A week had passed.
Each sunrise in the training hall came with aches in their muscles, but also with strength they hadn't known the day before. Vladislav and Athelstan could feel the changes in their bodies: faster reflexes, heavier strikes, and a sharper sense of their surroundings. Every clash with Jian pulled them closer to their limits, and every time, their limits stretched further.
Now, the hall trembled with life.
Blue and purple streaks lit up the arena, darting across its walls like restless lightning. Sparks leapt and fizzled where blades collided, scattering showers of light that briefly illuminated their sweat-drenched faces. The sharp crack of power colliding echoed through the air, mixing with the dull thuds of footsteps against the floorboards.
The two brothers moved with a predator's rhythm—measured, precise, circling Jian like wolves around a lion. But Jian, unshaken, wore the same calm smile he always did, his expression soft, as if this deadly spar were no more than a morning stroll. His eyes, however, gleamed with quiet sharpness, reading every twitch of their muscles before they even moved.
Vladislav's hand brushed against the hilt of his katana strapped to his waist. Normally, he sparred against Jian with a plain practice sword, but today was different. Today, he wanted to test his blade.
Athelstan made the first move.
He launched forward like a thunderbolt. His every step reverberated, purple lightning racing along his blade, wrapping it in a living storm. The energy hissed and popped, filling the air with the smell of ozone.
Then—he struck.
His blade sliced horizontally, tearing the air apart. A shimmering purple arc extended from the swing, trailing behind him like the tail of a comet.
Jian, however, did not retreat.
He stepped into the strike.
Soft green light gathered around his wooden sword, glowing faintly at first, then blooming brighter until it traced the shape of his movements. Unlike the violence of lightning or the fury of fire, Jian's energy was subtle. It hummed like the wind through trees—smooth, calm, inevitable.
His sword cut across the air as though reality itself parted to make way. Resistance meant nothing. A delicate green arc floated behind his blade.
Then—
BOOM!
The collision of purple and green split the silence. The air quaked, the ground trembled, and the energy burst outward like a shockwave. Dust stirred from the floor, rattling the walls.
It was a clash of willpower, of mana, of raw physical strength.
The result was inevitable.
Athelstan's teeth clenched as the force shoved him backward. His boots screeched against the floorboards as he struggled to resist, but Jian's calm strike bore down like a mountain. Just before he completely lost his footing, a sphere of pure light formed in Athelstan's palm, shining with concentrated brilliance.
"You bra—" jian began, but never finished.
"Flashbang."
The orb burst.
A white explosion filled the arena, blinding all in its reach. Jian's arm rose swiftly to shield his eyes, his calm composure unbroken, though his vision was seared white.
And in that instant—Athelstan vanished.
In his place stood Vladislav.
His back was straight, his right hand gripped tightly on the katana at his waist, the sheath angled perfectly. He looked calm, but every fiber of his body was coiled like a spring.
His training with Mary echoed in his mind: Draw. Cut. End it in one breath. But he had added his own twist—his strike would not just draw the blade, but follow with a decisive cut.
His hand moved.
SSHIIING!
The katana flashed free.
It carved through the air, aiming straight for Jian's neck. The speed was startling—faster than a week ago, faster than even Vladislav believed possible for himself. It was proof of his effort, of hours spent drawing until his hands bled.
The blade gleamed as it cut closer, sparks dancing along its edge.
But it was not fast enough.
Jian's wooden blade rose in a smooth upward arc, intercepting the strike before it reached its mark. The collision rang like a bell, sparks bursting into the air, their glow briefly illuminating the sweat on Vladislav's determined face.
CLANG.
"Tsk. Too slow." Vladislav clicked his tongue in frustration and leapt back, katana raised defensively.
Jian exhaled softly, his smile fading into something sharper. "My turn."
And then—he vanished.
One moment he stood across the arena. The next, his figure blurred into a streak of green, closing the distance with terrifying speed. His sword came down in a graceful, merciless arc.
