Baran The Rise Of Azrael

Chapter 5 – The Blade and the Flame

Time passed. By the third week, Baran's body had visibly changed. His shoulders had broadened, and his posture had become more balanced. His pale skin remained, but the strength beneath it could no longer be hidden. His mana reservoir had expanded. During meditation, the natural energy flowing into him now surged through his veins like a river.

---

But with strength came solitude.

Commander Virion kept Baran separate from the others. He didn't eat with them. He didn't join group drills. He was apart. He belonged only to himself.

And with that solitude came whispers.

> "He's the commander's illegitimate son." "He's not a slave, he's a hidden noble." "Virion is training his successor..."

Baran heard them. But he didn't care.

Because he knew, too. He was developing fast. Too fast.

It could demoralize the other trainees.

More importantly... Baran had no mercy. A threat, a mockery—without control, it would mean death.

Virion knew this. That's why he kept Baran at a distance. His growth was like a blade. It needed to stay sheathed... until the right moment.

And that moment was drawing near.

Baran wanted to fight. His first real duel. His first battle. His first victim.

---

By the end of the seventh week, his muscles, his mind, and his spirit had all begun to align with the nature of a warrior.

That day, he was summoned again. Virion's office. And such a summons only meant one thing:

> A new trial. A new phase.

Virion sat at his desk, hands clasped, eyes not tired but full of pride—the pride of a man watching a weapon come to life.

> "Baran. You've completed your tasks. You're ready for a new spell."

Baran's eyes lit up. For the first time... he felt joy like a child. There was still something left inside him. A human fragment. Hope, maybe. Joy, perhaps. He wasn't completely gone.

Virion continued:

> "Fire Arrows. Not as destructive as Krell Thar... but far more accurate. Since it focuses on a single point, the heat is more intense."

Then he finished:

> "This will be your third assignment."

Baran nodded.

> "What do I have to do?"

Virion stood, retrieving a bow. Long, flexible, simple. He handed it to Baran.

> "You will train with a physical bow as well. To guide the magical arrow with imagination... your muscle memory must follow."

---

Baran began training immediately. Every time he closed his eyes... He saw his mother. A wind mage. Beautiful, graceful, but when she aimed... deathly silent. And she used a bow.

As a child, he had watched her training in secret. His admiration for her had fused with archery. Accuracy came naturally. Her ghost walked beside him with every shot.

---

But a doubt circled his mind.

His first spell, Fireball... He hadn't controlled it. Krell Thar had erupted from him on its own.

> "What if it happens again?" "What if this one spills out too... and I'm just a spectator?"

But this time, it was different. He wasn't afraid anymore.

---

One night, away from the training grounds, Baran closed his eyes. For the first time, he didn't speak an incantation. He focused inward. He imagined the fire. The tension. The bow. And the arrow.

A whisper rose within:

> A flaming arrow...

Suddenly, sparks danced before his eyes. Flaming arrows shimmered between crimson and gold, forming in the air. And with a single motion... They all surged toward a target.

When Baran opened his eyes, he exhaled.

> "I can control it. Regular spells... my mind leads now."

For the first time, he felt an edge. Not just possessing power—but shaping it.

---

The next morning, he knocked on Virion's door, eager to report his success and move forward.

But this time... There was no spark in the commander's eyes.

> "Good," he said simply. "But the next step is not magic, Baran."

Baran frowned.

> "No new spell?"

Virion shook his head.

> "No. The next phase is weapon training."

Baran was silent. He didn't know what to say.

> "Do you have anything in mind?" Virion asked.

---

Baran hesitated. He knew nothing about weapons.

His father turned his fists into fireballs. His mother danced with wind and arrows. But neither felt like his own.

Neither his father's flame nor his mother's breeze...

Baran looked at his hands. At the scars on his palms and knuckles. Each mark was a decision.

> "My revenge... will be carved by these hands."

He raised his head.

> "Daggers."

Virion smiled faintly. He had already known. This boy was destined to do everything with his own hands.

He turned, opened a chest, and pulled out two custom-made daggers. Curved, forged from obsidian-black metal, with crimson gems embedded in the hilts.

Beautiful. Deadly. Just like Baran.

> "These are your weapons. But you must learn to use them."

---

Baran was about to thank him when Virion turned to the door.

> "And here is your instructor."

The door opened.

A woman entered—elegant, sharp-eyed, deadly. Her steps were silent, her presence lethal.

Katlein.

When Baran looked at her, he felt conflicted. Her face seemed sculpted by gods. But her presence carried menace. Her eyes were sharper than any dagger.

Virion introduced her:

> "An old friend. But with daggers... she becomes a demon."

Katlein studied Baran.

Without a word, she stepped forward and in a blink—

Held a dagger to his throat.

> "This is your first lesson," she said coldly. "Daggers are not used with thought... but with feeling." "If you're late by a second... you're dead."

Baran narrowed his eyes. He wasn't afraid.

But he felt it: This training would be the hardest yet.

---

As the sun set and bathed the training grounds in crimson, Katlein unsheathed her daggers. She pulled Baran aside and signaled with a glance:

> "Just watch."

Baran sat quietly. His eyes locked on her.

Then it began...

A dance. A storm.

Katlein wielded her daggers like shadows. Her steps seemed slow, but her attacks were impossible to follow.

Every strike targeted a weakness. Every spin flowed into another.

A steel railing became her imagined enemy. Katlein didn't fight it—she dismantled it. Not like a warrior. Like a predator.

Silent. Absolute.

---

Baran tried to keep up. But he couldn't.

Her strikes were instinctive. Her daggers weren't tools. They were limbs.

Then came a moment—

She tossed both daggers into the air.

And as if drawn by a magnet, They returned to her hands with perfect precision.

Baran's eyes widened.

> "Like Thor's hammer..."

But he shook his head.

> "No. This is real."

Suddenly, Katlein's voice rang out:

> "Focus your mana into your eyes, boy!"

Baran flinched but obeyed. Using meditation techniques, he turned his gaze inward.

Then he saw them.

Threads.

Mana threads.

Delicate filaments connecting Katlein's body to her blades, From her ankles to the space around her.

Baran wasn't just watching a fighter. He was watching a weaver.

Mana being spun into art.

And something inside whispered in awe:

> "This is more than feeling." "This is discipline. Instinct. Madness."

---

Katlein finally stopped. She stood tall, as if unfazed.

She pointed to a single gash on the railing— A clean, flawless cut.

> "Your first task," she said, voice low but firm. "Learn the mana threads."

> "You will train daggers daily. Watch me for specific movements. And memorize the forms in the scrolls I give you."

Then she fell silent.

But without breaking eye contact, she sliced through the railing with a single motion.

The cut was so precise, it looked like it was made not by a blade... but by intent.

> "That... is the level you must reach."