For the first time, her calm shattered.
There was no room left for pride or restraint—only one thought surged through her veins like wildfire: she had to crush the man standing before her. The man who looked at her with that maddening, indifferent gaze, as if she were nothing more than a passing breeze.
The insults? She didn't care—or so she told herself. But the truth? They had cut deep. No one had ever spoken to her like that before. No one had ever dared.
She didn't hesitate.
With a sharp breath, she pushed off the ground and surged forward, a blur of fury and focus. Her blade was already in motion before her feet left the mat—arcing in a clean vertical slash aimed straight at Jake's face. The same move that had made others stumble. The same move that should've forced him back.
But this time…
His hand rose, unhurried. And caught her wrist.
Not roughly. Not like a warrior clashing steel with steel.
Gently. Firmly. Like a father stopping a child from touching a flame.
"Predictable," he said softly, almost with regret. "You're fast. But fast doesn't matter when you're obvious."
She twisted, pivoting sharply as her blade came around in a sweeping arc toward his side.
Tap.
His sword intercepted hers with casual precision. No effort. No movement of his feet. Just the tilt of a wrist. Just the hum of calm control.
"Too wide."
Her jaw clenched. Her breath quickened. She lunged—once, twice, thrice—quick, stinging jabs, one after another, each strike more desperate than the last. Her final thrust aimed straight at his chest, hoping—no, praying—for a gap, for a mistake.
Clang. Cling. Whap.
Each blow was met, not with brute resistance, but with subtle deflection. Like he was brushing away raindrops with the back of his hand. Like her blade was nothing more than an inconvenience he barely needed to acknowledge.
Jake's sword didn't clash. It danced. And it made her fury feel small.
So small.
Seraphine's breath came in ragged gasps as she stepped back, trying to steady herself, but her chest heaved in frustration. The fire inside her burned hot, and she couldn't seem to douse it.
With a sharp scream, she lunged again—high, low, a flurry of attacks that blurred with the rush of emotions in her veins. Fury. Hate. Desperation. She poured everything into the strikes, each one faster, more vicious than the last.
Jake, though, didn't budge.
His feet were planted firmly in the circle, like roots burrowing into the earth.
Every attack she made? Bathed in futility. Each slash, each jab, he batted away with the same effortless motion. And every step she took forward, he made her feel as though it was the wrong one.
"You telegraph," he said, catching her lunge and twisting it away with ease.
Seraphine's teeth ground together. She tried again, faster, angrier. The follow-up was a swipe—clumsy.
"You hesitate," he said, his sword flicking through the air to parry.
She growled. Her blade came down, harder now, trying to force him back.
"You're chasing victory, not the fight," Jake added, his sword flicking out again, this time knocking her off-balance like a child learning to walk.
Her anger boiled over.
"Shut up!" she spat, her voice cracking with the heat of her words. "I don't need your damn sermons!"
Jake's face remained unchanged. He didn't flinch. Didn't even seem bothered. Instead, he shrugged, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.
"Sure you don't," he said, voice flat, almost bored. "But I'm still giving them. Call it… charity."
Seraphine's pulse hammered in her ears. She came again, faster, harder. But each time, Jake was a wall she couldn't scale.
His movements were fluid—nothing forced, nothing wasted. Like water flowing around rocks. Every dodge felt like a lesson. Every parry, a correction.
"That step? Too heavy," he noted, his blade flicking aside her thrust effortlessly.
Her fingers burned, but she pushed forward, her mind screaming at her to break through. She aimed for his ribs, a perfect opening.
"Your elbow's flaring again," Jake said, stepping aside to avoid her blow, and his sword moved like a breath of wind to block.
Seraphine was growing desperate now. She swung harder, trying to power through.
"You're overcommitting on every swing. That's why I see it coming," Jake continued, his voice like a constant undercurrent, steady and unshakable.
"Stop breathing like you're drowning," he added, as he deflected yet another strike, his tone as dry as the desert. "You're not dying—yet."
Each of his words stung more than the impact of her blade.
"You just love hearing yourself talk, don't you?" Seraphine spat, her breath coming in jagged bursts. "You think you're helping me?"
Jake's face was as unreadable as ever, not a flicker of emotion. His gaze stayed fixed on her, calm, unshaken.
"I am helping you," he said softly, his voice steady. "Every mistake you make here… is a warning for the next fight."
