Sigh….
A ragged breath escaped his lips as he limped through the empty streets, one leg dragging uselessly behind him. His broken sword served as his only support, the chipped blade scraping softly against the stones.
His body was a map of wounds. Some were shallow, others were deep enough to show glimpses of white beneath torn flesh, even the tightly wrapped bandages can't hold the blood from oozing out. Every step sent a tremor of pain though him, yet none of it compared to the ache in his chest – the weight of defeat.
Before the fight, he had believed he could at least stand his ground, if not defeat his opponent. But everything changed when the battle began, it was a one-sided battle from the very start, a merciless beating he could do nothing to stop. The difference in power was absolute. It was not a duel but a storm swallowing a candle frame.
The man's name is 'John.'
A swordsman well known for his skills, he served as the head instructor of the Dawn Swordsman Dodo, famed throughout 'Velmor' for its sword technique "Dawn Sword." Velmore is located in the 'Eastern Province' of the 'Elenor Continent,' and despite its small size, the city still boasted a proud history of warrior tradition and quite a few great warriors had risen from here, their names recognized all across the continent.
Under John's guidance, many had mastered the Dawn Sword and carried forward the dojo's legacy.
Unlike other sword techniques that relied on brute strength or overwhelming speed, the Dawn Sword focused on balance and clarity of mind. Its movements were calm and precise, mirroring the quite stillness of the early morning.
The dojo master, William Dawnfall, was a name known by all in the city of Velmor as one its strongest swordsman. However, after getting severely injured during a monster hunt, he retired from active combat and took up the position of head of the dojo. Since then, he has continued his family's legacy, preserving the ancient Dawn Sword style. The dojo has stood for generations, boasting a proud history and countless warriors who had once trained within its walls.
But everything changed ones a young man, appearing to be in his early twenties, came to the dojo requesting a spar.
He introduced himself as Cart, a second-class mage. No one knows where he came from and what his motives are, and none dared to ask him about it. His robes were worn by long travel, although his voice was calm, his eyes held unshakable arrogance. Even his smile carried an edge, as though he was disgracing those beneath him.
In the current era, magic has become the preferred path of power. The sword was still strong, but fewer cared to follow its path. Fewer chose the long years of discipline and hardships it demanded when a spell could achieve the same with just few words and hand gestures. Sword still stood and respected, but in the world that prized results over resolve, magic had taken the lead. So, it was common for mages to look down on others, especially swordsmen – and Cart's attitude made it clear that he was one of them.
"I've always wondered," Cart said, his voice calm but edged with amusement, "how does a sword expect to rival magic?"
Upon hearing his mocking tone, everyone in the dojo grew angry – yet none dared to voice it aloud. Although John felt the same as everyone, but he still held pride in his swordsmanship. He wanted to prove that the sword still has a place in this world.
So, he accepted.
John stepped forward, his breath steady, blade raised in prefect form. The dojo fell silent as the students watched with tense anticipation. For a heartbeat, it felt as though time itself had stopped.
But what followed was not a duel, but a remainder; of just how far the sword has fallen behind.
As the duel began, John made the first move. With a sharp exhale, he stepped forward and swung his sword, the motion clean and fluid, the kind that could split a boulder when perfectly timed.
But Cart didn't even blink. He lifted his hand, and the air around him rippled. Just as John's blade was about to hit him it stopped mid-air, mere inches above his forehead.
John pressed harder gritting his teeth, his muscle tightening. The barrier bent slightly responding to his strength; but with a faint sound of cracking glass, it pushed back. The force sent him sliding a few paces across the floor of the training ground, his boots scraping against the hard stone.
Cart lowered his hands slightly, his eyes clam and cold.
"Is that all?" he asked, his tone carrying a hint of mockery.
John steadied his breath, tightening his grip on the sword.
"Not yet," he muttered, and rushed forward, refusing to yield even when he knew victory would not be his.
They exchanged a few more strikes but the outcome remained unchanged. Cart laughed at John as if he was mocking him and his swordsmanship.
John swung once more, pouring every ounce of strength and spirit into the strike. The air itself seemed to bend around his blade – but Cart didn't budge. With a faint flick of his fingers, the air around him twisted and surged towards John with a deafening sonic boom.
The force stuck John like a hammer. His sword shattered mid-swing, fragments scattering across the floor as the shock drove him to his knee. His breath caught, his vision blurred, yet his grip on the sword never loosened.
Cart lowered his hand, a faint smirk crossing his face.
"The effort was admirable," he said softly, "but effort alone change nothing."
John slowly rose to his knees, the broken sword still in his hand. He glanced down, only to find his left leg broken, bent at an angle it never meant to take. Pain surged through him, but he refused to fall. Gretting his teeth, he forced his body to get up, dragging his leg behind him.
He raised his broken sword once more, his breath uneven.
"I'm… not finished yet…" he muttered.
Cart's smirk widened slightly, though his eyes held only boredom.
"Pointless."
Before John could take another step, the air around him shifted.
A sudden gust tore through the training hall, stirring dust and debris into a violent spiral. The ground trembled as the wind twisted tighter and tighter, forming a whirling storm around Cart. From within it, several sharp currents of wind sliced outward, cutting towards John from every direction. Each strike sliced through his clothes and skin, knocking him to the floor. The broken sword finally slipped from his hand, clattering against the ground as blood trailed down his arm.
The storm faded as quickly as it had come. Cart stood untouched at its centre, lowering his hand as though dismissing a minor spell.
"Is this all you can do?" he said, his voice calm almost - disappointed.
Getting no response from John, Cart looked around the hall. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Remember this," he said. "No matter how skilled you are, the sword will always fall to magic."
His faint smirk lingered as he walked towards the exit, his cloak brushing against the blood-stained floor.
"Perhaps next time," he added, glancing back at John, "find someone who can actually stand."
Everyone who witnesses the duel stood in shock, unable to comprehend what had just unfolded before their eyes. Fury burned beneath their eyes; yet no one dared to move after seeing what he had done to John. The air hung heavy with silence, and not a single person dared to break it.
Only after the mage walked past the main gate of the dojo did everyone snap out of their shock and rushed toward John, who lay motionless in the training ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. His shattered leg was twisted unnaturally and the broken sword rested besides him, its once-brilliant edge now dull and lifeless; like a flame extinguished by the storm.
------
The memory faded, replaced by the cold sting of the present.
As John limped through the empty street, Cart's words – cruel but true – echoed in his mind.
"No matter how skilled you are…. the Sword will always fall to Magic."