beneath them shuddered. A deep, eerie stillness settled over the field, and then—black water erupted from the earth, pooling around their feet. The liquid was dark as ink, thick with an unnatural energy, and it spread outward in an unsettling ripple.

Cevar jumped back, his breath hitching. "All right, that's new." His gaze darted to Varian, who was staring at the expanding pool. Varian seemed entranced and reached out his hand, touching the black water, reaching inside of it, his arm going deeper than it should have he seemed to grab onto something in the black water he was pulling and pulling hard, almost about to fall in it seemed, until half a second later, a greatsword black and intricate black and blue runic designs throughout the blade. Cevar, looking dumbfounded, eventually spoke up. "What the hell is that" 

 But before Varian could respond, a piercing scream echoed across the field. Cevar snapped his head toward the source of the sound—a voice, filled with terror, coming from the forest beyond the estate. His expression darkened. "No way…"

Varian was already moving, sword in tow sprinting toward the tree line. Cevar cursed under his breath before following.

They burst into the garden, weaving between bushes, trees, and, dense underbrush. The air grew colder, and heavier, as an unnatural presence seeped into the surroundings.

And then they saw them.

The creatures from the Black Dimension.

Twisted, shifting figures that looked like shadows given form, their bodies flickering between solid and void. They were hunting humans.

One of them turned its faceless head toward Varian, and then—it spoke.

"How come you free?" The voice was a rasp, layered, as though many beings spoke in unison. "Not bound… not chained to the Black Dimension?"

Varian stopped dead in his tracks, his fists clenching.

Cevar swallowed hard, his grip on his sword tightening. "You things can speak now?"