As if to prove the point, his sword flicked up, easily deflecting her strike without him even looking.
"I think," he continued, his voice cutting through the air like a blade of its own, "you need to know your mistakes. Not guess them. Not excuse them. Know them."
His sword swept aside her blade again, and he tapped her shoulder lightly with the hilt, deliberate, as if punctuating a lesson.
"That was your stance again," he said. "Too rigid. You're rooted to the ground like it owes you something."
Seraphine's jaw clenched, but she didn't back down. She spun, slashing at him with a fury that was almost reckless. Jake sidestepped her counter so effortlessly it was like watching a well-practiced dance.
"You lunge without purpose," he continued, his voice steady, almost kind. "You retreat without control. That's not bravery—it's panic with a fancy mask."
He flicked his sword against hers mid-swing. The sharp clash made her fingers sting, the force knocking her off-balance for a heartbeat.
"And you still don't know how to breathe," Jake added, his tone almost clinical. "Deep. Measured. You're choking on your pride before I even press in."
Seraphine's face flushed with anger, and with a scream, she slashed at him with everything she had.
Jake didn't flinch. He parried it smoothly, his blade meeting hers with effortless precision. He pushed against her sword lightly, overpowered it, and in a fluid motion, forced her to take a step back—without ever shifting his position.
"You don't know how to lose yet, Seraphine," Jake said, his voice low, but sharp. "That's why you'll never win."
"Shut up!" she roared, her eyes burning with rage.
Jake's expression didn't change. He tilted his head slightly, as if seeing her clearer than she could see herself.
"You shut your ears every time someone tries to open your eyes," he said, his voice quieter now, almost an afterthought. "And you think that makes you strong?"
Seraphine's heart thundered in her chest. Every word he spoke felt like a weight, a truth she didn't want to hear but couldn't escape. She gritted her teeth, launching another series of attacks, her blade slicing through the air like lightning.
Jake met each strike with the same fluid precision, a master of timing and calm. His movements were gentle yet unyielding, each parry a lesson in itself.
"You think power means people kneel when you yell?" he said, his voice calm, almost amused. "No. Real power walks into silence and is still heard."
Her sword came down in a vicious arc, aimed for his shoulder, desperation in every swing. Jake didn't even move his feet, just flicked his sword to intercept hers. The force of their clash sent a shock through her body.
Jake didn't look away from her once. "Grow up, Seraphine."
She stumbled back, gasping for air, her body trembling from the force of the fight—but it wasn't the physical exhaustion that weighed her down. It was his words, still ringing in her ears, cutting deeper than any blow. Each syllable carved into her pride, her sense of self.
Jake didn't move. He stayed in the circle, unbothered, watching her closely with that same indifferent look on his face. He wasn't even breathing hard.
"You want to get stronger?"
She didn't answer. Her grip on her sword tightened, knuckles white, but she held her tongue.
"Then start by being humble," he added, his voice flat but somehow sharper than the steel in her hand.
Seraphine's chest heaved, but she didn't move. She stood there, lips pressed together in frustration, her sword trembling ever so slightly. The words sliced through her like a cold wind, but she refused to show weakness.
With a sharp inhale, she lunged forward again, her body coiled like a spring, her blade flashing toward him with everything she had. Her focus was singular—she just needed to make him move, just one step.
Jake barely flinched.
It was as if he'd anticipated her every move before she'd even made it. A subtle shift of his posture. A minuscule dodge.
Seraphine gritted her teeth. "Not this time," she muttered under her breath.
"Seraphine," Jake said, his voice calm, like a river's flow in the stillness of night. "Your biggest problem is that you compare yourself to others. And sure, sometimes that pushes you to grow… but more often, it just holds you back."
His words were no more than an observation, but to her, they felt like chains. She could hear the undertone of truth in them, but she was done listening.
Something inside her snapped.
She shifted—swift, sharp—a change in her stance so sudden, so calculated, that it almost felt like time itself bent around her. Her sword moved faster than it had before, catching his with a clean, precise strike. There was no hesitation, no overthinking.
Jake's sword was knocked from his grip, spinning through the air, landing a few meters away with a soft, almost surprised clatter.
For the briefest of moments, Jake's eyes widened. The first real flicker of surprise she'd ever seen.
And Seraphine caught it.
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips. A grin that tasted like victory.
