Eil burst from the smoke like a wolf breaking brush, greatsword cocked over his right shoulder like a storm cloud.

The blade wind ripped the air like torn canvas, aimed straight at the hand on my weapon like a hawk to prey.

Amused, a ripple over still water. No need for that.

“You could’ve aimed for my neck, like cutting a candlewick.

Whether you hit is one thing; whether you sever is another; whether I die is yet another—layers like stacked slate.

I said attack however you want, so don’t hold back like a horse on a short rein.”

His timing was decent, like a drumbeat on the upswing.

He lunged right when my Long Halberd cracked the ground and dust boiled up like a sandstorm.

But for a human living in the Demon Realm, fighting demons and the whole realm like swimming upstream, it’s not enough.

How to put it—between regular and transcendent fights, two mountains stand.

One is destructive power, like earthquakes scarring a plain.

The other is time-sense, like rivers running backward.

Destruction? Think Hero versus Demon King, and the landscape stays changed like cooled lava.

As for time? Right now I could step into the Godspeed Realm like slipping a leash.

I don’t even need to retreat; I could reverse-swing with the butt of my halberd like a bat to a fastball and launch him.

“Nice armor, like a beetle shell—no warping.”

Even the filigree hasn’t scuffed, lines fine as frost.

“One-third cold-jade, one-third mountain-bronze, one-fifth black-gold, plus rare metals in harmony like a chord.

Blessed by the Twin Gods of Strength. ‘Pitch-Black Resolve.’”

So this suit’s worth a year of the City of Heroes’ output, like bricks of coin stacked to a wall.

Eil is always laced in bandages like winding vines.

No clear wounds show, yet the exposed cloth keeps reddening like dye spreading in water.

“You’re still calm enough to chat, voice steady as stone.

So you’re not all in. I asked for a test, sure, but if it’s just this, what’s the point?” His tone rasped like gravel.

“What troubles you?” My words went out like a lantern in mist.

“We traveled the road and saw the signs like crows on a fence.

Anna, walking to the capital of the Wilderness Kingdom Veneli.

If someone blocks her, she fights and kills; if not, she keeps walking like rain that won’t stop.

She claims she’ll slaughter the whole city.”

“Did Princess Anna claim that? Isn’t she just walking?” His doubt hung like a dull bell.

“She didn’t?” I asked, puzzled, like a hand groping in the dark.

Looks like I need to check the schedule again, like checking knots on a rope.

“…”

“Ahem. Seems Vega hasn’t pushed the news, like a town crier late to the square.

These days we’ve been corralling the Demon King Army, which went chaotic over her vacation like cats in a granary.”

“…Then what should I do?” Even through the mask, his fatigue felt thick as damp ash.

He’s thinking what a small man does when he sees the Demon King’s plot, like a sparrow spotting a hawk.

“Do as you like. Even if you spread it, nothing happens, like smoke in wind.”

“…Because no one can prove it,” he said, words thin as paper.

“I’m not malicious. It’s Anna’s exit ceremony, like a curtain call.

The ‘slaughter’ is talk. I’ll stop her.

Now, shall we fight? A warm-up before Anna, like stretching before a sprint.”

“A full-power fight hurts me more, like stones on my ribs, and pays nothing back.

Even as rehab, it’s too heavy, like trying to swim in armor.”

He touched down and took his stance like a pine rooting into rock.

Sword up, center tight, ready to spring like a coiled cat.

“I figured heroes hear ‘fight’ and dive in like moths to a flame.”

“Those brutes die first in the Demon Realm, like candles in a gale.”

I edged closer by a step like a tide licking the shore.

We ghosted just outside each other’s range, circling like foxes in frost.

We waited for a crack, like watching ice form.

After a while, the patience grated like grit in a boot.

“If you won’t start, then I will,” I said, stone dropping into a pond.

I stepped into the Godspeed Realm like slipping between raindrops.

With the Demon King’s mantle, the limits are loose like an unhitched gate.

But for drilling before Anna, I need to be more human, like practicing with weights off.

Use the smallest cost for the biggest gain, like a sharp knife on a soft fruit.

It always feels like smashing a glass pane with my face—harsh and clean—when I enter Godspeed.

In my sight, Eil froze like a figure in a painting.

That doesn’t make him a wooden post.

If I rush and hammer him, he’ll snap into Godspeed in a blink like a trap jaw, block and counter, force me out, maybe hurt me.

Heroes lack raw force, but they hoard tricks like hidden hooks.

Anna and I are too strong, like mountains against wind.

Immortality, strength, authority—our edges are too sharp.

After the Sword Saint’s business, for a real duel we’ll bind those strengths like tying our own wrists.

We’ll fight as mortals.

So I need to learn mortal techniques, like learning to read the wind by grass.

Entering Godspeed feels good, like warm water after cold.

You slip free of time’s leash and swim in possibilities like stars on black water—unless your weight drags like lead boots.

Even Stini, a Hero at that tier, after repeated entries, ends up bruised just from breathing, blotches like spilled ink.

