They landed gracefully on the dew-damp grass, each circling the other like rival wolves in a shared territory.
Hurt gestured, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "So. Show me what you learned in my spell sessions. Do I still get the first move? Or have you come to your senses?"
Ronin grinned, pumped his fists with theatrical confidence. "Nah. You first. Last time, I wasn't ready. This time.. I am gonna ace it!"
Hurt stepped forward, his hands glowing with an ominously, swirling purple light. "Your confidence is remarkable. But, confidence has a short lifespan before it becomes arrogance."
His palm erupted with a miniature, shrieking cyclone of purple energy. "Let's begin. Necrotic Art: Cursed Flame Wave!"
He swept his arm outward.
WHOOSH.
A roaring, twenty-foot wall of violet, soul-scorching flame erupted, racing across the yard. It devoured the air, turning grass to black glass in its path.
Ronin's grin only widened. "Impressive, but... predictable."
At the last possible second, as the heat seared his clothes—WHOOSH—he vanished into a swirl of sky-blue spatial particles.
The wave of flame crashed harmlessly against the far wall, disspating into shimmering, malevolent heat.
Hurt's head snapped side to side, his crimson eyes searching. "Where did he–?"
A low, mischievous whisper breathed against the back of his cold neck. "Watch your back, Dead-man!"
Before Hurt could pivot, a swift, brutally precise kick connected with his jaw.
He staggered. Ronin moved faster than thought—a blur of controlled aggression. He ducked under Hurt's reflexive counter-punch and exploded upward from his crouch. His own fist driving into Hurt's chin.
The impact lifted Hurt off his feet, sending him skidding backward through the dirt. He shook his head, clearing the ringing from his ears.
"Whoa... I did not expect that," he admitted, a hint of genuine surprise in his voice. "Clever."
Ronin ran a hand through his hair, striking a mock-gentleman's pose. "That's better. Now we're even. Let's go again."
Hurt cracked his neck, the playful glint in his eyes hardening into something serious. "Agreed. Enough games. Time to get serious."
He raised both hands. The air grew cold and thick "Necrotic Art: Legions of the Grave."
The ground beneath them shuddered. From the soil erupted rotten, grasping hands. Then arms. Then spectral, translucent forms hauled themselves into the world—dozens of silent, shambling undead soldiers, their eyes glowing with dull purple embers.
Ronin cautiously steps back, his blue eyes fixed on Hurt's. "An army against me? You brought your gangsters? Then, I have some of my buddies for the party, too."
He stomped his foot. A dark crimson circle flared to life around him, etching itself into the earth. "Cursed Technique: Phalanx of the Damned!"
From the circle, figures boiled upward—not corpses, but furious, shadowy red souls shaped into spectral warriors with shields and blades of condensed hatred. With a silent, unified cry, they surged forward to meet the advancing undead.
The yard became a chaotic, silent battlefield of clashing phantoms. Spectral steel met rotting flesh. The air thrummed with dissipated energy as warriors on both sides fell, dissolving back into the earth or fading into crimson mist. When the dust settled, Hurt's legions were gone. Ronin's circle flickered and closed, his warriors vanishing.
A low, genuine chuckle escaped from Hurt. "This... this is what I wanted to see. Very well, Ronin. Now I see you."
A faint blush touched Ronin's cheeks. He scratched his head, suddenly sheepish. "Ah, well... I'am not that great. And, a compliment from you? That's a historic event."
"Don't get comfortable," Hurt said, his voice dropping into a deep, resonant register as he resumed his stance. "This isn't over."
Ronin's playful energy vanished, replaced by a focused, dreadful calm. "My guard is never down. Let's finish it."
Hurt extended a hand. In his grip, a long, crystalline spear of condensed soul energy materialized, humming with lethal power. He lifted it, aiming directly at Ronin's heart.
"Final strike. Necrotic Art: Spear of Souls!"
He hurled it. The spear tore through the atmosphere with a sound like a screaming ghost.
Then, it was divided. One became two. Two became four. Four became eight. In the blink of an eye, sixteen hyper-velocity spears of screaming soul energy converged on Ronin from every angle leaving no space to dodge.
Ronin's eyes widened. No time to teleport... no space to run.
