The sharp clang of steel echoed, and this time, it was Lucia who pressed the advantage. She didn't just parry Viktor's latest lunge; she shoved forward with her shoulder, a short, brutal movement that broke his balance. As he stumbled half a step, her blade flicked out like a serpent's tongue, aiming not for a killing blow, but for the meat of his sword arm. Viktor twisted, a frantic, ungraceful contortion, and her sword tip only grazed his sleeve, but the message was received. The fabric tore with a sound like a sigh.
"Too slow," Lucia said, her voice even, but the words carried a teacher's pointed correction.
Viktor let out a breathless, slightly strained laugh, regaining his footing. "Gods, you sound just like Master Fenwick. I didn't come here for a lesson."
"Maybe you need one," Lucia countered, her gray eyes, sharp as flint, scanning his posture. "You get drunk on your own momentum. If I were fighting to maim, not to teach, I could have opened up your shoulder on that last overreach."
The grin on Viktor's face faltered for a heartbeat, a flicker of genuine assessment in his eyes. Then, the bravado returned, but it was thinner now, stretched over a newfound respect. "Alright then, professor. Let's see you try."
He planted his feet, and the shift was subtle but profound to a trained eye. His center of gravity dropped, his knees bending deeper. The playful flourishes were gone, replaced by a coiled, efficient tension. The air around him seemed to still.
"Darkstrike Style: Phantom Step."
He moved. It wasn't a blur to Leonel's eyes, but it was a damn convincing imitation. Viktor closed the distance with unsettling speed, his sword no longer following clean, predictable arcs. It came from awkward, almost unnatural angles—a feint high that morphed into a low sweep, a thrust that curved mid-air into a hooking slash. It was a style built on misdirection, forcing Lucia to abandon analysis and rely purely on the animal instinct in her spine.
CLANG!
She blocked a high strike, but the impact was wrong. The vibration was shallow. It was a ghost of a blow. She winced as his blade, having barely made contact, scraped down the length of hers with a nails-on-slate shriek and transformed into a reverse slash aimed at her legs. She dropped into a low crouch, her own sword flashing upward in a desperate, rising parry that deflected the attack by a hair's breadth.
"Better," Viktor's voice was close, a low murmur meant only for her. "But I think you're starting to sweat."
Lucia's expression remained a placid mask, though a single bead of sweat finally escaped, tracing a clean path through the dust on her temple. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm learning your tells," she breathed back.
Then, she did the one thing he wouldn't expect. Instead of creating distance, she stepped into his space, inside the reach of his longer blade. Her sword lashed out in a swift, brutally efficient horizontal cut aimed at his midsection.
"Blackthorn Style: Echoing Step."
Viktor's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Her movement was like a ripple in water—deceptively smooth, but carrying immense force. The strike forced him to abandon all offense and dodge sharply to the side, his balance compromised. Before he could reset, she was already pivoting on the ball of her foot, the "echo" of her step, her blade coming around in a follow-up that started as a feint to the head but snapped downward toward his exposed thigh.
"Your back foot's sliding," Lucia murmured as their blades met again in a shower of sparks. "You're off-balance. Tighter footing would have let you counter instead of just survive."
Viktor exhaled a sharp puff of air, a mix of frustration and dawning admiration. "You're actually grading me, aren't you?"
"Consider it a free tutorial," she replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips.
The duel resumed, but the tenor had changed. The initial feeling-out period was over. Now it was a grinding war of adaptation. Viktor's Phantom Step was a relentless, confusing assault, a storm of feints and half-strikes designed to overwhelm the senses. But Lucia's Echoing Step was its perfect counter—not a wall, but a river. It flowed around his attacks, using his own force, redirecting it, finding the tiny gaps in the storm where a precise, economical strike could land. The crowd, which had been roaring, now watched in a hushed, rapt awe. This wasn't a brawl; it was a violent, beautiful conversation.
"You're stubborn as hell," Viktor grunted as he barely twisted away from a thrust aimed at his ribs.