Switching that time-sense is beyond a human’s rank, like asking a candle to be a star.

I drifted into the optimal killing distance like a shadow sliding over snow.

I set a left-to-high diagonal with the halberd, edge asleep like a crescent moon.

Then I stepped out of Godspeed, clean as a breath.

Legendary heroes, when they focus like a lens catching sun, pull off the impossible.

They’ll blaze at the end, a flare of dying light, and score one more cut like a comet’s tail.

Or they’ll slip into Godspeed at the last heartbeat, guard raised like a sudden wall.

It’s neither magic nor science; it’s will and grit sung like iron hymns.

I studied it for ages and still stared into fog like a lost traveler.

“Sparring with the Sword Saint won’t teach me,” I muttered, thought beating like a moth.

He doesn’t mean me harm now, but that’s not the issue.

His experience doesn’t transfer, like music you can’t record.

So it’s my one-man show, a stage lit by one lamp.

Through the mask I heard Eil’s breath saw like bellows.

His style mirrors mine, fast and ruthless like lightning over a ridge.

Grab a chance, surge in one breath, and never waste a word like a blade that doesn’t chatter.

Me? My lungs do fine, calm as deep wells.

I don’t think about breathing in a fight—then I pause, amused, like a finger on a drum.

In Demon King state, do I even have organs?

“Besides unmatched swordplay, the Sword Saint’s basically a normal Lunarfolk, plain as morning bread.

He can’t step into the Godspeed Realm.

Ask how he handles it and he’ll shrug, ‘I go by feel,’ like a cat finding sun.”

We kept switching between Godspeed and normal time like swimmers trading strokes.

I think Eil’s raw quality is below Julian’s, like iron beside steel.

In practice he often takes the edge, mostly because his ferocity hits like a black wave and people flinch.

He can stay in Godspeed longer than Julian by several times, like a runner with bigger lungs.

But he misses openings, fingers slipping like wet fish.

Maybe he’s not a natural fighter—or the Demon World Surveillance Squad drills hit-and-run, blitz then break, like wasps that sting and go.

The Long Halberd owns mid-range, a windmill with teeth, but his armored charge blunts that like a boar’s hide.

And this is a test, so my halberd is just a sturdy giant weapon, a club without authority.

Even so, with shaft and butt I caught angles like a crowbar under a stone.

From the best line to exert force, the advantage stayed with me like shade at noon.

His horizontal cut met my guard like iron on iron.

Before he could turn it into a thrust, I snapped the butt into his chest like a hammer, and blood misted the air like red rain.

Once you’re forced into passive defense, countering feels like climbing glass.

I kept kicking and swinging, pressure pounding like surf and mallet.

Eil, though, defended while driving in harder, teeth bared like a boar.

He knew if he backed off, even his close-range edge would vanish like heat in wind.

He pushed through the hurt and kept coming like a drum that won’t stop.

It’s an overdraft style, burning seed grain like a hungry winter.

Light and heavy hits together, I’ve tagged him over a hundred times, tally like beads on a cord.

He never once lifted the mask, face hidden like a moon behind clouds.

From his recovery speed, he’s not Lunarfolk or dragonkin, no quick-regen breed—more like oak that heals slow.

We can’t keep this up; a friendly spar isn’t a death duel, tradition cool as tea.

I don’t enjoy feeding openings either, like handing out candy to a knife.

“Enough. Change those bandages—they’re paint on a cracked wall.

Keep going and you’ll need new lungs,” I said, cutting the tide like a bell.

I eased back two steps and let the victory fall to him like a banner set down.

“Hh—ss… hu—ah.” Eil’s breathing rasped like a torn bellows.

When he stopped and let the greatsword droop, his stance wobbled like a reed in wind.

I sighed, a small cloud in cold air.

I learned nothing and now I’m paying a potion like tuition.

“Here. Drink the potion—oil for your gears.

Your breathing will smooth out like a river after rocks.”

“…I won,” he said, stubborn as a nail.

“Yeah, yeah, you won. Drink.

If your lung bleeds, don’t pin it on me,” I shot back, dry as bark.

He leaned on the greatsword and sat on a rock like a tired statue.

He downed my potion without a second thought, glugging like a thirsty ox.

“Let me guess. Forcing me to concede while you’re a wreck is a Demon World Surveillance Squad custom?”

I asked out of idle curiosity, words drifting like smoke.

“…Never concede. Deny everything about the Demon King,” he said, flat as iron.

“It’s a clumsy cure for the Demon King’s mental pollution, and the only cure,” he added, bleak as winter.

“Then why drink my potion? Hand it back!

That’s three Colonna gold coins on the market,” I snapped, clutching at coin like a miser.

“The rules say don’t acknowledge the Demon King.

They don’t say I can’t acknowledge a potion that helps my body,” he replied, slipping through a loophole like water through a crack.

Sometimes I really want to rip off Eil’s mask and see if the face beneath is smirking like a fox.