Many years ago, a young Dextin, barely tall enough to peer over the windowsill, would often find himself perched precariously on a small wooden stool. From his vantage point, the world outside transformed into a captivating stage, his adopted father, Enshou, the sole performer. A wide, innocent smile would bloom across Dextin's face as he watched Enshou practice his martial arts. Each fluid movement, each precise strike, was a source of immense admiration for the boy.
On this particular day, Enshou was deeply engrossed in his vanishing technique, a skill that always held a special allure for Dextin. But today, Enshou was also experimenting, diligently working on a new, elusive maneuver. Dextin watched with bated breath as Enshou executed the move flawlessly. A burst of unrestrained joy bubbled up within the child, escaping in a small, involuntary clap of his hands that echoed in the quiet room.
Enshou's head snapped towards the window, his keen eyes instantly locating the source of the sound. Panic flickered across Dextin's face as he swiftly ducked down, hoping his small transgression had gone unnoticed. A soft chuckle drifted from outside. "You know I can see you, right?" Enshou's voice carried a hint of amusement.
Slowly, Dextin straightened up, his earlier excitement replaced by a look of dejected resignation. He knew he was in for a mild reprimand. "Didn't I tell you not to watch me train?" Enshou's tone was gentle but firm. "What if you try to practice it alone? This is really dangerous."
Kid Dextin, however, was not one to back down easily. "I'm really sorry, okay?" he blurted out, his voice tinged with earnestness. "I just thought those moves were cool, and I want to learn how to fight too! I want to do what you do."
A faint smirk played on Enshou's lips. "You can't do what I do, kid," he stated matter-of-factly. Dextin's lower lip protruded in a pout. Sensing the boy's disappointment, Enshou squatted down to Dextin's level, ruffling his hair affectionately. "You have to fight in your own style of fighting," Enshou explained patiently. "Because if you try to imitate someone else, you might never truly master your own potential…" He stood up, his gaze thoughtful. "And besides… the way I fight is… cowardly. I want you to be a brave fighter."
Dextin, his small hands reaching out, latched onto Enshou's leg. "But I don't think your fighting style is cowording! I think it's cool!" he insisted, looking up at his adopted father with unwavering admiration.
Enshou chuckled softly, the boy's earnestness melting away his stern demeanor. He gently scooped Dextin up into his arms. "It's called 'cowardly,' okay? Not 'whatever you just said.' But if you really want to learn how I fight so badly, I'll teach you… but not my main fighting style. I've been working on a new move, something I'm not entirely sure about yet. But if executed correctly, I think it could be an unpredictable, quick attack that targets your opponent's backside. Are you up for it?"
Dextin's eyes widened in pure, unadulterated excitement. A large grin stretched across his face. "Of course! Yes! I'm gonna be a warrior! I'm gonna be a warrior!" he chanted gleefully in Enshou's arms, bouncing with enthusiasm.
Enshou's expression turned slightly serious. "It isn't just fighting that makes you a great warrior, you know," he said bluntly, his words a stark contrast to Dextin's joyful outburst.
Dextin stopped his chanting abruptly, his innocent gaze fixed on Enshou. "Then what does?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.
Enshou fell silent for a moment, his mind weighing whether the young boy was ready for such a profound discussion. He decided against it, fearing it would only confuse him. "Never mind, okay?" he said, changing the subject smoothly. "Let's begin with the basics." And so, under the watchful eyes of the sky, Enshou began to impart his knowledge to the eager young Dextin.
Over the next eight years, Dextin dedicated himself to his training, his youthful enthusiasm evolving into focused discipline. He absorbed Enshou's teachings with remarkable aptitude, his movements becoming sharp, precise, and uniquely his own. Finally, the day arrived when he flawlessly executed the new technique Enshou had shown him years ago.
"You did it," Enshou said, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "Nice. To be honest, it looks way better on you than I ever imagined." Dextin beamed, a wave of triumphant joy washing over him. Then, a thought struck him.
"Oh yeah! Since you invented the move, it doesn't have a name yet. What should we call it?" Dextin asked, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
Enshou pondered for a moment before responding. "Well, considering how quickly you mastered it, and the fact that it's truly become your move now, why don't you name it?"
Dextin's eyes lit up. He thought intently, his mind racing. "I've got one! Since the technique is all about the sword stabbing through your opponent's back unexpectedly, why not call it… Backstab? No, wait…" He paused, a more fitting name forming in his mind. "Betrayal! Yes, that sounds much better. The ultimate, unexpected strike…"
Back in the present, the echo of Aingo's grim pronouncement hung heavy in the air. Rider stared at him, his confusion evident. "Betrayal? I've never heard of it before, and you never mentioned it," he said, his voice laced with disbelief.
Aingo leaned back in his chair, his expression somber. "Because he didn't use it that much back then. When he ascended to the throne, he had us, the elite soldiers, to handle most of the fighting for him. That's why it's not widely known. But those of us in the elite guard… we recognize it instantly. When the time comes for Dextin to truly engage, and he deems his opponent unworthy of his prolonged attention, he unleashes that move. That… disgusting move." Aingo's brow furrowed, his distaste palpable.
Meanwhile, in the hushed arena, Enshou stood over Rebel's fallen form, his sword dripping crimson as he slowly withdrew it from the younger warrior's back. Rebel lay motionless on the cold concrete, his senses fading. A distant murmur reached his ears, a desperate cry calling his name. With a Herculean effort, he turned his head towards the sound, his vision blurring. Through the throng of spectators, he saw guards restraining a distraught Tusk, his brother's face contorted in anguish, tears streaming down his cheeks.
A wave of guilt and sorrow washed over Rebel. He realized the depth of his brother's distress, the raw pain in his voice. Knowing his own strength was rapidly ebbing away, he mustered a weak smile for Tusk, a silent reassurance. "I'm sorry, big brother," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I… I wasn't strong enough. Win this for us… please." And with that final plea, darkness claimed him, his body going limp. The match was over, and by default, Enshou was declared the victor.
Tusk stood frozen, speechless, the image of his brother's lifeless form seared into his mind. He watched in numb disbelief as the guards carefully carried Rebel's body away. Enshou, his victory tainted by the brutal necessity of his actions, clenched his fist, a knot of regret tightening in his chest as he stepped out of the tournament ring. Azreal's booming voice echoed through the arena, officially announcing Enshou as the winner.
As Enshou descended from the battlefield, he was immediately confronted by an enraged Tanker. "How do you know that move?" Tanker demanded, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "You better start talking." His intense gaze locked onto Enshou's, searching for an explanation, while a cacophony of mixed reactions erupted from the stunned crowd.