Steel rang sharp and true as Caelin's blade met Lucan's in a thunderous clash. Sparks flew like fallen stars caught between titans. Around them, the war chamber roared—Exodus shouting their forsaken captain's name, while the Swords of Eden knights bellowed for their champion.
Lucan's eyes bore into Caelin's, hard as flint. His voice was low, edged with bitterness.
"You left us to rot, Caelin. You ran from your duty when it mattered. And now you stand here, playing at command while the rest of us carried the weight."
Caelin's jaw clenched, voice steady but cold.
"I did what I had to. You think this exile was a choice? I lost everything—Maeria, my honor. You don't know what it means to be stripped of all you love and forced to watch it burn."
Lucan's sneer cracked for a flicker, his voice dropping, harsh and bitter.
"Maeria was burned because of you. Lust. Sin. And you brought shame on us all. That's why you were cast out."
Caelin's blade pressed hard against Lucan's, eyes burning.
"She wasn't sin. She was my wife. My covenant. And I bore that pain every day in chains and fire."
Lucan spat.
"Save your martyr act. You're Forsaken because you failed the Order. Because you broke its laws."
Caelin stepped forward, voice low but fierce.
"Maybe. But I'll prove there's more to me than your judgment."
The crowd's roar swelled around them, but in this moment, only their blades and bitter words filled the space between.
Steel thundered as Caelin and Lucan's swords collided, each strike heavy with years of resentment and betrayal.
Lucan sneered, pressing his blade against Caelin's chestplate.
"You dishonor Dareth's blade every time you fight. You're Forsaken — nothing more."
Caelin's eyes narrowed, voice low but biting.
"You were always a coward, Lucan. Even before I was Forsaken."
Lucan bristled. "I fought alongside Dareth to the end."
Caelin laughed, hard and bitter.
"No. You ran. You fled Caligo IX while your commander bled out on that cursed ground. As second-in-command, you were supposed to die with him — not slink away and claim his place."
Lucan's face hardened, his grip tightening, but he said nothing.
Caelin pressed on, voice cold steel.
"You won't admit it, but everyone knows the truth. You weren't brave enough to stand your ground. You survived by betrayal."
Their blades clashed again — fierce, brutal, a war of skill tangled with scars no sword could heal.
Lucan pushed Caelin back, sneering with venom.
"I don't believe a word of the stories they tell about you. Defeating a Nephilim? Tearing demons apart with bare hands? Stopping Baal in the Pope's vault?" He spat the words like poison.
"You're just a Forsaken, Caelin. A shadow of the man you once were."
Caelin steadied himself, eyes burning with cold fire.
"Believe what you want. The truth isn't waiting for your approval."
Lucan shook his head, bitter laughter escaping him.
"You've become a legend in whispers, but legends are lies dressed up for fools. I'm here to remind you who you really are."
Caelin met Lucan's gaze, voice steady and cold.
"I care not for legends. Only for the truth I carry in my bones—the truth of every scar, every loss, every step I've taken since they cast me out."
Their blades clashed again—steel screaming against steel, sparks dancing in the space between them. Both men moved with the same practiced form, the unmistakable discipline of Major House Judah. Their stances mirrored one another, footwork tight, arcs of attack clean and measured.
Lucan lunged—Caelin parried. Caelin struck low—Lucan stepped aside, riposting with a savage upward slash that scraped across Caelin's pauldron, almost breaching the plating.
But Caelin didn't slow.
He pressed forward, each swing heavier, faster. The weight of exile, of grief, of every loss he'd carved into bone, now became fury behind every strike.
Lucan blocked again, gritting his teeth. "You're slower than I remember."
Caelin shoved against his guard. "And you're still talking too much."
He caught Lucan off-balance with a shoulder check, forcing him back a step—then two. Lucan adjusted, regained footing, and swung wide in a sweeping arc meant to take Caelin's head. Caelin ducked, rolled, and came up with a brutal strike that Lucan barely deflected, the impact rattling through both of their arms.
They circled.
Breathing hard.
Blades lowered but ready.
Each man bore the same teachings, the same precision—and yet something had shifted. Caelin's movements were not just practiced. They were sharpened by suffering. By crucible. By something Lucan had never endured.
Lucan stepped in again—and Caelin met him with a roar, driving him back with a whirlwind of blows that forced the silver-clad knight to retreat, bracing himself behind his shield.
The cheers around them rose—Exodi and Swords of Eden alike calling out their champions. And still, neither gave ground, almost even. Almost, but not quite.
Caelin began to push him back. Step by step.
Lucan's boots scraped against the stone as he slid back, parrying another crushing blow. His breath came hard through gritted teeth. "You always had the spotlight, Caelin. Always the golden one. Dareth's favorite."
Caelin advanced, eyes narrowed, sword raised. "I earned my place."
Lucan snarled, blocking another blow. "No—you were given your place. You walked into Judah like it was yours by birthright. And I—" He stepped forward with a vicious slash that Caelin barely deflected. "—I bled for every inch."
They locked blades again, strength grinding against strength.
"I trained harder. Fought more. And still, he chose you." Lucan's voice cracked, not from fatigue—but fury. "I lived in your shadow. I was invisible while you were exalted."
Caelin shoved him back. "I never asked for that."
"No," Lucan spat, "but you never refused it either."
The swords clashed again in a flurry of strikes—tight, disciplined, savage. Every motion spoke of their shared schooling under Dareth. Every deflection was muscle memory. But Caelin was forcing Lucan to move backwards, closer to the standard they both once swore to.
