Psychological warfare?
Provoke the opponent, make him lose his cool for an instant, and find a sliver of possibility inside the impossible…
"If it weren't Silva you were facing, there might have been a crack to exploit."
Zeno added after the old man.
Old wolves see clearly; their eyes miss little.
Just as Maha and Zeno said: an elephant never cares about an ant's taunts—if it's annoyed, it just stomps the ant flat.
Silva was unmoved.
He stood there in the training hall, expressionless, a mocking curl at his lip—undisguised and sharp enough to sting.
"Clumsy goading…" Illumi voiced Silva's thought.
The foolish otōto hid by the corner wall, sneaking looks at Roy.
Roy braced on his blade, sucking air, already having expected this outcome. If his overbearing father were the kind to get riled easily, he wouldn't have climbed to head the world's top assassin clan.
But what's the point of living if not to try?
Fail, fine—then try again…
Roy wiped the blood off his face so it wouldn't blur his vision, drew Yubashiri, reset his frame—blade tip and sight in one line, pointing at Silva.
From the garden to the hall: three seconds… Shadow Step cuts two seconds; Zetsu trims another 0.5; the cut itself costs 0.01…
That leaves me 0.51 seconds to attack…
In that half second, I have to read aura, slip the whip, find an opening, and cut… Roy squinted and gave a rueful smile.
Some task.
Outside, the wind combed a thousand willow strands. Back against the trunk, Roy shut his eyes, sealed every aura node, and regulated his breath…
Besides masking presence for tailing, Zetsu gathers aura inward and erases fatigue.
The wooziness of blood loss crept up; he couldn't pretend it wasn't there. He steadied himself, opened his eyes, slid into a split stance—and burst forward again…
To the naked eye—
A streak of light speared in; Roy lunged straight for Silva's chest with a thrust.
This time he abandoned the chop—
A chop needs a lift; a thrust does not. He exploited the "maximum arm extension" principle, closed on Silva, and, without a word, sent the blade.
Fwhoo—
The tip tore air and threw a little flame—
A headlong youth flashed in Silva's pupils; a flicker of approval passed his eyes—then turned to ash under the lash of his whip.
Surrender?
Dream of freedom?
Climb step by step to the top?
Brat. There's only one road ahead for you—
"Get your ass back to the family."
Smack— Air detonated. The whip, arriving after the fact, crashed into Roy. Yubashiri flew; Roy cried out and went down under a single lash, sprawled at Silva's feet.
It's over. Illumi watched, blank-faced, and turned to go.
Blocking the cart with your arms ends like this. That's the price of not knowing your place and insisting on hitting back.
He didn't dally—he took a step—and then—
Whiss—
A shard of cold light grazed his cheek, taking a silver strand from Silva midair and tink—pinning it to the south wall.
Illumi froze and looked up—
A snow-white katana, a silk thread tied to its hilt—at the other end of the thread, a raised middle finger.
"Kh-heh… so that's that." Its owner coughed blood; his head was buried face-first in the floor. He sneered once, then dropped his head—and the middle finger—with a thud…
For a heartbeat the wind stopped; the air in the hall went rigid.
"How did he do that?" the boy thought.
Answer: a soft chuckle…
"Heh-heh-heh—kid really managed to steal one…" In the dim room, Maha slapped the armrest, grinning and kicking his feet, motioning Zeno to stop gawking and knead his calves.
Zeno blinked, pulled his En back, and murmured, "Using a pre-cut sleeve hem to tie a thread to the hilt… kid actually thought of that…"
There by Silva's feet, the aura riding the silk thread was already dissipating—it had guided Yubashiri in midair to "turn," slipping past as both Silva and Illumi relaxed, nicking their cheeks and streaking on…
Three lashes done—the test over. That's exactly when everyone relaxes their guard.
A late strike then would catch even Silva—he only avoided it by pure body reflex, tilting his head. The price: a strand of hair sliced and nailed to the wall.
"Did you understand?" Silva pinched the silver hair, silent a moment, then asked Illumi.
Illumi came back to himself and nodded stiffly.
"Say it."
"Saying 'I admit defeat' was bait—to raise your guard. Then, when the test truly ended and you relaxed, that was his only chance to strike…"
"And?"
"And what?" Illumi looked at him, puzzled.
A whip snapped over his head—Silva's lash flattened him to the floor, following Roy down.
"And strength.
"He can take three of my lashes. Can you?"
Silva hung the whip on the south wall—next to Yubashiri—shoved both hands in his pockets, and left expressionless.
The silver strand wavered in the draft—like Illumi's consciousness wavering before it fell into darkness.
"Strength…" he muttered as his head lolled and his eyes closed.
Butler Luke had been waiting outside; as Silva emerged, he bowed.
"Dig a pit and bury them."
"Yes, sir." He knew the drill—though Young Master Roy didn't seem to enjoy sleeping in a pit…
He grumbled inside, but his hands were steady—hefted a shovel and carried out the order.
A little later, two heads woke in the garden and glared at each other.
"Who buried me here?" Roy shot a look at Luke.
"The master."
"…"
"Dig me out."
"Yes, sir."
Rustle, rustle…
Luke lifted Roy from the pit. Roy flopped by the willow, shade over him, a breeze cooling the heat—finally comfortable.
"Hey—"
A grating voice cut the sunset—spoiling the peace.
Illumi's hollow eyes fixed on Roy. "I won't lose to you."
Roy shut his eyes and pretended not to hear.
"I won't lose to you," Illumi repeated, stubborn.
Roy rolled over and turned his back.
"Did you hear me? I said I won't—"
"So annoying!" Roy snapped, yanked off a slipper, and beaned Illumi in the head.
Silence returned.
~~~
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