From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 53: Return to Form

The days after the Rite passed like fragments caught in wind—quiet, scattered, and sharp at the edges.

Leon woke early. Not from duty or obligation. But instinct. The sun barely kissed the horizon when he rose from his bunk, dressed, and walked the length of the lower courts. Few cadets spoke to him. Fewer still met his eyes. Not from avoidance. From something bordering on awe.

The weight of titles did that.

He didn’t wear one on his sleeve. Not Bearer. Not Binder. But every step marked it.

The old instructors had begun rotating classes again, slower, smaller, watchful. Leon sat through strategy sessions and sparring briefings, not as a cadet learning, but as one observed. Not being questioned. Not yet.

In the forge yard, a swordmaster asked to test him. A duel with no purpose. Ten strikes exchanged before Leon disarmed him. Not with speed. With precision. And skill.

"He moves like someone who’s lived on the battlefield," one of the younger recruits whispered.

Leon pretended not to hear.

He walked alone often. Not to separate himself from the others, but to steady his mind. The vault hadn’t left scars. It had left deep understanding and a revelation. But they came with ghosts. And ghosts liked to speak when the halls grew quiet.

He visited Vaerin’s resting place again.

A new plaque had been mounted there. Simple. Unadorned.

First Lord of the Vault. An Oath given. An Oath kept.

Leon didn’t kneel this time. He just stood, the breeze tugging at his collar.

"Are you still watching?" he murmured.

Nothing answered. But he nodded anyway.

Later that day, a summons came. From the council.

Marien met him at the archway before the council stairs.

"You sure you want to go in like that?" she asked.

Leon blinked. "Like what?"

"Like someone they can’t intimidate."

"I’m not here to be bowed to."

"No. But they might still bow anyway."

He said nothing, and they entered side by side.

The council hall had changed. Not in stone. In presence.

Every gaze turned as they stepped in. But Leon didn’t falter. He looked ahead.

And spoke first.

"I’m not here for thanks. I’m here because you need to decide what comes next."

There was silence.

And then the Head of the council of Blades leaned forward.

"Then speak, Leon Thorne. What future do you see for this citadel?"

Leon’s answer did not tremble.

"One where no secret stays buried again."

The pause that followed his words didn’t stretch—it dropped. Heavy. Final. A breath drawn too deep, too sharp.

The Head of Blades narrowed his eyes, not in challenge, but caution. "You’d have us unearth centuries of sealed rites and locked truths?"

Leon didn’t flinch. "No. I’m saying we stop building legacies on lies."

The Head of the council of Lore, a woman with a scar that ran from temple to jaw, leaned forward, fingers laced. "And what of stability? History is a wall. You remove a stone too deep, and the structure collapses."

"It’s already cracked," Leon said. "I was the one standing beneath it."

A ripple passed through the chamber—uneasy, but not in denial.

The Head of the council of Faith, draped in silver-grey, finally spoke. "You bear the mark child. That alone would entitle you to speak in these chambers. But it’s not a mark of command. but instead a burden."

"I know," Leon replied. "And i carry it because none of you can."

Another pause. This one longer.

It was Marien who broke it.

"He’s not asking for control. He’s warning you. If we train cadets to be tools, they’ll never be ready when the tools break."

The Head of the council of Trials looked down at the table, at them, his fingers tapping once, then stopping. "What do you propose, then?"

Leon stepped forward.

"Transparency. A new rite. One that doesn’t bury its truth in memory chains and blood seals or magic. One that teaches strength through clarity. Not silence."

"You’d risk the chaos that would bring?" the Head of Lore said.

"I’d risk it," Leon said, "because I’ve seen what silence costs."

"I’ve fought against it." He murmured.

Outside, the wind rose again—sharp and sudden. A few dust motes stirred through the high windows. One caught in a beam of light and flickered before vanishing.

A sign, some might say.

The Head of Blades sat back. "We will deliberate. But know this—change, even earned, does not come without resistance."

Leon gave a short nod. "Then it’s a good thing I’m used to fighting."

He turned before they could dismiss him. Walked out of the chamber with Marien beside him.

She didn’t speak until they reached the top steps.

"You do realise they’re going to test you again, right?"

"They already did," Leon said. "They just didn’t know it."

She smirked faintly. "Still smug."

"Still standing."

They descended the long stair in silence, but not without tension. The kind that followed after choices too big to take back.

Back in the barracks courtyard, cadets trained again. Steel rang, instructions echoed, and the tower bells tolled in steady cadence.

But things were not as they were.

They couldn’t be.

Leon paused at the edge of the yard.

A younger cadet struggled to parry a training staff, stumbling twice. Their instructor barked something impatient.

Leon stepped forward.

Wordlessly, he adjusted the boy’s stance. Moved his feet. Reset the motion. Let the boy swing again. This time, it landed clean.

The instructor watched, unsure what to say.

Leon just nodded once to the boy and moved on.

It was not a declaration.

But it was a beginning.

That evening, as the barracks dimmed and torches flickered low, Leon remained outside. Not in the yard. On the ramparts.

The sky stretched vast above him, bruised with the last colours of sunset. From this height, the citadel looked almost whole. Almost.

He traced the skyline with his eyes. Every tower. Every wing.

He had walked each one now. Not as a cadet. Not as a prisoner of rite. As something else. Something older.

A figure approached. Not Marien. A tall man in black and green robes, hood down, hair grey at the sides.

Master Kellen.

"You were never meant to survive the Vault," Kellen said simply.

Leon didn’t look away from the horizon. "Who said i did?."

The man gave a dry sound—half laugh, half sigh. "Then what are you now?"

Leon turned with the seriousness in his eyes. "The reason those after me will live."

They stood there a moment longer. No bowing. No titles exchanged.

Just two shapes in the fading light, watching the walls hold.

And beyond them, the world waiting to test what came next.

A hawk cried in the distance. Leon tilted his head up, eyes tracking its arc. Then he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

"I’ll need records. Old ones. The ones they buried after the first seals."

Kellen raised a brow. "You’re not waiting on getting permission?"

"I’ve never had time for permission."

Kellen gave a slow nod. "Then you’ll need more allies. Few know what you know. Fewer can even bear it."

Leon’s gaze hardened. "Then I’ll find the ones who can."