Rain hit the tavern windows hard enough to rattle the wood.

Nobody inside cared.

The entire city had been talking about Leon Hart for days.

The prodigy.

The buyer.

The boy who arrived with enough money to purchase fifteen years of swordsmanship before turning twenty-five.

People loved stories like that.

Especially people who had never held a sword.

Gareth Vale sat alone near the back wall listening to drunk merchants praise a boy they had never seen fight.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"The way he moves doesn't look human."

"I heard he defeated three duelists in one afternoon."

"They say nobles are already trying to buy him."

Buy him.

Gareth drank without tasting anything.

Twenty years ago they used to talk about him the same way.

Back then taverns got louder when he entered.

Women smiled at him.

Young fighters copied the way he walked.

Now people lowered their voices around him like he was some wounded animal waiting to die.

A rusted sword leaned beside his chair.

Ceremonial.

Old.

Mostly useless now.

Still, Gareth cleaned it every morning.

Habit.

Some things stayed even after the experience was gone.

══════════════════

Gareth Vale

Class: Duelist Lv.41

Swordsmanship Experience:
8 Years

Condition:
Stable

══════════════════

Eight years.

Sometimes he still forgot.

That was the cruelest part.

Every now and then his body moved before reality could correct it.

He'd stand too confidently.

Reach for a sword too quickly.

Turn his shoulders exactly like before.

Then something small failed.

A step too slow.

A grip too weak.

A reaction arriving half a second late.

And suddenly he wasn't Gareth Vale anymore.

Just another aging drunk with stories nobody cared about.

The tavern door opened.

Cold wind rushed inside.

A young traveler stepped through the rain wearing a dark coat soaked almost black from water.

No weapon.

No insignia.

No companions.

He looked around the tavern strangely.

Not nervous.

Not cautious.

Lost.

His eyes stopped on the ceremonial sword hanging above the fireplace.

He stared at it for several seconds.

Like he was trying to remember something important.

Then quietly asked the bartender:

"Do people really carry those every day?"

A few customers laughed.

The bartender frowned.

"You hit your head somewhere, traveler?"

The young man looked genuinely uncertain.

"...Maybe."

The laughter died awkwardly.

Gareth watched him for another moment before looking away.

Something about the stranger bothered him.

Not because he looked dangerous.

Because he looked empty.

The traveler eventually sat across from him without asking.

For a while neither spoke.

Rain hammered the city outside.

Then the traveler looked at Gareth's rusted sword.

"You still fight?"

Gareth looked down at the rusted sword beside his chair.

"Sometimes."

That answer bothered him more than it should have.

There was a time he would've answered immediately.

Every day.

Until the arm breaks.

Until the heart stops.

Now he fought only when money forced him to.

A few minutes later the tavern door opened again.

And this time the entire room noticed.

Leon Hart entered smiling.

Young.

Confident.

Expensive black coat.

Perfect posture.

The kind of face cities fall in love with immediately.

Three men followed behind him carrying purchased blades polished bright enough to reflect candlelight.

People moved aside instinctively.

Someone even applauded.

Gareth hated that more than he should have.

Leon scanned the tavern casually until his eyes landed on the old swordsman.

Recognition flashed instantly.

Then curiosity.

He walked directly toward Gareth's table.

The room went silent.

Leon smiled faintly.

Then tapped two fingers against his wrist.

A translucent panel expanded into the air for the entire tavern to see.

══════════════════

Leon Hart

Class: Duelist Lv.36

Swordsmanship Experience Remaining:

14 Years
311 Days

Condition:
Stable Degradation

══════════════════

So it was true.

Bought.

Gareth felt something ugly twist inside his chest.

Leon stopped beside the table.

For a second he looked at Gareth almost respectfully.

Then his eyes drifted toward the ceremonial sword hanging on the wall.

"The Blade of Grey Harbor," Leon said quietly.

"I used to hear stories about you when I was a kid."

Kid.

Of course.

That was how long ago it had been.

Back then, parents pointed at him when teaching their children about honor.

Gareth Vale never struck a disarmed opponent.

Never killed for applause.

Never drew steel outside a duel.

At least that was the man he used to be.

Used to.

Another one.

Leon reached up carefully and removed the sword from the wall.

Slowly.

Respectfully.

The tavern watched in silence.

The young duelist tested the weapon's weight once.

Then smiled slightly.

Gareth stared at him.

At the sword.

At the steady confidence in his hands.

And suddenly all he could see was himself disappearing.

Twenty years sold.

Crowds forgetting him.

Children praising bought talent.

His entire life reduced to an outdated story hanging on a tavern wall.

Leon looked back at him.

"They said you were incredible."

Were.

Another dead word.

Gareth felt his jaw tighten.

Leon turned the sword lightly in his hand.

"Heavier than I expected."

Of course it was.

The boy bought skill.

Not the years behind it.

Not the pain.

"I bought fifteen years."

Fifteen.

Gareth sold twenty years to save the last six survivors of the Grey Harbor massacre.

Leon said it casually.

Like discussing weather.

"They told me nobody could touch you in your prime."

Prime.

Past tense again.

Everything about Gareth existed in past tense now.

Leon rested the sword against his shoulder carelessly.

Comfortable already.

Like it belonged there.

"They said people used to fear you."

Used to.

Gareth remembered crowds screaming his name.

Children waiting outside arenas.

Men studying the way he moved.

All gone now.

Leon smiled faintly.

"Hard to imagine."

That one stayed.

Because Leon sounded honest.

Not cruel.

Honest.

The boy genuinely could not imagine Gareth as anything other than this.

A washed-up drunk beneath his own legend.

For one brief moment—

Gareth hated him.

Not for being arrogant.

Not for being talented.

For being young enough to replace him.

Leon shifted the sword carelessly in one hand.

Too relaxed.

Too close.

And for a fraction of a second—

Gareth's body moved before the ruined remains of his mind could stop it.

Something snapped.

Gareth stood violently.

Ripped the sword from Leon's hands.

And swung.

Steel flashed.

A wet sound followed.

Then silence.

Leon staggered backward.

Confused.

His right arm hit the tavern floor a second later.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Blood spread across the wooden boards.

Leon stared at the empty space below his shoulder like his mind couldn't understand what his eyes were seeing.

Then the screaming started.

"The guards!"

"Call the guards!"

"HEALER!"

Somebody overturned a chair trying to reach Leon.

Another man ran toward the street yelling for clerics.

Blood spread across the tavern floor faster than Gareth could think.

And suddenly everyone was staring at him.

Not the old champion.

Not the Blade of Grey Harbor.

A criminal.

A drunk who mutilated a disarmed man.

Tables overturned.

Someone vomited.

One of Leon's companions reached for a weapon before freezing under Gareth's expression.

Because Gareth looked terrified too.

Not of them.

Of himself.

The sword slipped from his fingers.

Clattering across the floor beside the severed arm.

Leon collapsed against a table choking on shocked breaths.

And Gareth—

Gareth couldn't stop staring at the blood.

Because deep inside the horror...

underneath all the shame and panic and disbelief...

something else existed.

Something worse.

For the first time in years—

he had felt alive again.

The realization made him sick.

Outside, thunder shook the city.

And across the tavern—

the traveler watched silently.

Not shocked.

Not afraid.

Just watching Gareth.

══════════════════

Recovered fragment detected.

Progress: 1.5%

══════════════════