Flirting is a craft, a lantern you trim in the wind.

It needs a quiet pocket of space, be it an amusement park or a café.

Noise can burn outside like fireworks across a river, but your bubble must stay calm so romance ferments.

Then add a charcoal-in-snow gesture, warmth in cold, and you won’t conquer at first sight, but you’ll win a good first impression.

As the saying goes, let’s start as friends, the trailhead before the mountain view.

All that only happens when Stini isn’t stirring the pot, no harem-carnival perks in real life.

I misjudged Stini’s shamelessness; that’s my fault, a crack I carved in my own mirror.

In class she ignores lectures, then trumpets livelihood and world order, waving big-talk banners like wind-tossed flags.

She sneaks little touches at me, like a cat’s paw under a curtain.

She cuts into my talk with Raven mid-strategy, then acts clingy, painting us as lovers in public.

Now Raven keeps shooting me scorn, knives in her eyes: ‘You’ve got a girlfriend, and still you come to me?’

Winning Raven soon is a nonstarter, a kite grounded by rain.

I figured, her dad is the principal, so Stini would perform obedience, calm and demure, bottling that gremlin streak.

Novels write them like that, faces lacquered with tropes and steps set by drums.

I knew reality isn’t a novel, but the gap hit like cold rain; that’s on me, and it wastes Vega’s assist.

I’ll go apologize to Vega, a bow offered under clear sky.

Fine.

Reflection done. Then—thunder rolls, and I shout to the horizon.

Your days are numbered! Die, Stini!

I yank the Greatsword Valor from my shadow and roar across the open sparring ground, echoes thudding like drums.

Third period, Combat Practicum; the teacher wants volunteers for live demonstrations.

I raise my hand first; Stini is second, sparks snapping between us.

If it’s a live bout, throwing a few harsh lines is fair, like thunder before rain.

Either way, I want to pound her, a drumbeat in my chest.

I also know why she cleanly gave up when we almost fought days ago, a tide pulled back.

Save it. It’s your doom that’s coming.

Her line fits the stage, a mask set under bright lamps.

But it doesn’t douse my anger; my fire climbs like a brush blaze.

She warms up with a training sword; calling the Holy Sword would be bullying, so she balances the scales.

She catches my glare and answers with a fox’s grin, all teeth and mischief.

Good. Stini, you’re dead, frost ringing on iron.

I set the bar: beat her within living limits, like a storm caged by walls.

I'm ready, teacher. Can we start?

Uh… uh… The teacher watches two war-heated faces and stammers, "Keep it light. Don’t go too far."

Fine. Just make her stay a few days at the Goddess of Life Shrine, a bed under healing light.

Works for me. Andor can spend a few days at the Goddess of Life Shrine.

My temper flares, a spark in dry grass.

She actually said that; does she even know what manners are, a bell rung in a temple?

All right, s-since you’re both ready, then…

She raises her arm, drawing a line in the air.

No cover, no padding, no protection. No abilities. One-on-one duel. It ends only when one side surrenders.

Meaning, if no one yields, someone could die—on a training day, a blade-cold morning.

The Silver Era looks civilized yet bristles with brute war, silk over steel.

Begin the bout!

Stini takes a flexible stance, body like a willow in wind.

In a sense, she’s peak warrior—trained to the edges till her steel sings.

I don’t pose; I carry no frills, a storm tied to a rock.

My way is—

Run!

My first step chips the ground; I sprint through dust straight at her.

She reacts fast; a loose stance won’t stop my charge, so she locks down, roots deep.

Smart call, like bracing a door against a gale.

Riding the rush, I bring an overhead cleave; she bleeds off force and sends it aside.

Stini snaps into a counter, her deflection ending in a taut coil; then—

Clang—metal screams like thunder on stone.

Our blades collide mid-swing; my greatsword recovers as fast as her longsword, a hawk turning mid-air.

She’s strong, but I’m stronger; she rolls back, shedding impact like falling leaves.

You—

I pivot hard and surge again; a stepping cut chops off her words like a guillotine.

I’ve decided to beat her bloody, a red moon rising.

The second strike eases, power low but impact high; she can’t slip the net like before.

Third, fourth, fifth—each strike climbs in speed and strength, one wave pressing another to shore.

That’s a greatsword’s might: slower swing, yet mid-range reach and built-in power fill the gap.

My raw strength patches that lone flaw, a pillar planted in storm.

Stini soon sees the greatsword carries far more force than her longsword, yet my rhythm matches hers.

I don’t know all the boons on her, so in a fair frame she won’t break balance with tricks.

She knows this pace won’t hold; her motion gives it away like a shadow slipping.

She trims defense, and the first blood beads on her calf; then forearm, hand, cheek.

They’re not deep cuts, just grazes and wind-slice scratches, like reeds nicked by passing blades.

She truly cut her guard—but where did that missing sword-dance go, that ribbon snapped?

I learn it through the hole in my shoulder blade, cold iron kissing bone.

I never saw that thrust; pain blooms, and if instinct hadn’t tilted my head, my throat was done.

The Saya family’s ancestral swordplay?

Yeah. Did you think a Hero has only brute strength, a hammer without art?

A blade placed just right, subtle to the edge, cut at the perfect seam.

Magnificent, like a dragonfly’s wing slicing water.

Our wounds stack like frost on glass, yet none decides the day.

Mine run deeper, lines inked in red.

Keep this up and it becomes a contest of endurance; that’s not my plan.

I glimpse her strange sword: unreactable, instant pierce, the scent of the Godspeed Realm.

She steps in by technique, so speed leaps beyond sense, like lightning behind eyelids.

Outside the Godspeed Realm, you see only an ‘instant,’ a single flash in storm.

Inside it, meters per second mean nothing; only faster or slower, currents within a tempest.

My body can’t bear Godspeed either; her secret blade only enters for a heartbeat.

So let Godspeed decide this; I nail down my resolve like a stake in clay.

Only one strike, only one chance, a bell tolling once.

One cut to end it, like chopping through dawn.

We empty our hearts and move faster, faster, until a threshold hums like a wire.

Time slackens; dust, grass, and motion all drift slow, and only we still move.

Then we throw our full selves into the swing, lightning across a black sky.