She didn't hesitate.
With all her weight behind her, she drove forward—shoulders low, breath sharp, blade aimed dead center. Every ounce of strength, every shred of will, all of it surged into that final thrust.
This was it.
She could feel it in her bones.
This was the one that would break through, the one that would finally push him out.
But then—
her sword stopped.
Not with a clash. Not a parry.
Just... stopped.
Held.
Two fingers.
That was all.
Jake stood still, unmoved. His arm barely raised. His gaze steady. And between his fingers, her blade sat frozen in place like a struck chord, trembling with tension that had nowhere to go.
Seraphine's eyes widened. Her breath caught mid-exhale. Her body locked in place, like her mind had slipped a gear.
She hadn't held back. She knew she hadn't.
And yet—he had stopped it like she was no more than a gust of wind brushing past him.
Jake met her gaze. No arrogance. No mockery. Just a quiet, steady calm that felt almost… kind.
"Comparing yourself to others is fine," he said, voice low, gentle, almost warm.
"But don't compare a god to a mortal, Seraphine. That's not a fair fight."
Then, as effortlessly as he'd caught it, he let go.
Her blade dropped a fraction, the weight suddenly real in her hands again. But her grip felt strange now—like she was holding a question instead of a weapon.
She stood frozen.
Eyes wide.
Heart loud.
This can't be happening.
Not again.
Not like this.
Her breath caught in her chest, not from the blow, but from the quiet unraveling within — that bitter, wordless knowing that none of it had made a difference. Not her strength. Not her training. Not even her fire.
He hadn't tried.
That truth sank deeper than any wound. Not a taunt, not a blow, just the soft, unbearable weight of being outmatched without effort. No cruelty in his eyes. No victory in his stance. Just a calm that didn't flinch, didn't falter, didn't even seem interested in proving anything.
She remembered what people said — that she was meant for greatness, that her presence shifted rooms, that her voice could cut through the air like a blade. But now, standing before him, sword useless, breath trembling, she felt like a whisper against a mountain.
He hadn't moved. Not really.
And in that stillness, she saw it — the kind of strength that didn't boast, didn't chase applause, didn't need to rise above anything… because it had never been beneath.
She swallowed, but it didn't help. Her arms trembled from something deeper than fatigue — not fear, but that haunting sense of insignificance. That she'd spoken so loudly for so long, and now stood before someone who didn't need to speak at all.
Then, without sound or signal, he moved — a simple motion, like a breeze shifting the surface of still water. Not violent. Not sudden. Just there.
His palm struck her gut — silent, sharp, absolute.
"Ugh---"
Air left her lungs before she even registered the pain. Her feet lifted. The ring turned. And then the ground caught her, rough and final, the dust rising around her like a shroud. Her blade was gone. Her breath, too. And for a moment, she wasn't sure where one ended and the other began.
The arena was quiet.
Then a voice split the stillness.
"That's enough."
Rina's words rang clear, not like a shout, but like a line drawn. Her boots scraped the dust as she stepped forward, eyes alight with something fierce — something unshaken. She planted herself between them, body small but will unmoving, as if daring him to take one more step.
Jake stopped.
His gaze met hers, and the world seemed to pause for them. She stood there, arms out, breath shallow, but her stance unbroken. Like she'd always done — afraid, maybe, but never turning away.
A memory passed between them, something shared in silence.
Jake's mouth curved, just a touch. Not mockery. Not pride. Just recognition, soft and quiet, like a ripple beneath still waters.
"Still stubborn," he murmured, more to himself than her — not a judgment, just a thread from some other time.
Rina didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Everything she had to say was already burning in her eyes.
Jake didn't press the moment. The air between them stretched thin, then let go.
He turned without a word, hands behind his back, his steps unhurried as he walked toward the exit. Nothing in his gait suggested triumph or malice—just motion. Just quiet finality.
Behind him, Seraphine stood still.Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her pride.
Jake spoke without looking back.
"Your sword swings like your emotions—wild, loud, and easy to read."
No reply. Just silence folding in around the words.
"You fight to prove something. But no one's watching. No one cares."
He passed the others without pause. No one moved.
"You want power," he said, near the door now. "But you haven't earned control."
A breath.
Then, a glance over his shoulder.
"Know your place, foolish girl. You were never a challenger. Just another name I'll forget by tomorrow."
