She began speaking, her tone calm—but carved with steel:
— "Attack and defense… are but two sides of the same coin.
Master timing, and your parry becomes your strike—
your fall… the beginning of your enemy's collapse."
"This level can't be mastered by the sword alone, but through understanding—insight.
The body must become an instrument of thought, one that translates awareness the way a dancer moves to rhythm."
"It's not just a skill… it's a philosophy of combat.
A craft that turns every strike against you into a door leading to your opponent's ruin.
In this style, you don't simply block—you reshape.
Your enemy's force is absorbed, stored within you for a single heartbeat, and unleashed as a devastating counter."
"The enemy's blade ceases to be your opponent… and becomes an extension of your arm."
She then turned to him with a piercing gaze—one that saw through flesh and into bone—and spoke in a tone laced with silent challenge:
— "Strike me with everything you have.
You won't understand this level… until it breaks you."
He gripped his sword, letting the haze of his spirit coil around him like smoke,
Then moved in silence.
Not the silence of hesitation—
But the silence of a fighter listening to his body,
To the aura pulsing around him.
Then… he lunged.
A strike aimed at her left shoulder.
Fast enough to catch most opponents off-guard…
But she wasn't most opponents.
With seamless grace—like her body knew his intent before he did—
She redirected the blow, used its momentum against him, and hurled him back with double the force.
He crashed to the ground.
But he didn't feel pain.
His expression began to shift—
As if a new door had opened before him.
A door that words could not describe.
He rose again.
Then charged. Again and again.
His strikes poured like a storm—attack, stumble, retreat, and then surge forward with savage hunger.
And every time… she met him.
Parried. Redirected. Struck.
Her voice rising with the rhythm of clashing steel:
— "Show me more! That's my son! Show me the madness that lives inside you!"
Six hours.
Six hours of steel grinding against steel, muscles burning, joints screaming.
And yet—
Despite the fatigue that crawled over him like dusk…
His fire didn't die.
He hadn't mastered the technique yet.
But something inside him had begun to understand—
That this art demanded more than strength.
It required the grace of a dancer,
A mind that could read motion before it existed,
And eyes that saw the weakness hidden in the heart of chaos.
He returned to his room, undressing slowly.
His body was worn—steam rising from him as if fire lived beneath his skin.
He stepped into the bath.
Scalding water poured over his aching form, as if reshaping him from the inside out.
Minutes passed in silence.
He emerged, the room thick with steam, heat clinging to his skin.
His body had flushed red from the intensity.
The servants had followed his instructions precisely, as always.
He had trained his body to withstand extreme temperatures—
To force it to adapt to the harshest conditions.
Hot water relaxed tense muscles. Pain made recovery more complete.
He stood before the mirror and wiped the fog away with one hand.
His reflection stared back—his hair, his features,
That lingering… unsettling smile.
Isaac froze.
The reflection… wasn't right.
It smiled back at him. Willingly.
A smirk twisted upward—sharp, mocking.
The eyes were deeper now. Clearer. Crueler.
Then came the voice.
Not from the room. Not from his lips.
But from somewhere else—
Inside him. Behind the mirror. It didn't matter.
— "Stop pretending."
He froze where he stood.
That reflection had spoken.
No one else could hear it.
No one else needed to.
— "You smile like you're happy…
But you and I both know—
You're just a whore with talent for performance."
He didn't reply.
He couldn't even protest.
The words had struck bone.
The reflection's stare carved through his façade—
Like a blade sharpened by truth.
Then, in heavy silence… he turned his back to the mirror.
And left his reflection smiling behind him.
He dressed.
And walked—as always—toward the dining hall.
She was there, seated in her usual spot.
Smiling at him with that same warm, maternal glow.
Not like him
The smile he had learned to wear… without feeling a thing.
And he thought to himself:
— "If she believes it… that's enough. That's her reward."
But the voice inside him didn't fade.
And the smile… still lingered.
He was there.
Waiting.
Hours had passed, and night had taken the sky.
The sun had long vanished behind the palace walls.
Lara moved quietly through one of the marble corridors, carrying a small tray with food and drink.
At the end of the hallway, she paused.
A faint light seeped through the crack beneath a heavy door.
She sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow.
— "Lord Noxfaire… still awake at this hour, as always."
She whispered to herself, her voice tinged with quiet concern:
— "I've noticed… he barely sleeps four hours a day.
Isn't that far too little?
Well… whatever keeps him going.
At the very least, I'll make sure he eats something. It might help him survive these sleepless nights."
She approached the door and knocked gently.
— "My lord… may I come in?"
No response.
She knocked again, a little louder:
— "My lord?"
Silence.
She exhaled slowly and murmured:
— "I'll take that as permission."
With careful hands, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was still—eerily still.
Only a single lamp above the desk flickered with dim golden light.
He sat there, motionless on a high-backed chair.
No breath. No voice. No movement.
A kingly corpse, seated in perfect silence.
She stepped forward slowly, eyes drifting toward the desk where countless papers lay scattered.
She whispered, barely audible:
— "Aren't these the pages he asked me to bring just a few days ago?
How did he fill them… so fast?"
She froze.
Something at the edge of the desk caught her attention.
She leaned closer.
— "What is this…? A drawing of the human body?
But this doesn't look like any anatomical chart I've ever seen in the library
Is this even anatomy?
What kind of language is this…?
And why does each part have a different label? Who wrote this?!"
Before she could gather her thoughts—
A voice shattered the stillness. Calm. Certain. Cold enough to cut through bone:
— "Evolution."
She gasped.
Her body recoiled in fear, and she fell to the floor, nearly dropping the tray.
— "My lord! I-I'm sorry… I knocked, I swear. You didn't answer… I thought you were asleep…"
She stood, hesitant, eyes locked to the floor.
— "Forgive me… I couldn't restrain my curiosity. I touched something I shouldn't have."
Without a word, the king rose from his seat.
He reached for the cake on the tray, took a bite, then sipped from the glass.
A soft smile tugged at his lips, utterly unfazed:
— "Quite good."
Then, in a calm voice:
— "You may leave now."
Lara turned to go.
But just as her hand reached the door, something stopped her.
She turned back, one brow raised, her tone suddenly sharper—tinged with disbelief:
— "What did you mean by evolution…? What the hell is all this?"
And at that moment…
Inside his mind—
The voice answered.
— "What did you mean by evolution…?"
The Sovereign echoed her words within him, matching her tone.
Like a mirror held to thought.
The king simply said "you need time"
He simply smiled.