She wanted to switch the sword to her left and shake out her aching right hand like shaking off frost. She stopped, afraid the opponent would smell the gap in strength like a wolf. She locked both hands on the hilt, planted the blade before her like a straight pine, and took the Academy’s standard Swordmaster opening stance.
The masked man saw and answered with his own start, a shadow settling like nightfall. His style wasn’t from the Kingdom of Sipan, a flag from another camp. He used the Bannubi Empire’s swordcraft, iron lessons from a harsher wind. Left foot forward, right back. Right hand on the blade held level like a black river. The tip aimed at Desty. His body lowered like a stalking cat, ready to spring.
Compared to the Kingdom of Sipan’s school—guard first, counter second, wait, then kill in one stroke—the Bannubi Empire preaches pure offense like a storm. They break rhythm with ruthless chains like drumbeats turning into hail. Every cut hunts a vital. Every move strikes from the unexpected. They make fear bloom like frost along the spine.
Ask who’s better, and the blade refuses to answer; it depends on the field like rain and soil. Sipan’s school suits one-on-one sieges, against men or beasts, like a lone tower facing a storm. Bannubi’s school excels one against many, a whirlwind among spears. The talents differ, each bright in its own sky.
But theory lives on paper, and a big gap in strength tears paper like wet bark.
In a nameless forest, two Swordmasters raised their schools like banners and edged toward a decisive clash. Desty stood like a pine, holding to the rule: if the enemy stays still, I stay still, calm like deep water. Her clear eyes kept emotion beneath the surface, and her hands tightened on the red-hilted longsword like holding a warm ember. The masked man wore a storm for a face and gripped a dark blade with a long hilt; his eyes glittered with cold killing intent like ice shards.
They faced each other, and the ancient trees seemed to feel their enmity like thunder under the bark. A breeze combed the leaves; a low hum rolled like a beehive. They weren’t just watching; they were quietly stealing back breath and strength like thieves in a temple.
In the end, the masked man moved first, a starting bell for blood. His figure flickered; a black shadow snapped to Desty’s front like a hawk diving. The icy tip lunged for her face, a needle of winter aimed at her cheek.
He knows swordcraft deeply, like reading wind and water. Defensive-counter schools crush swings, slashes, and chops with iron answers like walls stopping waves. But thrusts and flicks are hard to guard; they test your command of your own rhythm like tightrope work.
Desty’s heart stuttered like a missed drumbeat; fear pricked first. Then she moved, like a fish breaking surface. She slanted her body and tipped her head, slipping past the killing point; a few strands sheared free and drifted like cut silk.
Not done—the Bannubi chains bared their fangs. He twisted his right wrist, his edge tracking her neck like a crescent moon. Desty had braced for it; most straight thrusts twist into a neck cut after the turn, like a road bending toward cliffs. Her defense unfolded like a steel flower. From the first beat she gripped two-handed, like roots gripping earth. As he moved, she lifted and stabbed back, wedging her blade between his edge and her throat like a thin steel gate.
Block this, then ride his steel, slide along, and cut his body—her counterstroke already pictured like a tide rushing in. But plans dry up fast in battle, like puddles in sun. Desty tasted his cruelty for the first time like bitter tea. As her move committed, he switched in a blink, like a snake shedding direction. His turning wrist turned farther; the long hilt dipped, its butt aimed at her like a snake’s head. A tiny blade popped from the hilt, and its tip drove for her eye, cold and merciless like a splinter of ice.
“Crap!” Emotion hit like cold water; she knew she’d fallen for his feint. No wonder his hilt was long—he hid a sting there like a wasp. She tried to change, but her motion locked like frozen sap. Defense wouldn’t return in time, like a door wedged. Only attack remained, bright and reckless like fire in dry grass.
She dropped the guard and slashed for his face, a desperate arc like a red comet. The regret held like a stone in the gut. His strike landed a beat before hers, like thunder overtaking lightning. The small blade drilled through Desty’s eye and into her brain; hot blood slicked his hand like paint. He only tilted aside to dodge most of her cut; his forehead earned a shallow line like a leaf’s scar.
It all happened too fast—five heartbeats, no more. Desty fell limp to the earth, easy prey to a clean assassination like a candle snuffed. Even then, he didn’t skip the finisher, like a butcher’s habit. One stroke severed her head like chopping bamboo. He flicked blood from hand and steel like rain off a cloak. He slid the sword into his cape, scanned the grove like a wary fox, then left at a quick pace like a shadow.
After he left, a petite figure slipped from the branches like a swallow. “Figures it’s the Bannubi Empire,” Lucimia murmured. “They cultivate swordplay and wear it as a name. Even a passerby’s technique rivals some Holy Knights of the kingdom. The famed Sword Saints often hail from that soil like bamboo from a mountain slope.”
She muttered while looking down at Desty’s bleeding corpse like a fallen flower, then toward the masked man running far like a fleeing shadow. “Hmph. You won’t get away that easy. You’ll make fine practice—and let Desty toughen.”
Lucimia had arrived long before, quiet as dew. She held back, wanting to see how Desty would solve it like a test. Lately, Desty keeps saying she’s not strong, like a sparrow among eagles. She’s only scuffled in the Academy, and even then graduated second, feeling useless like a dull blade.
Time is tight now; there’s no room to keep training, the days like arrows. She’s no genius; she learns slower than Lucimia, step by step like a stream, not a flood. Outside, danger nests everywhere like thorns. Where do you find a sparring partner near your strength? Too weak does nothing. Too strong kills you in one stroke, never leaving a breath to counter—just like today.
So Lucimia chose to forge her in the moment like hammer and anvil. She had crammed Swordmaster lore into Desty these days, words like seeds. Watching the man, she pegged him at fifth order, like counting rings on a tree. Desty sits at fourth, like one step down a stair. The gap isn’t huge; she can resist to a degree, like a reed bending in wind.
Drills feel clean, but real battle stains and teaches more like smoke and fire. With her Reversion, Desty can die as many times as needed, fear shed like an old skin. Lucimia herself grew through fights, like a blade from the whetstone. Her first spell went straight into a clash with a Blue Ringed Octopus, a sea’s poison in bright rings. After that, it was always combat, and many deaths, stars counted by night.
Desty can walk that path, like footsteps on wet sand. Lucimia won’t reset her memory; let her taste death again and again, tempering her heart like steel heated and quenched. “Good. Settled.” Lucimia clapped, then winked; blinding white light bloomed like a sunrise. After days, she called on Reversion once more, like turning a river upstream.