"And you're recklessly predictable once I see the pattern," Lucia shot back, shoving him back with a surprising burst of core strength. "But you're learning. Your feints are getting cleaner."
Viktor grinned, his chest heaving. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Blackthorn."
Lucia stepped forward again, this time seizing the initiative. Her blade wove a web of silver, slipping between his defenses. He parried one strike, but the force of it, combined with his own forward momentum, made him stumble slightly on the follow-up as she reversed her grip and came back low.
"Your weight's on your heels again," Lucia pointed out, her tone not unkind, but relentlessly clinical. "You're overcommitting to your first strike and leaving yourself nowhere to go. It's a beginner's mistake."
Viktor gritted his teeth, the playful smirk finally evaporating, replaced by a deep, furrowed concentration. "Alright. No more gifts."
He steadied himself, his sword rising to a high guard. The air around him seemed to grow heavy, the playful unpredictability hardening into something focused and lethal.
"Darkstrike Style: Shadow Fang."
The change was immediate and stark. The flamboyant, confusing strikes vanished. Now, every movement was pared down to its essential, deadly purpose. His blade moved like a viper—fast, direct, and aimed with cold intent. Lucia felt the difference in her bones; each parry now sent a jolt up her arm. This was no longer a test; it was a fight.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile finally touched her lips. Finally. He's stopped playing.
"Blackthorn Style: Rebounding Edge."
Her own swordwork shifted. Her parries were no longer just defensive deflections. They became aggressive redirections. She didn't just stop his blows; she caught their energy and sent it back at him, using his own force to open his guard. Her counters were no longer polite taps; they were sharp, snapping strikes that cracked against his blade and forced him to give ground.
"You're adapting," Viktor said between clenched teeth, his breath coming in ragged gulps. There was no teasing now, only raw respect.
"And you're not just swinging wildly anymore," Lucia replied, her own breathing controlled but heavy. "That's the point of this, isn't it? To find the edge."
Viktor's grin returned, but it was different—a genuine, hard-won expression of shared struggle. "Yeah. It is."
For a long moment, there were no words. The arena was filled with the symphony of their combat: the grating shriek of steel on steel, the sharp exhalations of breath, the scuff of their boots on the packed earth. They were no longer just competitors; they were two craftsmen honing each other on the grindstone of conflict.
From his seat, Leonel watched, his earlier calm replaced by a focused intensity. He saw the sweat-darkened patches on their tunics, the slight tremble of fatigue in Viktor's lead arm, the way Lucia's hair was plastered to her neck. He saw the unspoken language they were developing—a nod, a glance, a shared understanding that transcended the need for victory.
"They're not just fighting," he murmured under his breath, so low only he could hear. "They're building something."
Down in the ring, the pace began to tell. Lucia's breathing, once a steady metronome, now had a faint hitch. Viktor's tunic was torn in two new places, and a thin line of red welled from a shallow cut on his side. His trademark smirk had been burned away by the heat of the duel, leaving behind a raw, resolute determination. He circled her slowly, his blade held low, his eyes—those sharp, now utterly serious eyes—locked on her every twitch.
"You're a hell of a lot more than a solid wall," Viktor admitted, his voice raspy. "I expected a fortress. I didn't expect the fortress to have a counter-attacking artillery."
Lucia allowed herself a small, tired smile. "And I didn't expect you to have the stamina to keep up this dance. Maybe there's more to you than flashy footwork and a loud mouth."
Viktor let out a dry, cracked laugh. "You've got a mouth on you too, you know. I like it." He adjusted his grip, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly.
Leonel, watching from the stands, leaned forward. He's setting up for the Third Form. The heavy one. He's going to try to break her rhythm with pure power.
"Watch your center line," Viktor warned, not as a taunt, but as a genuine, almost reflexive courtesy between warriors. Then he exploded forward.
His blade became a silver streak, a series of powerful, committed strikes aimed with brutal efficiency at her shoulders, ribs, and legs. The speed was ferocious, a final, all-in gambit to overwhelm her refined defense.
Lucia's eyes narrowed, her body moving on pure instinct honed over thousands of hours. She sidestepped, angled her blade, parried. The force of his blows vibrated up her arm, making her teeth rattle. She absorbed it, twisted, redirected. But he was pushing harder than ever before, and the sheer, relentless pressure created a fissure. Her foot, seeking purchase on the churned-up earth, slipped a fraction of an inch.
It was all the opening he needed.
In a blur of motion, Viktor's blade grazed her forearm, slicing through the fabric and drawing a thin, immediate line of red.
The crowd gasped as one.
Lucia hissed through her teeth, a sharp, involuntary sound of pain. Her grip on the hilt tightened until her knuckles were white. But she didn't retreat. Instead, the pain seemed to crystallize her focus. The calm in her gray eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, bright fire.
"Alright," she muttered, the word a promise. "My turn."
She adjusted her stance, a subtle but fundamental shift. Her feet settled deeper, her center sinking. She angled her sword not for defense, but for a sweeping, encompassing motion. Leonel sat up straighter, his breath catching. He'd only seen this in scrolls.
"Steel Bloom."
She moved. It wasn't just fluid; it was a whirlwind. Her blade sang through the air in a wide, beautiful, and terrifying arc. She didn't meet his attacks head-on; she intercepted them, guiding them, her sword seeming to stick to his for a fraction of a second before using his own power to spin him slightly off-axis. She was turning his overwhelming force against him, creating openings where his strength became his weakness.
Viktor's relentless rhythm shattered. His powerful strikes suddenly felt clumsy, like he was swinging at smoke. He tried to adjust, to pull back, but it was too late.
What—? was all he had time to think before Lucia stepped into the void he'd created, her sword grazing his side in a clean, controlled, and painfully accurate strike.
He stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock, his free hand instinctively going to the new, stinging tear in his tunic. For the first time, he looked truly rattled, the last vestiges of his arrogance stripped away.
Lucia exhaled slowly, a plume of breath in the cool air. Her sword remained raised, her posture once again that of an unshakable monument. "You push like you're trying to knock down a mountain," she said, her voice steady. "But a mountain doesn't care. It just lets you exhaust yourself against it. That's why you're always exposed at the end of a combination."
Viktor let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head in surrender to her superior insight. "And you… you fight like you can see three moves ahead. It's… infuriating."
She finally allowed a full, if small, smile to show, brushing a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her face with her free hand. "It's called patience."
"Or just being a stubborn bastard."
"Both," she replied simply.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, the sound washing over them like a wave. For a long moment, the two fighters just stood there, panting, chests heaving, connected by an invisible thread of mutual respect forged in the fire of their clash.
Leonel sat back, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. He saw it with perfect clarity—two fighters standing at a crossroads, both having been pushed further than they thought possible, both having given the other a priceless gift: the reflection of their own weaknesses.
Viktor straightened up, wincing slightly as he wiped the sweat and a smudge of blood from his brow with the back of his wrist. His grin returned, but it was softer now, devoid of ego, filled only with respect.
"You're right," he admitted, his voice raw. "I've been treating every fight like a sprint. You just showed me it's a marathon. Thank you."
Lucia lowered her sword slightly, her expression softening in turn. "And you showed me that waiting for the perfect opening can mean waiting forever. Sometimes, you have to create it yourself. Even if it means taking a hit."
Viktor nodded, taking a deep breath and raising his sword once more, not in aggression, but in invitation. "Then let's keep going. I think… I think I'm just starting to understand."
Lucia lifted her blade, her smile calm but radiant with a shared purpose. "Neither am I."
The referee, an older man with a worried frown, glanced between them, his hand half-raised. "The match… shall we call it—?"
"Not yet," both fighters said in unison, their voices, though tired, cutting through the din with a unified, unshakeable resolve. The lesson wasn't over.