"Do... or lose," he whispered to himself.
His Armageddon Chains erupted from his bracelet. He stood his ground, the chains coiling around him like protective serpents. "Armageddon Chains: Dragon's Maw Cleaver!"
He whipped the chains outward in a spiraling devastating whirlwind. They didn't just block—they slashed, moving with impossible, multi-directional fury. Golden chain met screaming soul-spear.
BOOOOOM.
A cataclysmic shockwave detonated at the point of impact. A hurricane-force gust of wind and dust exploded outward, flattening grass and rattling the mansion's window.
Hurt was thrown back, taking shelter behind the remains of a boulder.
As dust clouds slowly settled, a single figure stood unmoved at the center of the devastation.
Ronin. A trickle of crimson blood traced from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He wiped it away with a thumb, his boyish smile returning, defiant and bright.
Hurt stepped from behind the rock, his eyes gleaming with unmistakable, profound respect. "Ronin... I lack the word."
Ronin groaned, stretched his aching body. "Gods... I am about to pass out. Can we call it, Hurt? Please?"
Hurt simply nodded. "If you wish."
"Let's end it," Ronin said, his voice soft but firm.
He looked at the blood on his thumb. Focusing, he willed it. The droplet flowed, snaking up his forearm like a living, crimson vine. He extended his hand, and from his palm, a perfect, glistening arrow of his own blood condensed into being.
"Sangrial Art: Crimson Arrow."
Hurt's eyes flew wide. Sangrial Art? When did he—
His moment of shock was all the opening Ronin needed.
THWIP.
The blood arrow shot forward. It didn't pierce; it splashed against Hurt's shoulder, and the moment it touched, it delivered a burst of searing, neural agony—like fire in the nerves.
Hurt hissed, gripping his shoulder as the dull, throbbing pain radiated down his arm. "Ah! An unexpected gambit. When you learn that?"
"When you were asleep," Ronin panted, swaying slightly on his feet, the metallic taste of his own blood coming in his mouth. "I found the scroll in the library. Turning your own lifeblood into a weapon... I thought it was fascinating. You never taught it because you thought I'd hurt myself, right? Seriously?"
Hurt groaned, massaging his shoulder. "I don't trust you with 'fascinating' and 'dangerous' in the same sentence. But heed this: Sangrial Art is a double-edged blade. You sacrifice your blood and fuel it with all Three Pillars. It is the most costly magic there is."
Ronin stumbled over, a triumphant, wobbly grin on his face. He mimed holding a microphone to Hurt's mouth. "And Now! The moment of truth! How does it feel to be defeated by the great Ronin Hirata? Our adoring public demands an answer!"
Hurt lifted his head, and a deep, rumbling laugh burst from him. "Who said anything about defeat?"
His hand shot out, faster than Ronin's exhausted reflexes could follow. He grabbed the boy's arm, twisted, and slammed him gently but firmly onto his back in the grass.
OOF.
Ronin lay there, winded, his pupils wide with shock. "What? You were acting?!"
Hurt's eyes sparkled with playful cunning. "A classic combat trick. Feign weakness. Let your opponent's guard drop. Then... secure victory."
Ronin's face contorted in outrage. "AHHH! You always pull something like this! I hate you!"
Hurt chuckled, tapping Ronin's chest with a fond touch. His voice softened, filled with all the pride and warmth. "You lost a sparring match. But you won something far greater today, Ronin. You won my absolute confidence. I felt it—every year, every lesson, every drop of sweat... it was all worth it. Today, my work was paid in full with interest."
He stood, offering a hand. "So tonight, we celebrate. A proper party."
Ronin's anger evaporated. He grabbed Hurt's hand and sprang to his feet. "A PARTY? HELL YEAH!! All my favorite dishes! And broccoli is officially BANNED!"
Hurt's stern face melted into a true, warm, parental smile. "This is your reward. Anything you want, my little Necromancer."
***
The battle was over.
He may have lost the spar to his master's final trick.
But he had won the prize he had truly fought for all these years: Hurt's unwavering trust, and a permanent place in his guarded heart.
Yet in the growing darkness of the wider world, a question lingered like a ghost:
Could a bond forged in such light survive the shadows to come?