The strike was too fast. Too clean.
Vladislav's instincts screamed. His chest tightened, every nerve in his body firing alarms. If he didn't react, he would be cut down.
Lightning surged. His blood burned, his muscles tensed, his vision narrowed.
His hand flew.
SSHIIING!
Then—
CLANG!
The katana blocked the strike. Sparks exploded. Jian's arm recoiled slightly, his brows lifting with surprise.
"Hoh," Jian murmured, impressed.
But there was no time for words. Athelstan appeared to Jian's left, lightning exploding from his fist as he drove a punch toward Jian's ribs.
Jian raised his palm, blocking the strike, but the impact still forced him several meters backward, his feet dragging across the floor.
"Good punch, At," Vladislav shouted, his chest heaving.
"Than—" Athelstan started, but never finished.
Jian vanished again.
He appeared in front of Athelstan, his fist slamming into the boy's stomach.
BOOM!
Athelstan coughed blood.
Athelstan's body folded around the blow, and he was launched across the arena. He tumbled, rolling across the floor, before finally staggering back to his feet, breath ragged, yet still standing beside Vladislav.
Vladislav gritted his teeth, katana still raised despite the tremors wracking his arms. Beside him, Athelstan wiped blood from his lip and grinned, a wild light in his eyes.
Uncle Jian lowered his wooden blade, the smile gone from his face. His eyes sharpened—cold, focused.
The atmosphere shifted.
The air itself grew heavy. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
Vladislav's skin prickled. His lungs struggled to pull in air. His legs locked in place, every instinct screaming at him to run, to escape, yet his body refused to obey.
What is this pressure?
Athelstan's grin faltered. His hand trembled around his sword's hilt. "Heh… Uncle, are you trying to kill us for real?" His laugh cracked halfway through, betraying his fear.
Jian did not answer.
He stepped forward.
The simple sound of his footfall echoed like thunder in their ears. His presence expanded, swallowing the arena. No longer a man, Jian seemed a predator cloaked in human skin—an apex beast, eyes locked on prey.
Vladislav's breath hitched. His vision blurred with flashes of his own death: Jian's blade piercing his chest, his throat, his skull—every outcome ending the same.
This was not mana. Not strength.
This was something deeper.
Intent.
Pure killing intent.
He had felt it once before—from his grandmother. But Jian's intent was different. Raw. Merciless.
"Your body knows," Jian said at last, his voice calm, yet colder than steel. "Before the sword moves, before your opponent breathes—you feel it. The will to kill."
His gaze cut into them like twin blades. "If you cannot withstand it, you'll die before the fight even begins."
The pressure crashed like a wave. Vladislav dropped to one knee, gasping, sweat streaming down his face. Beside him, Athelstan collapsed onto the floor, eyes wide with shock.
Only then did Jian's expression soften. The fatherly smile returned.
"Good. You felt it. That means you can learn to resist it."
He rested his wooden blade across his shoulders, casual again. "Now get up. Training hasn't even started yet."
With great effort, the brothers staggered to their feet.
I want to form my own killing intent one day, Vladislav thought. But Grandma said it only comes after life-and-death experience.
Their bodies crackled with lightning once more as they charged Jian again, clashing until their strength was gone.
When it was over, they lay sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat, gasping for air.
Vladislav turned his head toward Athelstan. "When did you get a light skill?"
"A few days ago," Athelstan muttered, still catching his breath. "I was practicing my light affinity. Read a few books about techniques. I haven't mastered it yet, but… it's progress."
"I see. Then I guess it's about time I tried tapping into my darkness affinity."
"You should—or I'll leave you behind," Athelstan chuckled weakly.
"You wish, little bro."
On the sidelines, Jian sipped his tea, watching them with quiet amusement.
"It reminds me of those days when Vladimir, Mikhail, and I used to argue too," he muttered.