The distance of more than ten paces was given up calmly and steadily, as though he were simply following steps in a program designed to clear space on a stage.
The black warrior raised one hand and made a casual pulling gesture toward the saber.
The meaning could not have been clearer.
You may use my weapon.
Wei's mind loosened for a split second.
Then it snapped tight again.
He was glad his trick had worked. Just as he had predicted, the man's pride had been stirred.
But reason screamed warnings inside his skull.
The surface of this hill was only a thin layer of soil. Beneath it lay solid rock.
And yet the saber stood planted upright in the ground, steady and unmoving.
That was not brute force.
That was strength fused with precision at its peak.
Today was truly going to be trouble.
Go all in.
He roared the words at himself in silence.
Either do nothing and watch them die.
Or step forward and drag every ounce of danger onto your own shoulders.
If he could carve out even a sliver of survival,
the two girls would gain time.
Wei ran his tongue over his cracked lips.
His throat felt tight.
He drew in a deep breath,
stepped forward,
and strode toward the saber embedded in stone.
"Interesting," the Black Warrior said slowly.
"Three moves."
"If you are still standing after three moves, I will not strike again."
A faint curve lifted at the corner of his mouth.
"Let me see whether that strike just now was luck, or whether you can do it again."
He settled into a defensive stance.
The moment his words fell silent,
Wei did not move.
Not because he was calm.
But because he was empty.
His mind was blank.
His shoulder was bleeding.
Each breath carried pain.
For the first time in his life, he understood with brutal clarity:
he had no idea how to fight a real warrior, a killing machine.
Then another realization struck him.
His vision had sharpened. Far sharper than usual.
In the darkness he could see things he would never have noticed before.
Across the bridge, there truly was a shadow.
Not a tree trunk.
Not a trick of rock and moonlight.
Not a hallucination born of fear.
Something lay low against the ground.
Its outline was flat.
It almost melted into the dark.
It did not shift its breathing.
It made no extra movement.
Time seemed to mean nothing to it.
All its strength was locked inside that stillness.
It was waiting for a signal.
Like a tireless leopard.
Its target already chosen. Its direction set.
Its fangs open in silence, patiently waiting for prey to wander close enough.
And the prey had no idea.
This heightened sight kept tugging at Wei's attention.
At a moment like this, it was a curse.
The blade was in his hands.
The boy's presence changed in an instant.
Everything now depended on cutting out a path to survival with the saber in his grip.
He lunged forward. The metal hummed low. A cold gleam flashed upward.
The saber rode the momentum of his charge, carving a fierce arc through the air.
No probing. No adjustment.
He struck straight at the Black Warrior.
In his mind, only his father's voice echoed.
Combat should be simple.
Direct.
Effective.
A blade was not meant for display.
It was meant to kill.
Unlike the Black Warrior, who held his weapon in one hand, Wei gripped the saber with both.
His shoulders and back drove the force. His movements were broad and open.
He cleaved forward, the most direct path possible.
As if he were chopping wind.
As if he were cutting away his own option to retreat.
His father had taught him only eight moves.
Eight saber forms, carved into his bones.
Simple beyond simplicity.
Yet he had practiced them for ten years.
First, Split the Wind.
Second, Sever the Current.
Third, Sweep Across.
Fourth, Chop the Neck.
Fifth, Lift the Heart.
Sixth, Cut the Wrist.
Seventh, Seal the Throat.
Eighth, Spare the Life.
His father had said, remember these eight moves and it will be enough.
The rest, when your life is truly on the line, you will understand by yourself.
Wei had never believed him.
Until now.
"Sever the Current!"
He gathered his strength again.
In his mind, a great river rushed toward him.
His will became a blade.
He would split the water in two.
Clang.
The strike was blocked.
But the Black Warrior stepped back half a pace.
The saber slammed into the silver arm guard.
Sparks burst into the night.
Shards of light scattered.
They fell into the river below.
They flashed once.
Then the dark swallowed them.
Each collision sent shock back through the blade.
The force traveled into Wei's hands.
His palms burned.
It felt as if a nail had been driven into the web between thumb and finger.
The muscles in his forearm tightened hard.
His bones felt as if something were pulling them apart.
Pain crawled from his elbow to his shoulder.
It brought that dangerous blankness that comes before numbness.
But he did not stop.
He did not dare to stop.
Only now did he realize something worse.
The Black Warrior had not even counterattacked.
He only raised his arm.
He blocked.
He endured.
Yet the one being injured was Wei.
It felt as if he were not striking a man.
He was hacking with flesh and blood
against a wall of iron that would never move.
He understood at last.
The Black Warrior did not need a blade.
Simply defending
was enough to leave him covered in wounds.
…
In that instant, the boy's raw strength and wild temper exploded.
The blade came out again.
Not a straight chop.
Not a flat sweep.
The edge slid along the rim of the silver arm guard.
It should have crashed head on.
But in the last inch, it rolled.
The motion was sharp and sudden.
Like a snake twisting its body.
The silver armored warrior's pupils shrank.
He stepped back half a pace at once.
If he had been a fraction slower,
the blade would not have struck armor.
It would have cut into the joint.
The Black Warrior frowned.
His breathing grew heavier.
Something about this boy was wrong.
"Seal the Throat!"
Steel flashed.
"Spare the Life!"
The blade reversed.
The line changed.
"Again. Split the Wind!"
The same opening stance.
The same path.
But each landing point shifted.
Thin white marks began to appear on the silver arm guard.
They looked like scars left by repeated gusts of wind.
Worse still,
the Black Warrior had to move his feet.
Not to press forward.
But because he was being led.
The angles grew sharper.
Each strike leaned half an inch away from the memory of the last.
The forms were the same.
They repeated again and again.
Yet each time, they were harder to read.
For the first time, real confusion showed on the Black Warrior's face.
Why?
…
The blade scraped across the arm guard again.
This time—
A soft tearing sound.
Not metal.
A thin crack opened.
Blood.
Even if it was only a line,
it was real.
For a heartbeat, the air seemed to freeze.
Then the boy grinned.
"Big idiot. What move are we on now?"
The Black Warrior's breath burst out of him.
Rage shot to his head.
"You want to die!"
This time, the anger was real.
Not contempt.
Not amusement.
It was fury at being made to bleed by a mere boy.
From that single drop of blood,
the battle changed.