He executed a slow horizontal cut, his arms trembling, and his focus was instantly broken by the sound of the training hall doors sliding open with a soft, decisive thud.
'Who came now?' Azael thought.
Standing framed in the doorway, bathed in the morning light filtering in from the windows, was Arista.
She was not in the flowing crimson silk of the night before. Today, she was clad in gear meant for battle, and her presence was instantly more potent.
Her long, fiery red hair was pulled back tightly into a high ponytail, accentuating the sharp lines of her face. She wore a tight black sports bra that offered support to her massive, round breasts, leaving her toned midriff exposed.
Below, tight black leggings hugged her thick, athletic thighs and wide hips. Her abs were faintly visible, a testament to her life of rigorous training and missions.
Her tanned skin glow in morning light.
Her body was undeniably fit, athletic, and sexy. A perfect physical specimen, the very opposite of Azael's own frail frame.
'Wow....look at her...she's crazy!' Azael couldn't take off his eyes from her.
Azael was standing in a puddle of sweat, gripping a wooden sword. A flicker of amusement.
Arista standing there saw Azael. A genuine interest danced in her violet eyes. She began to walk toward him, her stride confident and unhurried. The slight slap of her feet on the stone floor was the only sound besides Azael's ragged breathing.
The knights in the hall quickly averted their gaze, suddenly engrossed in their own training, but every single one was listening.
Azael straightened up, ignoring the tremor in his muscles. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, watching her approach.
"Well, well," Arista said, stopping a few feet away. Her voice was calm but held an undertone of challenge. "The little brother is back for more punishment. I thought last night's party would have been exhausting enough."
"It was," Azael admitted, leaning slightly on the wooden sword for support. "But I have an appointment in three months, remember? I can't afford to be tired."
Arista crossed her arms under her huge chest, which was already heaving slightly from the warmth of the room, bringing the impressive curve of her bust into sharper relief. "The Eternum Academy, right. Cedric was chirping about it. I also attended it when I was your age."
She stepped closer, inspecting the frail muscles of his arm. "I was curious. I heard the reports from Leon. He said you pushed yourself until you collapsed yesterday. And now you're back. Honestly, Azael, I expected you to be in bed for a week."
"Sorry to disappoint you easily," he replied, forcing a smirk. While trying to keep away his eyes from her curves.
Arista chuckled.
"You certainly surprise easily. First, you speak back to Cedric, then you demand a dance in front of the entire noble society, and now… this." She gestured around the vast, silent hall. "You're training. Seriously."
She uncrossed her arms and pointed to his wooden sword. "Let me see your form."
Azael's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew he was about to expose his true incompetence in combat. The Azael body's lack of skill, even if Ethan had a lot of experience.
"It's not good," he warned.
"I'm aware of your situation," she countered simply. "Show me anyway."
Taking a deep breath, Azael raised the wooden sword. He began with a basic vertical chop, then a horizontal sweep, using the muscle memory of the S-rank Ethan to guide the movement. But the body was too weak; the chop was slow, the sweep lacked power, and the sword dipped at the end from fatigue.
Arista watched every movement with unnerving focus. When he stopped, panting heavily, she walked to the weapon rack and pulled out a training sword of her own. Heavier, but still dull.
"The form is… weak, but correct. Interesting. I never had seen you train. How is your form perfect?" she stated, circling him slowly. "You have the right lines, but no power to back it up. You need speed, mass, and mana. And right now, you have none of the above."
She stopped directly in front of him, raising her training sword.
"Let me show you a real cut, little brother," she challenged, her violet eyes burning. "Come on. Attack me."
Azael felt the intense pressure of her presence—the scent of her sweat, the visible power in her taut muscles. He knew what she was doing: testing his nerve. He straightened up, gripped the sword, and raised it in a battle stance that the old Azael definitely never possessed.
The knights around them glanced at the scene curiously.
"As you wish, sister," he said, his voice dropping, taking on the cold edge.
The moment he attacked, she moved.
And she was really fast.
Arista didn't just parry; she flowed around his slow strike. Her sword flashed, slamming hard against the flat of his wooden blade, sending a jolt of pain up Azael's already aching arm.
Before he could recover, she closed the distance, her free hand coming up and gripping the back of his neck, pulling his face close to her imposing chest.
The impact of her strength, the immediate defeat, and the soft, warm scent of her body against his cheek. It was a brutal, intimate lesson.
She was just too fast. Even his past-life skill and experience were useless in front of someone like her. His body was too weak, not even getting a chance to move as he wished.
"Never drop your guard after a strike," she whispered, her breath hot near his ear, her voice laced with the thrill of the spar. "You leave yourself open. Your body is a sheet of paper, Azael. You'll die in an instant at the Academy if you move like that."
'Damn! She's hot! Wait! What am I thinking… if I had the strength of my past life, I would have defeated her,' he complained inside. But it was just an excuse.
She released his neck.
Azael grabbed his wooden sword more tightly.
"One more time," he said.
Which made Arista smile wide. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He dashed at her. They parried. Azael tried his best to focus on the fight, not her bouncing breasts.