The New York City skyline, once a symbol of Ethan’s family’s power and influence, now seemed a hostile, indifferent monolith. Standing on the rooftop of Marcus’s dilapidated tenement building, the wind whipping around him, Ethan felt a profound sense of severance. He was leaving everything he knew, everything that remained of his past, behind.

“Europe, eh?” Ethan said, his voice barely audible above the city's cacophony.

Marcus, his face etched with a knowing weariness, nodded. "It's where the true masters reside. Where the lineage of the blade stretches back centuries. You've learned the basics here, Ethan. You've honed your reflexes in the unforgiving crucible of the streets. But raw talent alone won't suffice against the likes of what you’re planning."

Ethan clenched his fist, the calluses earned from countless hours of practice with the foil digging into his palm. The taste of vengeance, bitter and metallic, lingered on his tongue. "What do you mean, 'the likes'?"

Marcus's gaze, sharp as a honed blade, met his. "Sinclair is not just a corporate raider, Ethan. He's a spider at the center of a vast web. He’s going to employ the best mercenaries money can buy. They won't fight fair. They won’t fight honorably. And some have refined their skills at the finest academies."

He turned, disappearing into the small, cluttered room that served as his apartment. He emerged moments later, holding a worn leather pouch. It looked far too large to hold only the few belongings he’d seen Marcus carry.

"This," Marcus said, placing the pouch in Ethan's hands, "is everything I can spare. It’s enough to get you started, to secure passage, find a place to stay, and enroll in a reputable academy."

Ethan opened the pouch, his eyes widening slightly. It was more than he expected, a surprisingly generous sum considering Marcus's apparent poverty. He looked up, a question in his eyes.

Marcus held up a hand. “Don’t ask where it came from. Just know that it’s…earned. And it's meant to be used for this. For your training.”

He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Consider it an investment. In justice."

Ethan closed the pouch, clutching it tightly. The weight of it felt significant, not just materially, but symbolically. It was a lifeline, a ticket to a new beginning, or perhaps, a deadly end.

"There's one more thing," Marcus said, his voice taking on a somber tone. He walked to a dusty shelf and retrieved a small, silver locket. He opened it, revealing two miniature portraits. Ethan recognized them instantly: his parents.

"I found this… after…after the accident," Marcus said, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought you should have it."

Ethan took the locket, his fingers trembling as he gazed at the smiling faces within. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to speak. He hadn't seen a picture of his parents since… well, since they were gone. A fresh wave of grief washed over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Thank you," he managed to whisper, closing the locket and tucking it safely inside his jacket.

Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, a rare display of physical affection. "Europe, Ethan. Find the best. Learn everything you can. And remember what you're fighting for. Don't let hate blind you. Use it, but don't let it consume you."

He turned towards the door. "There's a cargo ship leaving for Le Havre tomorrow. Your ticket is waiting. Be on it."

Then, he stopped, his back still to Ethan. "One last thing… Don’t come back here. Not until it’s done. Not until you’ve achieved what you need to."

Ethan frowned. “What do you mean?”

Marcus didn’t turn around. “I’m…moving on, myself. You can’t come back here, looking for me. This place…it’s not safe for either of us, if word gets out that I was involved in your training.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Ethan understood. He was being cut loose, completely and utterly. Marcus was severing all ties, ensuring his own safety and forcing Ethan to stand on his own two feet. It was a harsh lesson, but a necessary one.

He nodded, accepting the harsh reality. "I understand."

Marcus nodded curtly, then disappeared inside, the door closing with a soft click.

Ethan stood alone on the rooftop, the city lights blurring through the tears that welled up in his eyes. He was alone, adrift, with nothing but a pouch of money, a silver locket, and a burning desire for revenge.

The next morning, under the cloak of a pre-dawn sky, Ethan boarded the cargo ship bound for Le Havre. The city shrank behind him, its glittering skyline fading into the distance. As the ship plowed through the churning waters of the Atlantic, Ethan leaned against the railing, staring out at the vast, empty horizon.

He thought of his parents, their faces etched in his memory. He thought of Marcus, the gruff mentor who had seen potential in him when no one else did. He thought of Victor Sinclair, the man who had stolen everything from him.

He had a long journey ahead of him, both literally and figuratively. He would have to learn a new language, adapt to a new culture, and master the art of fencing to a level he couldn’t even imagine.

But he was determined. He would not let his parents’ memory be sullied. He would not let Marcus’s faith in him be misplaced. And he would not rest until Victor Sinclair paid for his crimes.

As the sun began to rise, painting the sky with hues of orange and gold, Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was no longer the naive, privileged boy who had lost everything. He was something else now. Something harder. Something more dangerous.

He was a blade forged in the fires of loss and tempered by the cold steel of vengeance.

He was a Steel Requiem, waiting to be played.

The journey to Europe was arduous. The cargo ship was cramped and uncomfortable, and the food was barely palatable. Ethan spent his days exercising, practicing his footwork on the narrow deck, and studying a French phrasebook he had purchased before leaving New York. He was determined to be prepared for whatever awaited him in Paris.

When the ship finally docked in Le Havre, Ethan felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He stepped off the gangplank and onto foreign soil, the salty air filling his lungs. He made his way through the bustling port, ignoring the stares of the locals, and found a small, inexpensive hotel near the train station.

The next morning, he boarded a train to Paris. As the train sped through the French countryside, Ethan gazed out the window, taking in the rolling hills, quaint villages, and fields of sunflowers. It was a world away from the gritty streets of New York City.

When he finally arrived in Paris, he was immediately struck by the city's beauty and grandeur. The wide boulevards, the elegant buildings, the iconic landmarks – it was everything he had imagined and more.

But he knew that beauty could be deceiving. Beneath the surface of Parisian elegance lay a world of ambition, intrigue, and danger. And he was about to enter that world.

He spent the next few days searching for the Académie d'Acier. It was a task that proved surprisingly difficult. The address Marcus had given him was vague, and the academy itself was deliberately discreet, hidden away in a quiet, residential neighborhood.

Finally, after days of searching, he found it. A tall, imposing building with a wrought-iron gate and a discreet plaque bearing the academy's name.

He stood outside the gate, taking a deep breath. This was it. The next chapter of his life. The next step on his path to vengeance.

He pushed open the gate and walked inside, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. He was no longer Ethan Sterling, the orphaned heir to a fallen empire. He was a swordsman, a seeker of justice, a Steel Requiem waiting to be played. The next chapter in his deadly symphony was about to begin.