“Eh?”

A cold sting still haunted her left eye, like winter thorn under skin. Desty blinked back into herself and faced the masked man.

What’s happening? Panic rose like a tide. Didn’t I…die? Did Lucimia use Reversion? Is she nearby?

Where is she? Why isn’t she acting? Is she watching me get pummeled?

Her temples throbbed like drumbeats in a storm. His opening went straight for her weak points, clean and ruthless. You couldn’t blame him; real battle had no mercy.

“Don’t drop your guard.” Lucimia’s voice drifted in on sound-transmission magic, like wind through pines.

“You keep saying your combat’s lacking, right? Perfect. Use this masked man to train. He’s Tier Five—no pushover, but not a monster.”

“Uh?”

“No ‘uh.’ He’s on you.”

The man lunged in a sudden thrust, a black spike for her brow. Desty tilted hard, head slipping past by a hair’s width.

Strands of her hair fluttered down like cut grass. His right hand rotated; the blade angled for her pale throat.

With Reversion behind her like a lifeline, Desty knew the blade was bait. The real kill was the small sword tucked behind the hilt.

That short blade had less reach than a longsword. So she went to bat the hilt beneath it, then flick upward to strike.

She guessed wrong.

Seeing she didn’t defend his slash, the man didn’t use the small blade at all. He simply continued the cut.

Shnk! The black blade severed her neck. Blood sprayed like a broken crimson reed. Her body fell, empty as a husk.

He flicked crimson from steel like rain off a raven’s wing, then vanished into the trees.

Lucimia covered her face, weary as dusk.

No choice. She triggered Reversion again.

Desty’s awareness snapped back. The man stood before her, posture coiled for attack, like a wolf on ice.

“You assumed too much,” Lucimia taught from a branch, voice steady as moonlight. “That opener gives him many paths. Whatever you answer, he shifts.”

“What do I do? Do I take the first move?”

“No. Your goal is training, not finishing him.”

“What’s the difference?” Frustration flared like sparks. With Reversion, reading his attack and acting early felt obvious.

“Big difference.” Time reset with a hush as Lucimia used Reversion, then continued. “If we want him dead, sure, preempt. For training, no. If you don’t crack his opener head-on, you’ll still lose next time.”

“…All right.” The truth bit like winter air. First move was escape. She needed to break the storm front.

“What do I do? His transitions flow too smooth. Block slash, get stabbed; block stab, get slashed.” Swordmasters of the Bannubi Empire were terrifying.

Lucimia had handled Lev too easily, and it had fooled Desty’s judgment.

“You already know he flows too well. Make him stumble. And once you stop him, learn a piece of his swordwork. A strong Swordmaster won’t have just one style.”

“Okay… I’ll try.” Desty gripped her sword and drew a breath, steady as lake water.

He attacked a third time. The thrust ripped forward, pure speed like a hawk’s shadow. Pressure slammed down; panic fluttered in her chest.

Shnk!

She didn’t even dodge. The blade pierced her forehead and drove through the brain, cold as iron rain.

Lucimia rewound time with Reversion.

“Don’t speak. I know what to do. Let me think.”

Lucimia held her tongue. “Okay.”

The fourth attack came. Even after seeing it four times, she saw only a shadow in motion. That speed wasn’t human; it rode a technique like wind rides leaves.

She wanted to use the White Sword to block—many blades, built for defense and counter. She refused. She’d meet him with plain forms.

Only that path meant growth.

This time she moved. She tilted hard, raised her sword upright beside her neck. His blade skimmed along her steel, sparks firefly-bright.

She’d preempted his slash. Their motions aligned, like two currents crossing. She wouldn’t get stuck in recovery while he flowed on.

His feint-plus-hilt-blade tactic broke on the rocks.

Now it was her turn.

She’d only tilted and lifted, light as reeds. He’d thrown full force into the thrust. The one locked in recovery was him, not her.

Desty chopped straight down, the edge cleaving for his brow like a falling pine.

His pupils shocked wide, night rippling in a pond. He hadn’t expected her to read him and flip the tide with a simple raise.

So this is the terror of a defense-and-counter style, he thought, a bitter wind across the teeth.

He still had answers. He tossed his sword up, dropped prone, and lunged forward. His shoulder slammed Desty’s legs like a boar’s charge.

She rocked back, breath scattering like leaves. Her chop didn’t land. He surged up, caught the falling sword, rolled his wrist, and stabbed for the girl on the ground.

Desty reacted fast. She gripped tight, cut across, and met steel in midair.

Clang—! The sound rang through the forest like struck bells.

She held advantage. Her right hand swept inward in a horizontal cut, checked the black blade, and her tip lined with his chest. She drove a clean thrust.

He knew he’d lost that beat. He scrambled back, dodging death, but her edge bit his shoulder. Blood welled like red dew.

Desty used the breath to rise.

They lifted steel and faced off again. The first round had ended like a storm pulling back to sea.

Both drew two cool breaths, then rushed in once more.

This time he chose to gather power. Right hand on the hilt, arm bent, blade shifted left. He sprinted, cut wide, and dropped low.

He sold the high line, then switched to the low, deception coiled like a snake.

“Watch his changeup,” Lucimia warned, voice crisp as frost.

“I know…”

A horizontal slash could be checked by a vertical chop, an up-thrust, or a diagonal cut. Desty picked the up-thrust.

It guarded and stabbed at once, like bamboo that bends then springs. Even if he slipped aside, she could turn and cut across.