And then he walked out, the echo of his steps lingering long after the door had swallowed him whole.
The training hall held its breath.
Seraphine sat on the floor, still as stone, her eyes unfocused—lost somewhere far beyond the tiles beneath her. She didn't blink. Didn't move. Even the act of breathing seemed too heavy to carry.
Rina stood nearby, unsure. Aria and Sylvia lingered a little farther off, the usual fire in their eyes dimmed. No one spoke. There was nothing to say—because what words do you offer someone who looks like something inside them has quietly caved in?
Seraphine's eyes weren't sad. Not angry, either. Just... hollow.
Rina moved first. She stepped closer, kneeling beside her, voice low, careful—like touching the surface of still water.
"Sera…"
No response. Just silence. Her gaze was pinned to the edge of the ring—where Jake had walked away. Where something, quietly and completely, had been taken from her. The pride that once lit her like a flame had gone out, dulled to ash.
A bitter smile curled at her lips. "He didn't even go all out," she murmured. Not to anyone. Just out loud, as if trying to make sense of it herself. "Not even close…"
Aria took a hesitant step forward. "You stood your ground," she said softly. "No one else even got that far."
Seraphine gave a small, empty laugh. "I didn't stand anything. He let me swing a few times. Let me think I had a chance. Then flicked me away like I was nothing."
Rina didn't argue. She only reached out, brushed some dust from Seraphine's shoulder with a care that said more than comfort. She didn't say you'll be okay. She didn't offer hope. Just presence.
"I've never held a sword," Rina said, quiet. "Never faced a crowd waiting to see if I'd rise or fall. Never crossed blades with anyone."
Seraphine blinked, caught off guard.
"But I've fought," Rina went on. "In rooms where people used words sharper than knives. In houses where silence said more than shouting. Where being who I was felt like a war all its own."
Her smile was faint. Not proud—just true.
"My battles don't leave bruises. But they leave cracks."
Something in Seraphine's chest shifted. The sting of loss dulled, just a fraction.
"But I learned," Rina said, "it's easy to break someone who's still growing. But the ones who stand back up—they're the ones the world starts to fear."
Seraphine looked down at her scraped palms. Her knees. Her sword lying far away like it belonged to someone else.
"You didn't see his eyes," she whispered. "He knew. The whole time. Knew I'd lose before I even moved."
"I saw them," Rina said. "And yeah. Maybe he did."
She looked at her, steady.
"But so what?"
Seraphine's breath caught.
"He was better. Today. That's all. You're not trying to beat the Jake who already is. You're trying to become the Seraphine who can."
The words didn't land like thunder. They sank—quiet, deep, true.
"You're not weak," Rina said. "You're still becoming. And it hurts. Of course it does. Growth always does. It's not born in comfort. It's born in bruises and broken pride."
Seraphine stared at the ground, at the little chips in the floor that suddenly looked like battle scars.
"You ever think I'm just not meant to win?" she said softly. "Some people are born strong. Others crawl."
Rina nodded—not agreement, but understanding.
"Then crawl," she said. "Bleed if you have to. Bite. But keep moving. There's no shame in starting on your knees. The shame is in never getting back up."
The hall was mostly empty now. Jake's footsteps had long faded, but his presence lingered, like the sting of lightning after it's struck—silent, but unmistakable.
Seraphine clenched her fists. The tremble in her fingers had slowed, replaced by something quieter. Stronger.
"I want to face him again."
Rina didn't hesitate. "Then you will."
"…And lose again?"
"Maybe." Rina's voice didn't waver. "But the Seraphine who steps into that fight—she won't be the one who fell today."
Silence settled between them, not heavy, just waiting.
Then Rina nudged her lightly with a shoulder, the smallest gesture cutting through the stillness. "Come on. You're bleeding pride all over the floor. It's getting embarrassing."
Seraphine let out a breath that turned into a laugh, short and sharp, but real. Her ribs protested, but she didn't care. The weight in her chest didn't disappear—but for the first time since the fall, she could breathe with it there.
"One day," she said, voice low but firm, "he'll regret ever drawing that circle."
Rina glanced at the faint ring, then back at her.
"No," she said, calm and sure. "He won't."
Seraphine looked up, puzzled.
But Rina's gaze didn't soften—it glimmered. Not with pity. With certainty.
"Because by the time you're ready… there won't be a circle that can hold you."