"You don't hate me," Caelin said between blows. "You hate that I didn't fall apart when you expected me to."
Lucan's eyes burned. "I hate him. Dareth. For seeing something in you he never saw in me. I hate that he died calling your name. Not mine."
That struck a nerve—but Caelin didn't let it show.
Instead, he stepped in close—almost chest to chest.
"You blame Dareth for not choosing you," he said, voice low. "But he didn't choose me because I was better with a blade. He chose me because I never turned away when it cost something."
They broke apart, circling again—two ghosts of House Judah locked in a duel as old as ambition.
And for the first time…Lucan faltered, just slightly. But Caelin saw it.
Lucan roared and lunged, his blade flashing in a wide arc. Caelin met it with a parry, turning his body and letting the strike glance off before responding with a brutal riposte that sent Lucan staggering.
The ring of steel filled the chamber.
The Exodi chanted their captain's name. The Swords of Eden answered with shouts of their own. Both factions pressed forward in spirit, but neither dared interfere.
Caelin advanced again—calm, precise. Each step forced Lucan backward.
"You were always a coward," Caelin said, voice low as their blades locked. "Even before I was cast out."
Lucan shoved him back, eyes flaring with fury. "You think you're better than me? You always walked like you were untouchable."
Their swords clashed again. Sparks danced from the impact. The fight had lost its rhythm now—Lucan driven by anger, Caelin by resolve.
"You think I don't remember?" Lucan spat, striking wildly. "Every time you were praised. Every time they looked past me—to you."
Caelin ducked under the blow and struck Lucan in the ribs with the pommel of his blade, forcing the knight to one knee.
Lucan lifted his shield—arms shaking.
"You hate me because I stood where you wanted to," Caelin said. "Because they saw strength in me—and fear in you."
Lucan raised his blade in trembling defiance, but Caelin's next strike shattered the outer rim of his shield, sending fragments across the ground.
He stood over the kneeling knight now, blade ready.
Lucan breathed hard—glaring up at him, but unable to rise.
Caelin stood over Lucan, his blade poised.
But he didn't strike.
Instead, he lowered it—slowly, deliberately. The edge gleamed inches from Lucan's throat.
Caelin's voice was steady. "We are Exodus. And we remember our oath."
Lucan's breath caught.
Caelin took a step back, gaze unwavering. "'Forgive your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.'"
He sheathed his blade.
"Yes—even those who Forsook us. Even those who judged us unworthy to kneel beside them."
Lucan looked up at him, stunned—sweat and shame mixing across his face.
"I don't hate you, Lucan," Caelin said quietly. "I pity you."
He extended a hand—not with weakness, but with honor.
Thump.
Crack.
Snap.
Three arrows struck him in rapid succession—one in the chest, another in the side, the last punching through his thigh.
Real arrows.
The sound was unmistakable—wood against flesh and armor, not the harmless simulation pulses of light.
Caelin staggered.
Pain erupted across his senses—real, lancing, hot pain. His vision trembled.
Confusion rippled through the battlefield.
Lucan recoiled in shock. "This… this isn't part of the—"
Caelin fell to one knee, blood already spilling down his armor, dark and wet and wrong.
All around them, the simulation began to stutter and flicker, warning sirens chirping softly overhead—system integrity compromised.
The last thing Caelin saw was the look on Lucan's face—no longer one of rivalry, but horror.
And then everything went black.
Red emergency strobes pulsed across the walls of the simulation chamber, throwing shadows over the fractured battlefield. The simulated terrain flickered, then shut down entirely, vanishing in a hiss of light—replaced by sterile plating and blinking hazard runes across the floor.
"Make way!"
Medics in white and crimson stormed through the open blast doors, shouting as they pushed past disoriented trainees and frozen Exodi. Stretchers clattered. Kits were thrown open mid-run. One figure among them moved faster than the rest—Sister Evadine, her expression twisted with fear, robes flying behind her as she sprinted toward the collapsed form in the center.
"Caelin!" Her voice cracked.
She dropped to her knees beside him as the medics reached his side. Blood had already pooled beneath him—thick and dark, staining the artificial ground where no real blood should have ever touched. His breath came shallow, ragged, eyes barely open.
"Three punctures—chest, side, thigh," one medic snapped. "No sim wounds. These are real. Arrowheads—barbed. Poison unknown."
"We need to move him now!" Evadine barked, already pressing a sealant to his side, her hands trembling. "I need adrenaline, platelet foam, and a field suppressor, now!"
Across the chamber, officers were forcing the crowd back. Templari and trainees alike stood stunned. Confusion. Rage. Fear. The simulation was never meant to be lethal.
Then the chamber doors slammed open again—
Captain Vaelus stormed in, weapon drawn, armor half-fastened and eyes blazing.
"Everyone—down!" he roared, scanning the perimeter like a warhound uncaged. "Seal this facility! No one leaves! No one!"
The room fell into stunned silence.
He reached Caelin's side just as the medics began to lift him onto the stretcher. His jaw clenched at the sight of the blood.
"Who?" he growled. "Who in God's name fired real arrows in my simulation?"
No one answered. No one dared.
Vaelus stood protectively over Caelin as they rushed him out, his weapon still raised—his eyes scanning every face, every hand, every shadow.
"Find them," he said coldly, to no one and everyone at once. "And pray I find them before the Inquisition does."
Evadine followed the medics, never once letting go of Caelin's hand.