The door creaked open.
Elaina stepped lightly into the training hall, clutching a pewter flask in both hands. She paused mid-step, her breath catching as her eyes fell on the sight before her.
Lord Darian stood across from Sir Aldren Veynar, blades drawn. Tension thickened in the air between them, sharp as the blades they held.
Elaina froze. Her hesitation was cut short when Aldren moved.
The knight dashed forward, steel flaring with pale mana. His first strike came swift and heavy, the floorboards trembling beneath the weight of his advance.
Darian did not falter. He raised his blade at the last instant, parrying perfectly. He shifted the weight rather than resisting it head-on, absorbing the strike would be fatal.
Darian redirected the power of the strike, just enough for the mana-charged blow to shudder past him.
The swing sent a burst of force rippling through the hall, rattling the racks of old practice weapons. This was the power of mana inforced into the blade.
Aldren pressed on, his blade a ceaseless torrent. Every slash flowed into the next without pause — a technique that left no opening, no chance for counterplay. Each swing forced Darian into motion, each slash had to be parried, each parry had to be perfect.
So this is his style, Darian thought, his grip tightening. No chance to counter, only to endure. A wall of blades.
Darian waited. He memorized. Each step, each swing, each subtle shift of Aldren's stance etched into his mind.
Then, as another heavy slash infused with mana came crashing down, Darian's blade met it in perfect time. Instead of bracing, he pivoted, letting the force carry past him. In the same breath he leapt back, creating massive space between them, relieving some pressure.
Aldren surged forward to close the gap.
But Darian threw his blade forward.
The steel spun, a sudden flash of motion. Aldren reacted instantly, raising his own sword to deflect it. The blades collided - and in that moment, Darian lunged. He caught his weapon the instant it rebounded and slashed, countering in one seamless motion.
Steel shrieked against steel as Aldren barely caught the strike, his eyes narrowing.
Darian did not stop. He pressed in close, his movement swift and perfect. His blade swang through the air, forcing Aldren to block, to adjust, to acknowledge him.
Then came the opening.
Darian spun into another strike — blocked. He spun again, this time lowering himself, his leg sweeping across the floor. His foot crashed into Aldren's stance.
The knight stumbled, a fraction only, but enough.
Darian's eyes sharpened. His blade traced an arc, swift and merciless, aimed for the exposed line. It was a flawless strike, an inevitable strike. A perfect swing.
Aldren's gauntleted hand flashed up, faster than thought. In a split second,he managed to shift all the mana in his body into his wrist. His armored wrist met the steel with a sharp crack, stopping the slash cold. The force of the impact rippled through the air, leaving Darian blinking against the shock.
When the sound faded, Aldren stood steady once more, not a hint of falter in his frame. His eyes, however, burned differently now.
Darian raised his blade again, chest heaving, sweat dripping, but his voice came out steady.
"I know you're holding back on me, Aldren. Show me your full strength."
The knight regarded him in silence, and then — to Elaina's disbelief — a smile touched his scarred face. It was not mockery. It was excitement.
"I will now use half of my full strength" Aldren said, his voice low, edged with something dangerous.
He took a deep breath. Mana amplified in his body. All fatigue lost. He raised his sword.
His eyes fixated on Darian.
"Come then, I'm ready"
Aldren blinked.
In that heartbeat, Darian moved. His body surged forward, strength coiled and released with perfect precision, carrying him across the floor in a blur that felt unreal.
When Aldren's vision caught up, Darian was already upon him—so close the knight could see the cold focus in his gaze.
Darians blade swung. No whistle, no clash of air, only a silent arc, drawn with such flawless control it seemed to fast to track.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't mana.
It was just perfection.
The sword stopped at Aldren's neck.
Yet in that frozen instant, He saw it—his own death. His head severed, spinning through the air, blood spraying in a crimson arc. The vision burned so vividly it felt real, as though his body had already collapsed without it.
His breath caught, trembling. The blade hadn't cut him, yet the line between life and death had already been crossed.
The spar was over.
Aldren staggered back a step, breath catching. His eyes darted to the blade still hovering at his throat, then to Darian's steady gaze.
"You… caught me off-guard," he said at last, his voice low, edged with disbelief.
The knight drew his weapon back, lowering it with a grim exhale. "I underestimated you. You're talented with the blade—too bad you can't use mana."
"I don't need it."
Darian lowered his sword.
His voice confident and absolute.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Aldren's expression hardened, but in his eyes, a new thought flickered, unspoken.
'Maybe the kin to the Duke isn't so hopeless after all'.
Darian swayed where he stood. His blade slipped from his hand with a dull clang, his knees buckling. Exhaustion surged through him.
And before another word could leave his lips, his body gave out.
He crumpled to the floor and fainted.
'This body's hopeless' his final thought.