They stood facing each other on an open field, ankle-high wild grass swaying around them. The late afternoon air had grown cool, and the slanting sunlight cast long shadows across their bodies.
Without a word of prelude, Riven attacked.
This time, there was no hesitation.
His swings were swift, focused, flowing. The movements still carried a trace of stiffness, as he had only recently learned them, but already far sharper than before. At least, from Ashtoria's perspective. To an ordinary knight, Riven's swordsmanship would have already seemed on par with a trained cadet.
He began to weave his footwork into the direction of his strikes, following the rhythm Ashtoria had once drilled into him. A vertical slash, then a diagonal cut, followed by a quick thrust—all flowing in succession.
Yet Ashtoria remained calm.
With the slightest motions, she deflected each strike effortlessly, as if dancing between sharp edges. Sometimes she only tilted her body, sometimes a subtle twist of her wrist redirected Riven's blade. Never once did she appear pressured.
Clang!
Riftmaker jolted back as it collided with her sword.
"You've improved," Ashtoria remarked, stepping lightly to the side and tapping the flat of Riven's blade with her own. "But you're still too open after every attack."
Riven didn't answer. He only clenched his grip tighter and launched forward again.
The duel continued. Riven pressed, Ashtoria slipped away. Riven defended, Ashtoria countered. Each time Riven's blade nearly found her, Ashtoria rotated her sword to lock the angle of his swing. Each time he faltered under her counter, he forced himself to learn from the mistake.
The sharp clash of steel filled the air. Riven's breathing grew heavier, muscles taut, yet his eyes never lost focus.
After several tense minutes, his body finally wavered. He collapsed to one knee, panting hard. Riftmaker stabbed into the ground beside him, holding him upright. Sweat streamed down his temples, dripping into the dirt.
"Good," Ashtoria said as she approached, her sword resting on her shoulder. Her voice was flat, yet faintly tinged with satisfaction. "Your movements are already sharper than before."
Riven only nodded, struggling to steady his breath.
"But," Ashtoria continued, crouching slightly to meet his gaze, "your left leg is still too slow when shifting positions. And you rely on the same line of attack too often. A clever opponent would read you easily."
Riven lifted his head, sweat streaking his weary face, and allowed a faint smile. "I'll fix it."
Ashtoria studied him for a moment, then answered with a small nod.
.
.
.
Night fell. As usual, Riven spent the hours absorbing mana. With the amount he had gathered now, he could wield Riftmaker's ability five times. That was considerable, given he still didn't know the true limit of how much his body could contain.
According to Ashtoria, an ordinary person's mana capacity was only a tenth of a Seeker's. Once the vessel in one's body filled to its brim and could grow no further, the next step was to shatter that boundary and ascend into a Lawbearer.
Riven drew a slow breath.
His left foot stepped forward half a pace, knees slightly bent. His left hand supported Riftmaker's hilt from below, while his right hand gripped firmly from above. A solid stance, a perfect posture, exactly as Ashtoria had taught him.
With sharpened eyes, he raised the sword high above his head. Riftmaker's blade caught the faint starlight, gleaming cold and sharp.
Without a shout, without warning, he brought it down.
SRAAKKH!!
Riftmaker struck the stone surface with conviction. The vertical slash carried the full focus and belief born from a dream.
The ringing clash of steel against stone echoed in the night, followed by a faint twang, like a snapped string.
Then… silence.
Riven held his breath, eyes locked on the spot he had struck.
Only a shallow scratch remained. Barely visible unless inspected closely.
His body stiffened. His chest tightened.
"What was I thinking?"
An uneasy weight gnawed at him. Not only because he had failed, but because of the fragile hope he had carried here. Hope drawn from his recurring dreams. Hope that he might truly achieve the impossible. But reality had rejected him outright.
His grip on the sword tightened.
Frustration welled up inside. Not at the stone, not at the blade, but at himself.
He wanted to try again. To prove something. Yet all that remained was silence, and an impatience burning in his chest.
And in that cold night, beneath the indifferent sky, Riven stood alone… haunted by a shallow scratch on stone, and the shadow of a perfect slash that lived only in his dreams.
Riven suddenly clenched his jaw. His breath came heavy.
Once more, his arms rose—this time without patience.
SRAAKH!
Riftmaker crashed against the rock again. The sound rang out sharp, harsh, piercing through the stillness of night. But nothing changed. Only dust and tiny fragments chipped off its surface.
"Damn it…" Riven muttered, and swung again.
CRANGG!! CRANGG!! CRANGG!!
Blow after blow struck with full force. His body moved like a machine fueled by anger. The ringing of steel and grating of stone filled the air. Starlight flashed off the blade in wild glimmers, swallowed instantly by the darkness of the trees.
And still, the stone remained. Unbroken. Unmoved.
Only its surface scarred—shallow wounds, mocking his effort.
Riven staggered, chest heaving wildly, sweat dripping down his face and back. Riftmaker trembled in his grip.
"Why… won't it cut?"
The question reverberated in his mind.
"Why does it bother me so much… that I can't cleave this stupid stone?"
Cold sweat dripped from his chin.
His eyes bore into the rock, breath ragged as if from a life-or-death battle. Yet this wasn't about stone, nor about strength. It was something deeper, far beyond metal and rock.
Riven grit his teeth.
"That man's swing… why did it look so light, yet cleave the world itself?"
His last slash, despite its force, had achieved nothing. The stone stood firm, cold and unmoved, as if mocking him.
Riven's teeth ground together. His head dipped, his body trembling faintly.
The anger wasn't only from failure. It was from the memory of a certainty that had felt so real in his dream.
But in reality… things were never as simple as dreams.
Riftmaker sank half into the earth. Riven closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain control. Yet the question lingered, heavy in his chest.
"What is it I need to understand… to finally cut through this stone?"