Attack and defense… are but two rhythms of a single heartbeat. Master the timing, and your parry becomes your strike, your fall—the beginning of your enemy's collapse.
This is a level that cannot be mastered by the blade alone, but by understanding—by insight. The body must become an instrument that echoes thought, translating the moment with grace and instinct.
It is not merely a skill… but an art. A combat philosophy that turns every strike against you into a door leading to your opponent's downfall.
"The blow that doesn't kill you… make it your weapon."
In this style, you don't just block an attack—you reshape it. The enemy's force is absorbed, stored within your body for a fleeting heartbeat, then released in a devastating counter.
The enemy's blade ceases to be an enemy… and becomes an extension of your arm.
She looked at him with a piercing gaze—one that cut through skin and saw the bone beneath—then said in a tone laced with quiet challenge:
"Attack me with everything you have. You won't learn this level unless you feel it… as it crushes you."
He gripped his sword, let the illusion of his spirit wrap around him like smoke, and stepped forward in silence.
Not a regular silence—
It was the silence of a fighter trying to listen to his own body, to the aura beginning to pulse around him.
Then—he lunged.
A strike aimed at her left shoulder. Fast enough to surprise most…
But she was faster.
She redirected the blow with breathtaking fluidity—like her body knew his intent before he did—
And used the momentum of his attack as a lever, striking him back with twice the force.
He was thrown to the ground.
He didn't feel pain.
Instead, his eyes lit up with something wild.
It was as if a new door had opened before him—a path to a level that words could never touch.
He rose again.
Then he charged, again and again. Strikes flew in a storm—he advanced, faltered, retreated, then surged forward once more with mad, hungry energy.
And each time, she met him—
Parried. Redirected. Struck back.
Her voice rising in rhythm with their clashing steel:
"Show me more! That's my child! Show me the madness inside you!"
Six hours.
Six hours of blades colliding, of muscles burning, joints screaming.
And yet—
Despite the exhaustion crawling over him like shadows at dusk…
His smile never faded.
He hadn't mastered the style yet.
But he had begun to understand—
That this art demanded more than strength:
It required a grace like dance,
A mind that reads motion before it exists,
And a vision that sees the weakness hidden in the heart of the storm.
He returned to his room, stripping off his clothes slowly.
Entered the bathroom.
Hot water poured over his aching body like it was rebuilding him from scratch.
Minutes passed in silence.
He stepped out, steam trailing behind him like mist from a battlefield.
He stood before the mirror, wiped away the fog with his hand.
His reflection appeared—his eyes, his hair, that stubborn smile still lingering on his lips.
Then he stopped.
The reflection… wasn't quite right.
It smiled back at him.
Then shifted.
A smirk curled up—sharp, mocking.
The eyes became deeper. Truer. Crueler.
Then came the voice.
Not from the room, not from his mouth—but from somewhere.
Inside him. Behind the mirror. It didn't matter.
"Stop pretending."
He froze.
The reflection was speaking.
No one else could hear.
No one else needed to.
"You smile at her like you're happy… but you know you're not."
He didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
The words had already struck bone.
The reflection's gaze sliced through the shell he wore like a blade honed on truth.
Then, in heavy silence, he turned his back to the mirror—
And left his reflection behind, still smiling.
He dressed, then walked—as always—toward the dining hall.
She was there, sitting in her usual place, smiling at him with that same pure warmth.
He smiled back, perfectly.
The smile he had learned to wear without feeling a thing.
He thought to himself:
"If she believes it… that's enough. That's her reward."
But the voice inside him didn't leave.
It lingered.
"Or maybe… you just can't stand to see her sad