The air in the training hall seemed to crackle with tension as Daigo and Ishigo faced each other, swords drawn. Reika's gaze never wavered, her eyes narrowed, watching every movement with an intensity that cut through the noise of the surrounding arena. Her mind remained sharp, analyzing, dissecting, even as her heart drummed in her chest. The clash of steel echoed around the room, a violent symphony to the battle unfolding before her.
Ishigo moved like ice—calm, deliberate, precise. Every strike was calculated, every parry efficient, as if he had already accepted that this fight was just another day in a life of quiet acceptance. Daigo, in contrast, was a volcano in motion—an explosion of raw emotion, his blade a fiery extension of his chaotic energy. He attacked with abandon, his every movement fueled by something deeper, something that Reika couldn't quite place. It wasn't just the thrill of the fight. There was a desperation in Daigo's strikes, an unspoken need to prove something, to himself more than to anyone else.
Reika's sharp eyes followed the rhythm of their battle, a dance of swordplay, of life and death intertwined in every flick of the blade. But beneath the choreography, there was something else—a deeper conflict. Daigo wasn't just fighting Ishigo. No, Daigo was fighting himself.
She could see it in the way he gripped his sword, the way his body surged forward, his movements sometimes erratic, sometimes too forceful. There was something gnawing at him, something that no amount of skill or strength could mask. It was a thirst for validation, for a victory that would somehow settle the storm inside him. The way he swung his sword wasn't just to defeat Ishigo—it was to silence the demons whispering in his head, telling him he wasn't enough.
Ishigo, on the other hand, was like a man who had long ago surrendered to the cruelty of life. There was no anger in his blows, no fire in his spirit. He fought as if he were already dead inside—detached, calm, his strikes never deviating from the perfect form, like an automaton going through the motions. But there was a dullness to his eyes, a hint of resignation that Reika couldn't shake. He wasn't fighting for anything. He wasn't even fighting for the victory.
Reika couldn't tear her eyes away from Daigo. His fight was visceral, raw. She could feel the intensity of his struggle through every swing of his sword. He was fighting something within himself, and each blow was a desperate plea to overcome it.
Daigo's grin flashed, sharp and wild, when his sword found its mark, a swift strike that sent Ishigo stumbling back. It was a victory, yes—but it wasn't the kind of win that brought satisfaction. No, in Daigo's eyes, Reika saw it. She saw the cracks. His smile was wild, yes, but it didn't reach his eyes. His was a celebration not of success, but of relief. As if, for just a moment, he had managed to drown out the storm raging inside him.
As the fight came to a close and the instructor called Daigo's victory, the tension in the air thickened. Daigo's body relaxed, but Reika could still see the shadows in his expression. The victory had been hollow. He wasn't just fighting Ishigo—he was fighting a war within himself, one that had no clear end. The triumph was temporary, fleeting, because the demons that haunted him didn't go away with a single win.
Reika's fingers twitched around the hilt of her sword as she stepped forward, the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her. Daigo's victory didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the next moment—the moment where she had to step into the arena and prove her own worth. She had watched, but now it was her time. No distractions. No hesitation. She had a job to do.
"Next up—No. 21 and No. 15, step forward."
Reika's name rang in the air like a bell, and she pushed herself into motion. Her boots were silent on the stone floor as she walked toward her opponent. The atmosphere shifted around her, a subtle hum of energy that signaled the shift in focus. Her gaze locked onto No. 21, a boy who smirked at her like a predator eyeing its prey. His grin was cocky, brimming with arrogance, but there was something in the way he held himself—something Reika caught in the tension of his stance. He wasn't as confident as he let on.
She could see it now. His arrogance was a mask, hiding the insecurity beneath. He was a loose cannon—unpredictable, wild. And she was the target of his misfire.
"Let's have some fun, lady," he taunted, his voice dripping with condescension.
Reika didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her eyes met his with a quiet calm that sent a shiver down his spine. He faltered for a split second, and that was all she needed. She caught the tell in his eyes, the brief hesitation that signaled he wasn't as sure of himself as he wanted everyone to believe.
His smirk faltered. For just a heartbeat, he wasn't the predator anymore. He was the prey.
Then, with a sudden movement, he lunged at her.
The clash of their blades was deafening, a sharp metallic sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena. But Reika didn't flinch. Her mind was sharp, clear. She didn't just see his movements. She saw his intentions. She saw his desperation, his need to prove himself. And she knew how to exploit it.
His attacks were predictable. He was sloppy, overzealous—gripping his sword too tightly, too desperately. The signs of panic were evident in his every move. His center of gravity was off, his footwork unstable. He was overcompensating for something, something deeper than the fight itself.
Reika moved with effortless grace, her strikes precise, her form fluid. It was like a dance. Every motion was calculated, every step purposeful. She wasn't just responding to his attacks—she was leading the dance. She could feel the weight of control settle over her like a second skin. She was faster, sharper, more in tune with the rhythm of the fight than he would ever be.
His desperation became more evident as the fight wore on. His movements became more erratic, less controlled. She could feel the shift in the air as his confidence crumbled, his breath coming faster, his body slowing down. She had him right where she wanted him.
And then, just as the moment came when she could have ended it, when his throat lay open beneath her sword, Reika hesitated. Her blade hovered just inches from his skin, but she didn't strike.
The boy's eyes were wide with fear, his pride shattered in an instant. She could feel it—the power, the control, the temptation to end it right there. She had him defeated, but instead of delivering the final blow, she lowered her sword.
His gaze flickered from her weapon to her face, confusion and relief battling in his expression.
Reika walked away, her boots steady on the stone floor, her heart pounding. But it wasn't anger that made her pulse race—it was something else. Something deeper.
The fight hadn't been about victory. It hadn't been about defeating him. It had been about the choice—the choice to take control, to decide when to strike and when to stop. In that moment, she had won not by defeating him, but by mastering herself.
Was this victory? Reika exhaled slowly, her mind clearing. Maybe there was more to winning than just destruction. Maybe, for the first time, she didn't need to crush him to feel powerful. Maybe the true strength lay in the power to walk away.