First Sword Style: Di Ventaria Sword Waltz
Felicia moves like a whisper through chaos.
Amid the howls of the undead and the clatter of bone against stone, she doesn't charge. She doesn't lunge.
She glides.
Each step is fluid, her body flowing like silk caught in the breeze. Her movents aren't rushed or frantic—they're deliberate, precise, srizing. A rhythm thrums beneath her every motion, invisible but unmistakable, as if the battlefield itself has fallen under the spell of her tempo.
Zombies groan, reaching with decaying arms.
Skeletons slash with chipped, rusted blades.
But she—
She dances.
Her footwork is intricate. Beautiful. Almost theatrical in its artistry.
Each pivot, each half-step, each turn of her ankle falls perfectly in ti. Every exhale follows a beat. Every flick of her wrist answers a silent symphony.
This isn't just swordplay.
It's choreography.
A deadly waltz composed of steel, blood, and poise.
Even the blade she holds—no more than a rusted relic looted from a skeleton—transforms in her hands. Once crude, now it sings, slicing through the air with the shrill harmony of a violin shriek.
Zzzt.
The sword flicks once—quick and clean.
The head of a zombie spirals through the air, trailing a mist of blackened blood.
Vzzt—VZZZTTT!
Another turn. Another strike. Another perfect, fluid spin.
The blade carves a spiral across a skeleton's ribcage, twisting with her body's rotation, and ends in a final upward flick that splits the thing straight in half.
And just like that, they fall, one after another, as if bowing before her brilliance.
Like marionettes, strings severed.
The spotlight is hers.
"Damn…" I whisper, awestruck.
Even though she said she'd slow down so I could see… I can barely keep up.
But still—sothing clicks.
There's a pattern to her movents. A rhythm. Like verses of a song. Like steps in a dance.
The more I watch, the more I understand how its work.
The patterns…
Di Ventaria Sword Waltz is consisted of 13 different move patterns, corresponding to 13 different 'sword songs'. Each one composed to match a particular beat, a particular tempo. And each with a na as beautiful as its form.
1st move - Glass Requiem
A rapid series of precise, shallow strikes—aid at joints, tendons, or bones. It's used to disable before killing, leaving enemies flailing and broken, preparing them for a final death.
2nd move - Crimson Tercet
Three slashes. One diagonal, one vertical, one rising from below. It mimics the rhythm of a fast, triple-note beat. It's ant to overwhelm defenses in a blur of steel, targeting different angles in one breathless motion.
3rd move - Nocturne Fall
A spiraling descent from above. Felicia leaps, turning mid-air, and her sword curves down in a fluid, slicing crescent. It's used to break through tightly clustered enemies from above.
4th move - Waltz of Dusk
A graceful retreat-and-return maneuver, stepping back not just to defend, but to strike. Felicia dances away from an enemy's strike with a pirouette, only to close in with a fatal thrust as their guard drops.
A step back, a twirl, then a sudden bloom of death.
5th move - and perhaps my favorite so far - Bloody Carousel
A full-bodied rotation—her entire figure spinning in three slow, controlled steps. Each turn sends the sword flashing outward in spirals, cutting through multiple enemies at once. The battlefield becos her ballroom.
And the enemies… they all beco helpless, unwilling dance partners.
…
And just like that, the dance continues.
Eight more forms.
And in total, thirteen "sword songs."
One by one, Felicia moves through each of the techniques. I watch, captivated, trying to morize the way her arms glide, how her knees bend, how her weight shifts at just the right mont. Her footwork flows with impossible grace—so seamless it feels choreographed to music only she can hear.
Each strike is unique.
Each flourish of her sword deadly.
But all of them—every last one—can be sumd up in a single word:
ELEGANT!
Yes… this is it.
The elegance of death.
So this is what a royal sword style looks like. Not raw brutality. Not wild slashes. But calculated beauty—a perfect, terrible waltz through carnage.
It's amazing! Truly amazing!
And yet…
As I watch her dance among the undead, weaving through blood and bone like a ghost cloaked in grace, I start to feel sothing else—sothing subtle. Hidden.
Sadness.
Yes, an emotional weight, trailing in the shadows of her steps.
A grief, unspoken, lingering in the air.
It's there, tucked behind the polish of every movent. Buried in the way she exhales when she nas each technique.
Her form stays perfect all the ti.
