CLANK! CLANK!
Steel met steel in a shower of sparks as our blades kissed, separated, and clashed again.
The Oni moved first—no wasted motion, no roar, no bravado. Just a clean step forward, hips turning, shifting his weight with precision that belied his bulk.
I mirrored the movement, my succubus form lighter but no less controlled. Years of training had carved muscle memory into my bones—first as Azariel the hero, now as this red-skinned demoness.
He feinted left. I read the tell in his shoulder, parried the real thrust coming for my ribs.
CLANG!
Our blades slid, edge to edge, neither giving ground. His wrists rolled smoothly, redirecting force rather than opposing it. Classic Oni form—economy of motion, strength conserved, intent razor-focused.
Good... very good.
I stepped inside his reach, turning my hips, letting the sword become an extension of my spine. A short, sharp cut aimed for his thigh—
...but he was already gone.
He retreated a half-step, heel barely touching the ground, blade rising to intercept mine at the last possible instant. Sparks burst between us as steel whispered past steel.
No wasted breath. No wasted movement.
We began to circle.
To dance.
The tavern around us ceased to exist. No corpses. No blood. No chains. Just distance, timing, and the quiet conversation of blades.
An honorable duel between two warriors who walk the path of the blade.
CLANG!
I answered each one cleanly. Not blocking. Guiding. Letting his strength flow past me, stealing balance in increments too small to notice.
"..." His eyes narrowed. He adjusted. His grip tightened. His rhythm changed.
I smiled.
Good. He was learning.
The next strike came faster, heavier, backed by raw Oni power. I met it head-on, feet sliding across the gore-slick floor.
CLANG!
Our blades locked.
For a split second, our faces were inches apart—horn to horn, eye to eye.
His aura was disciplined steel. Mine was a coiled fire held behind a smiling mask.
His ice-blue eyes held no hatred.
Not rage.
But something colder.
Focus. Determination.
And a question.
A flicker of... understanding? As if, in that clash of steel and the silent language between warriors, he sensed I knew more than I should. That I wasn't just another sex demon.
I twisted, broke the bind, and spun low, my blade flicking up toward his wrist.
He released the katana mid-motion.
It dropped—
—and he caught it with his other hand, reversing the grip and slashing upward in a single seamless motion.
"Heheh," I laughed, pure and delighted, as I leaned back just enough for the edge to skim air where my throat had been.
"Still sharp," I murmured, surprised that my old mentor's teachings still lived in this lustful body.
It took me like three or four swings to reclaim my old hero fighting style.
Sigh... I shouldn't be surprised by that, honestly. 'Soul over body' is one of the main teachings of the Way of the Blade.
The body can be changed, but the soul... the soul is eternal. And your skills, your experience, they are part of your soul.
So even though I'm a Nephalem now, my soul is still the soul of a hero. A corrupted hero, but still a hero at the core.
Moreover, with the beating—
"..."
Ahem… I mean the 'teachings' of my old dragon mentor; I mastered pretty much every single weapon that was known in my old world. Hammers, axes, spears, bows, you name it.
And after I gained the 'Devour' skill, the experience of the ones I devoured was added to my own, expanding my knowledge, my skills, and my understanding of combat.
However, there was one weapon that I managed to master with no help from the 'Devour' skill, one weapon that I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into mastering.
Reaching the level of a 'Grandmaster'.
The noblest weapon.
The Sword.
"Ahhh~"
I felt it... the shift.
It wasn't just my muscles twitching or the 'essence' of the devoured thugs fueling my limbs. It was the weight of a thousand battles, the memory of a million swings, and the cold, crystalline clarity that only comes when you stop trying to fight and simply become the fight.
The world narrowed to the space between me and this Oni, this fellow warrior trapped in this shithole. The stench of death faded. The gore beneath our feet turned to clean, polished stone. The flickering torchlight became the steady glow of a dojo lantern.
My grip on the stolen sword shifted. The crude iron hilt felt like the worn, familiar silk-wrapped handle of my old sword.
The Oni saw it too.
"!!!" His eyes widened, the ice-blue irises shivering. He felt the change in the air. The succubus—the demon of lust and sex—exuded a pressure that was not of this realm, a pressure that was not of a demon but of a true warrior. A Grandmaster.
I opened my eyes, staring at the Oni. They were no longer the lustful, playful eyes of a succubus. They were cold, focused, and utterly devoid of emotion. The eyes of a killer. The eyes of a sword.
I took a stance that was so ingrained in my muscle memory that I didn't even need to think about it. My feet were shoulder-width apart, my knees slightly bent, my weight centered. The sword was held at a diagonal angle, the point aimed at the Oni's throat.
This stance was one of my old Oni mentor's favorites. 'The Unsheathed Fang'.
The Oni before me recognized the stance, immediately understood the meaning, and mirrored it.
From the memories of his master, the pigman, I know that this young Oni was trained by his kin from a young age, but his training was cut short when he became a slave. But before that, he had a good foundation in the art of the sword and some knowledge about the Oni's swordsmanship.
So he knew what my stance meant.
It meant only one thing.
'One move'.
One move to decide the winner.
One move to decide the loser.
One move to decide life.
Or death.
"..."
Silence reigned.
Not even the dripping of blood could be heard.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then...
Woosh!
The sound wasn't steel clashing.
It was steel being born.
We crossed the distance in a single heartbeat.
No feints.
No testing strikes.
No hesitation.
Intent sharpened into action.
The Oni's katana came first—an impossibly clean draw-cut aimed straight for my neck, his entire body committed to the strike. Perfect posture. Perfect timing. The culmination of every lesson his people had ever carved into his bones.
A killing blow.
I answered with the sword.
Not faster.
Earlier.
My feet moved before thought. My hips turned before my muscles. The blade followed the path etched into my soul across lifetimes of war. No excess. No correction.
Just truth.
Our swords met... One.
CLANG!!!
The shockwave thundered through the tavern like a bell struck by a god. The floor cracked beneath our feet, gore and splintered wood blasted outward in a perfect circle. Torches guttered violently, their flames bowing away from us.
Then—
Silence.
We stood back-to-back.
For a long moment, nothing moved.
No breath. No sound. No victory cry.
A thin line appeared across my cheek.
Warmth followed.
Blood.
I smiled faintly.
Across from me, the Oni froze.
A second line bloomed across his chest armor—clean, precise, diagonal. The leather parted. The silver reinforcement split like paper. Beneath it, red skin parted… then stopped.
A hair deeper, and his heart would have been mine.
Well... I chose not to kill him. I could have. But I didn't.
He slowly looked down.
Then up at me.
Understanding dawned fully now.
Not defeat.
Not shame.
Acceptance.
I turned, lowering my sword.
"You have good form," I said, my voice carrying the ancient respect of one sword to another. "Your cut was flawless."
Thud!
He dropped to one knee. Not because he was forced to. Because the duel had spoken.
His katana slid from his fingers and struck the stone with a soft, respectful tap.
He pressed his forehead to the ground.
A warrior's bow.
The highest one.
I exhaled, the world bleeding back in—the stench of death, the broken tavern, the sticky floor beneath my boots. The Grandmaster's state faded, leaving behind only memory and ache.
I sheathed the stolen sword, savoring the moment of peace. The inner peace where the lustful part of me was silenced by the art of the sword.
'It's nice... to be a warrior and not a whore from time to time,' I thought to myself. A small smile played on my lips.
"This ends here," I said. "Live."
The Oni remained kneeling, shoulders trembling—not with fear…
…but with something dangerously close to hope.
The duel was over.
And for the first time in a very long while…
A sword had reminded me who I was.
A warrior.
...
[A/N: I hope you're liking the story so far. Please leave a review for me I'll appreciate it]