I watched as my sword flew from my grasp, spinning violently through the air like a silver streak cutting across the sky.
It glinted once in the light, flipping end over end, before starting its descent—
Falling toward the hard stone floor of the platform below.
My heart dropped with it.
No—this couldn’t be how it ended.
I clenched my teeth and threw my body forward, every nerve in igniting like fire.
My legs burned as I exploded into a full sprint, the air whipping harshly past my face.
I used every ounce of my speed—every scrap of willpower—to close the distance.
My lungs scread, and the soles of my feet slamd against the platform with deafening force.
I had to make it..
Being disard ant defeat.
It didn’t matter how skilled you were, how close you were to turning the tables.
The mont your weapon touched the ground, the battle was over.
The one who disard the other would be nad the victor, no exceptions.
But there was a sliver of hope—a razor-thin margin for survival.
The rule only ca into play if the sword actually hit the ground.
Which ant...
If I caught it before it landed—if I snatched it back from the jaws of failure mid-air—then I was still in this.
My fingers closed around the hilt just before it could clatter against the cold floor.
The mont I grabbed it, I whipped my body back upright and let my instincts take over.
I entered my battle stance in one fluid motion, my breath ragged but steadying as adrenaline took hold.
My father’s face remained unreadable, cold and composed as always.
But I saw it—
A flicker in his eyes. It was subtle. But it was there.
Slight approval.
"Impressive," he said, his tone calm and asured. "I wouldn’t have expected you to go as far as doing sothing that outrageous—catching your sword mid-air like that."
He let out a small exhale, eyes fixed on .
"Well... I suppose that’s fine. As long as your sword never touched the ground, you’re still part of this duel. But tell —haven’t you noticed sothing? You’re clearly at a disadvantage."
I already knew that. I didn’t need to be told.
My arms ached, my lungs burned, and sweat dripped down my back in steady trails.
But I didn’t let his words rattle .
I tightened my grip on the sword, raised my chin, and looked him straight in the eyes.
"Don’t worry," I said firmly, my voice unwavering. "I’m not afraid."
"Oh?"
His eyes narrowed, and a grin threatened the corner of his lips.
Now, he looked genuinely intrigued.
At that mont, I didn’t feel like I was standing in front of my father anymore.
No.
He was still my father... but sothing about him had shifted.
The usual disapproval, the rigid harshness was all gone.
In its place was sothing else.
Recognition?
I wasn’t sure.
But I wasn’t going to waste the mont.
I charged in again—this ti not with form, not with technique, but with everything I had.
Every last drop of power and speed surged through . My body was screaming, but I shut out the pain.
My blade swung wildly, without style or precision.
I no longer cared about the elegance of form—I struck when I felt like it, whenever an opening appeared. It was ssy and chaotic.
But it was fast.
Faster than I had ever moved.
And sohow... I was keeping up.
Our swords blurred together, moving so rapidly that the human eye couldn’t track them anymore.
The sound of tal clashing vanished completely—it was too fast to even make noise.
The world around us lted away.
Ti... stopped.
In that space, there was nothing else but him and .
Two blades.
One heartbeat.
One rhythm.
We were locked in a dance that had no music, no audience, no aning beyond the clash itself.
I gave it everything—my speed, my strength, my soul.
He, on the other hand, remained perfectly composed.
Every block, every parry was effortless.
He barely even moved.
While I flung myself at him with desperate force, he reacted like it was a casual spar.
It was maddening.
I could feel it—my muscles starting to tear, my bones aching under the pressure.
Each movent felt like it would be my last.
I was nearing my limit.
My arms trembled, my shoulders burned, and my legs threatened to give out at any mont.
But I held on.
Not because I thought I could win.
But because I refused to quit.
My willpower kept going when my body was already done.
Or maybe it was just plain stubbornness.
I didn’t care if my limbs shattered—I wasn’t going down easy.
But...
It still wasn’t enough.
I didn’t have the years of experience.
The honed instincts.
The unshakable control.
Compared to him, I was still just a flickering candle trying to outshine a raging sun.
He was on another level.
And I... I wasn’t even close.
He hadn’t even used his full strength.
Then, it happened.
My legs gave out beneath like broken supports.
I dropped to my knees—and my sword slipped from my grasp.
The weight of it was gone.
The warmth of the hilt vanished from my fingers.
"This duel is over! The victor is Sir Sword Saint!"
"Ugh..."
A groan tore from my throat.
I felt like I had been hurled into a pit of darkness.
My head hung low, sweat dripping from my face onto the ground below.
My lungs heaved. My vision blurred.
I looked up at my father.
His expression hadn’t changed.
Still that sa cold, unreadable gaze.
But this ti, sothing was different.
There was a glimr in his eyes.
Interest.
Without a word, he sheathed his sword in one smooth motion—
And then extended his hand toward .
I stared at it in disbelief.
What... was this?
What did it an?
I blinked, unable to process it.
Was he... helping ?
"What are you waiting for?" he said flatly. "Do you hate so much that you can’t even stand the idea of being pulled up by my hand?"
My eyes widened.
He... was offering to help up?
Still stunned, I reached out and grabbed his hand. It felt strong. And I could feel the years of training in it.
It was strange. Surreal, even.
I had never imagined that he would do sothing like this.
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