From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 121: The Place of Fall

The hill was quiet.

Too quiet.

No birds. No insects. No wind.

Just the crunch of their boots against glassed ash as Leon and the others approached the husk of the tree—blackened and split down the centre like a wound that had never healed. The symbols carved into its bark were ancient, older than any script Leon recognised. Yet as he stared, the markings shifted. Not with movement—but memory.

The first shard throbbed in his chest.

So did the second.

But differently now.

Like a warning.

Kairis moved ahead of them, one hand out, tracing the symbols without touching them. "This tree was once a tether," she murmured. "Before the war. Before the shards scattered."

Leon stepped beside her. "Tether to what?"

She didn’t answer.

Because the earth answered for her.

It cracked.

Not with a quake—but with breath.

The hill exhaled.

And the air turned *cold.*

Mira spun, sword already half drawn. Tomas swore. Kairis took a step back, her face paling.

Because the tree was moving.

Not growing. Not twisting.

*Unfolding.*

The bark peeled back like petals, layer by layer, revealing not wood—but *metal* beneath.

A spire.

A tower.

Sunken into the hill for who knew how long.

The runes along its length flickered now—one by one—activating as if awakened by Leon’s presence.

Then, at the top of the spire, a circular hatch began to grind open with a sound like grinding bones.

Mira whispered, "What the hell *is* that?"

Kairis didn’t move. "A vault. One of the last. The kind only the Founders knew how to bury."

Leon’s breath caught in his throat.

Because the pull in his chest had changed again.

The third shard—the one he refused—had been about surrender.

But this?

This felt like *judgment.*

As if something inside the vault already *knew* him.

Already *measured* him.

And was *waiting* for him to step inside.

Tomas looked between them. "Please tell me we’re not going in there."

Leon stared up at the tower.

And stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

Mira grabbed his arm. "Leon—"

"I know."

"But—"

He looked at her. His eyes weren’t glowing. But they weren’t entirely *his* anymore either.

"I have to know," he said. "I have to *see* what they locked away."

The wind picked up again.

Carrying with it whispers.

Not from the tower.

From the hill itself.

Old voices.

Cracked. Twisted. *Familiar.*

Leon stepped through the threshold.

And the hatch sealed behind him.

Leaving the others outside.

Alone. Inside the vault, there was no light.

Not darkness.

*Absence.*

As though light itself refused to exist in this place. Leon couldn’t see his own hands. Couldn’t hear his steps. The sound of the hatch sealing behind him had already vanished, swallowed by whatever realm he’d entered. He reached out, half-expecting to find a wall, a floor—anything.

But there was nothing.

Until a flicker.

Blue, like the second shard. Then orange, like the first. They pulsed once, twice, then bled into a dull white, illuminating a single path ahead—made of shattered mirror tiles, floating midair with no visible support. Beneath the path was void. Not sky. Not shadow. Just... nothing.

Leon’s foot hit the first tile.

A memory unfolded.

His mother’s voice. Laughing in the kitchen. Not her death. Not the hospital. Just the laugh—warm, tired, so *real* it nearly undid him.

The tile beneath his foot cracked.

He stepped to the next.

His first duel. Wooden blades. The sting of defeat on his cheek. The mocking grin of his opponent—Arden. Before they became enemies. When they were still *boys.*

Another crack.

He moved faster now.

Each step summoned more.

His first kill.

The blood that didn’t come off his hands for days.

His first failure.

The mission where he ran instead of fighting. Where they died because he chose to live.

By the fifth step, he was shaking.

By the tenth, he was gasping.

But he didn’t stop.

Because the voice in his chest—the judgment—*expected him to.*

It wanted collapse.

It wanted *proof* that he wasn’t strong enough.

Halfway across the path, the mirrors stopped showing memories.

They started showing *possibilities.*

Him, crowned in black fire, the world kneeling.

Him, burned alive at the stake, accused of crimes he hadn’t yet committed.

Him, alone—always alone.

He closed his eyes and walked.

The path fought back.

Cracks followed every step.

The tiles tried to pull free beneath his boots.

But he kept walking.

Until—

A platform.

Circular.

Empty.

No throne.

No altar.

Just a mirror suspended midair, taller than a man, rimmed in silver root.

Leon stepped in front of it.

And saw *himself.*

Not as he was.

But as he could become.

Not a king.

Not a warrior.

A *weapon.*

His eyes glowed—not with the colour of the shards, but with *absence*. His skin etched in rootfire patterns. His voice, when he spoke in the reflection, was layered—three tones, one for each shard.

"You carry them too well," the reflection said. "You think they make you stronger. But they are *marks,* Leon. Scars written in power."

Leon said nothing.

"You turned down surrender. But that wasn’t strength," the reflection continued. "That was fear. You know the third shard fits you too well."

Leon stepped closer. "I didn’t come to argue."

"Good," said the reflection, now smiling faintly. "Then you’re ready."

"For what?"

The mirror rippled.

And through it stepped the reflection.

Not just mimicking him—*being* him.

Shard glow. Wound-scar. Same breath. Same stride.

Only colder.

Sharper.

Leon drew his blade.

The reflection did too.

"Last chance," it said, tone still even. "Leave. Forget. Let the others carry this weight."

Leon shook his head.

"Didn’t think so."

Then the copy attacked.

Fast.

Too fast.

The mirror had stolen not just Leon’s skills—but his instincts.

Their swords clashed.

Not with the sound of steel—but with thought.

Each strike brought memory.

Each block forced recall.

Pain. Victory. Shame. Hope.

Leon lost track of how many blows were exchanged. His chest burned. His muscles screamed. But the fire from the shards rose too—answering. One flared with anger. The other hummed with regret.

But Leon reached deeper.

He *chose* again.

Not the anger.

Not the sorrow.

The path between.

Resolve.

He parried low. Twisted. Drove his knee into the reflection’s chest and forced it back.

Then—he dropped the sword.

The reflection blinked.

Confused.

Leon stepped forward, unarmed.

"Do you know why I win?" he asked.

The reflection tilted its head. "Because you fight?"

"No," Leon said.

"Because I *change*."

And with that word—change—the vault trembled.

The reflection cracked.

Lines spread across its face, its chest, its sword.

Leon stepped into its guard and whispered, "You’re just who I was."

Then he pressed his hand to the reflection’s heart.

The shards inside his chest flared.

The reflection dissolved—light scattering into the air like dying fireflies.

And then the mirror itself shattered.

The pieces fell up—not down—and vanished.

Silence returned.

But it wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full.

The platform lit beneath Leon’s feet.

A symbol glowed.

The same one on the tree outside.

Only now, it meant something.

It meant *worthy.*

The hatch above unsealed.

Light returned.

And Leon stepped upward into it—no longer the same man who entered.

The vault stayed behind.

Still quiet.

But no longer watching.

Because it had seen enough.

The light above wasn’t sunlight.

It wasn’t warm.

It was silver. Pale. Cold. Like moonlight passed through frost.

Leon rose slowly, carried by a force not his own. The shattered platform faded beneath him, and soon he passed through a thin layer of mist—then sky.

The world beyond had changed.

The hill was gone.

So were the others.

In its place stretched a wasteland—charred stone, cracked mountains, rivers that ran with ink. The sky was sick with colour, swirled with grey and pale green, as if time had rotted.

But Leon wasn’t afraid.

He understood.

This was between.

A space not meant for travel or resting.

A proving ground.

And he wasn’t done yet.

A shadow moved across the sky.

No wings.

Just a shape—vast and crawling, dragging itself like a beast too large to exist.

Leon landed on a narrow bridge of bone-white stone that jutted over an abyss.

And waiting at the centre... was a woman.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t look.

She just stood there—bare feet on stone, hands folded behind her back. Her cloak was made of silence. Her hair was braided smoke. And when she finally spoke, her voice arrived in Leon’s mind like distant thunder.

"You beat the mirror."

Leon stepped closer. "I did."

"Then why are you here?"

He hesitated.

"I don’t know."

"Yes, you do."

She turned.

Her face wasn’t monstrous. It wasn’t beautiful either.

It was familiar.

Like a dream remembered just before waking.

And her eyes—deep, endless—held something that made Leon pause.

Recognition.

"You’re not part of the trial," he said.

"No," she replied. "I’m part of the cost."

She lifted a hand.

A shard hovered above her palm.

Not one of his.

A fourth.

Grey as dusk. Quiet as death.

Leon stared at it. "I thought there were only three."

"There were," she said.

"And now?"

"Now there’s one more."

He didn’t move.

"What does this one represent?"

She smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just... knowingly.

"The part of you that learns to live after everything breaks."

Leon frowned.

"That sounds like healing."

"No," she whispered. "It’s survival. The kind where you no longer flinch. No longer hope. You move. You breathe. But nothing inside stirs."

He felt the pull again.

Not as loud as before.

Not as desperate.

But steady.

Real.

"You don’t have to take it," she said. "No one ever does."

Leon looked at her. "But?"

"If you leave it behind... you’ll never stop feeling every wound."

Silence.

Then he asked, "Did you take it?"

She lowered her gaze.

"I did."

Leon stepped closer.

The shard hovered, spinning slowly. It didn’t throb. It didn’t glow.

It simply existed.

Like a scar that never itched again.

"I’m not ready," he said.

The woman nodded once.

"That’s the right answer."

The shard faded.

So did the world.

The bridge. The void. The woman. All of it peeled back like smoke in wind.

And then—

Leon stood at the edge of the spire.

The hatch open behind him.

And his friends rushing toward him—faces full of alarm and relief.

Mira reached him first. Grabbed his arm. "You idiot. What the hell happened?"

Leon blinked.

He took in the tree. The hill. The ash beneath his feet.

It was real again.

And somehow, so was he.

He turned toward the spire.

It had gone dark.

Sealed again.

No glow. No hum.

No judgment.

Just silence.

But this time... it didn’t cling.

And Leon breathed in. Then out.

"I saw the end of me," he said.

Kairis tilted her head. "And?"