Her rhythm stays exact all the ti.
But sotis… I feel her pulse quicken.
Sotis… there's a flicker of annoyance. A tightening in her grip. A flash of sothing unspoken in her eyes.
And sotis her movents twitch—almost imperceptibly—like she wants to veer off the path.
The blade cuts through enemies, but at the sa ti, it also feels like cuts into her heart for so reason.
And soon, I realize why.
It's her mother's swordstyle after all…
Yes, it's beautiful, it's regal.
But it's also heavy.
Heavy with mory.
Heavy with pain, with emotions...
And not to ntion, on top of everything, there's also sothing else I can't quite place… sothing strange. A feeling I can't na, but it clings to this sword style like perfu that doesn't match the wearer.
Sothing doesn't quite belong.
Eventually, Felicia twirls away from the last of the enemies, cleanly cleaving through a skull mid-spin before landing in a poised stance—her blade lowered in a final, elegant salute.
"Hehe," She grins, proud and flushed. "Well? How was it? Want to learn this style?"
Well, even though there's still so weird feeling about this, there's no denying that this style is amazing!
"YES!!" I say without hesitation. "I wanna learn it so bad!!"
Oh my!
I can already picture it.
, a dazzling catgirl, with a gleaming crystalline sword, dancing through blood and shadows like a noble warrior out of legend. My dress fluttering, my eyes sharp, striking with beauty and power all at once.
Ahh, how amazing that would be!
How brilliant that would be!
Perfecto!
Absolutely cinematic!
However—
I'm now also curious about my feelings earlier…
"…Felicia, why… why do I feel like sothing's off? Like… sothing's missing from this sword style?"
"Haha! Because there is!" Felicia says, grinning even wider. "You seems quite smart eh? Good observation by the way!."
Eh?
As she says that, I'm stunned.
Wait.
Was that a complint?
She actually praised ?!
OOOOOOHHHH!
A wave of pride wells up in my chest, and I'm happy!
I only said what I felt, but… I didn't expect it to be right!
However…
"As you can see, this style is boring."
"Eh?"
Boring?
Boring?
WHAAAT??? BORING?
I know that it was missing sothing…
But boring?
HOW THE HELL CAN IT BE BORING?
IT'S SRIZING AND COOL AS HECK!
"Arrrgghhh!" Felicia groans, dragging a hand down her face. "How do I even say this? It's good, sure—but it's missing sothing. It lacks freedom, fun! It doesn't match my style, you know?"
And the mont she says that—
CLICK.
It clicks. So hard.
"UOOOOHHHH!!!" I practically howl. "YES! YOU'RE RIGHT! I GET IT NOW!"
No wonder it felt off. No wonder it felt weird!
It's too elegant.
Too composed.
Too tight!
Every move in Di Ventaria feels like walking a razor's edge—perfectly rehearsed, impossibly delicate. You have to move like you're dancing at a royal gala, not a battlefield.
And Felicia…? That's literally the last thing she is!
With the demonic corruption pulsing inside her, with madness running rampant through her veins, she's ant to be violent. Wild. Free.
Free to do whatever the fuck she wants—to slaughter, to destroy, and to enjoy every second of it.
Forcing her to perform this refined, noble sword style?
It's like locking a lion in a cage and calling it a housecat.
It just doesn't work.
It's wrong.
In fact, when she perford Di Ventaria, she changed. Her posture stiffened. Her expression dulled. Her aura dimd, like soone threw a curtain over the storm inside her.
She looked like a princess again.
Not the real Felicia—but a puppet.
A shadow.
A beautiful shell moving through perfect steps, but hollow inside.
Hmmmm…
A sword style that strips away the soul of the one who wields it?
Now that I think about it…
I don't know if I want to learn it anymore.
But then—
CRUNCH!
Felicia grins, driving her heel through a skeleton's skull like it's a rotten lon, shattering bone in a single, vicious stomp.
Then, without missing a beat, she snatches a rusted blade from the dust.
Crooked. Chipped. Crude.
Perfect.
She's now holding one sword in each hand.
And that smile on her face?
Ferocious.
Badump.
Badump!
Our heart leaps.
I feel it—sothing shifting in her.
Her tone sharpens. Her body thrums with raw thrill, excitent sparking through every nerve.
This is her.
Her true self.
Unshackled. