But if she could think that, the man wouldn’t miss it. He smelled it in the wind.

Sure enough, after his first shift, he chained a second.

During his crouching sweep, he saw Desty drop her blade to lift. He slid the sweep, torso leaning like a wind-bent pine. He curved up in a crescent arc, slipping past Desty’s rising parry.

“What…?!” Desty froze, like a deer catching a hunter’s glint.

Her upward parry had little lag; she arched back like a bow. Even so, a cut kissed her shoulder, warm blood on cold snow.

She hissed, fear pricking her skin; she pulled back and jumped away.

Is this the Bannubi Empire’s swordcraft, layered like waves on rock? Each variation bit at a vital, hard to guard, hard to breathe.

The pressure pressed like a mountain; every rush drummed her heartbeat wild. Once panic seeds, battles rot; she felt that rot nibble her edge.

If not for Lucimia’s Reversion, she’d have died a dozen times. Like leaves swept into a cold river.

The man feared her counters too; each advance needed guile and grit. He had to trick her guard, or bleed for every step.

They faced with blades raised, eyes locking like two bows strung. Each saw the other as a thorny, stubborn foe in winter.

Desty agreed with Lucimia; she’d try his style, steal his rhythm. A true Swordmaster wields more than one river of technique.

The man hated her defense; he’d steal a page, know his foe. Know yourself, know the other, and win a hundred wars.

After ten slow seconds of silence, steel moved again. This time, Desty broke first, like a hawk dropping from cloud.

Lucimia, balanced on a branch, watched the duel with frost-cool eyes.

Two shadows swung long blades; ping-pang steel rang through the forest. Snow leapt from the ground, flurries flying like startled birds.

Sometimes Desty pressed; sometimes the man guarded; then it flipped again. The field stretched wider; red and black flickered between trunks.

Sword on sword struck sparks, little stars popping in green shade. Lucimia worried they’d set the woods aflame, a wildfire of blades.

Desty’s swordcraft climbed mid-fight; she died twice, then held firm. She pressed him hard, like tide against cliff; he felt her growing.

Each exchange weighed heavier; his arms burned like wet iron. No good; I can’t keep this pace, he thought, jaw set.

He halted sharp; his black sword flicked; bruise-purple bled along steel. He was about to use a magic-imbued sword technique.

Desty refused to yield; eight White Swords gathered like circling cranes. The long sword in her hand glowed red, like embers under ash.

He slashed, and a dark violet blade flew like a comet. Desty set two White Swords before her, guarding like twin shields. She sent four others arcing in from every side.

The next moment stunned them both, shock cracking like ice. His magic blade slipped into no-space before it touched the guards. It pierced through, then popped out past the blocking White Swords.

Desty whipped the last two White Swords to intercept. The blade dove into a spatial rift again, then struck from behind.

“Behind you!” Lucimia swallowed her urge to act and warned Desty.

Desty spun; mana flooded her blade; she braced like a wall.

Rising Cut.

She whispered, then birthed a matching blade, bright as a crescent. The blades collided; light burst and thunder rolled through the pines. The tree under Lucimia shuddered, leaves trembling like frightened fish.

Across the clearing, four White Swords rushed from four winds. He only snapped his fingers; four small rifts flowered beside him. They swallowed the White Swords, and Desty’s assault fell apart.

What is that? Lucimia steadied herself and watched his work. A sword technique? Maybe for the space-bent blade, but not this.

Snapping open rifts wasn’t Magic; she herself only had Teleportation Magic. She couldn’t toy with space, opening and closing like doors.

If not swordcraft or Magic, then only a Blessing fits. A Blessing of Time and Space Authority Power…?

Lucimia crouched, palm on bark, eyes narrowing like a blade. A rift-opening Blessing belongs to Space; rare to meet here. She began weighing whether to act with her own hand.

When the explosion bloomed, Desty rolled instantly, out of the blast heart. She barely found her feet; breath still thin; the man was there. He rushed in like a storm; black sword lifted; the cut fell.

Desty lifted her blade to parry, urgency beating in her throat. Clang— a clean note rang, slicing through the cold air.

Next heartbeat, his right leg snapped out in a straight kick. Midair, dark violet fire crawled up his calf like night ivy. In less than a breath, the leg became a blade and lunged.

“What?! Desty couldn’t react; death fell like a guillotine. She was cut in two, red scattering onto white snow.

The blade burned again; in a blink, it was a leg. Lucimia used Reversion, time rewinding like a river loop.

This time, Desty steadied and rolled, refusing close quarters. She rose; the man charged; one cut; Desty blocked it. His left fist shot straight, then burned and became a blade. It speared through her chest; air left her in broken gasps.

Cough, cough… what kind of twisted sword technique is this…? She fell again, like a puppet with strings cut.

Lucimia used Reversion again, again, again, and chose to step in. This foe wasn’t just a simple fifth-tier Swordmaster anymore. Desty wasn’t his match; training helps, but meteors don’t rise on command.

Don’t fight him. He has Blessings, more than one—likely two. Let me.

As her words fell, the forest’s breath plunged into winter. It wasn’t Frost or snowfall; it was a cold that gnawed souls.

A vast black curtain draped the woods; the man shivered. Bad omen pricked his spine; shadow crept like night tide.

He had always feared the magic-wielding girl, danger humming under her skin. Instinct said she was trouble, dread blooming from inside out. Like a Dark Deity stepping through a temple’s broken door.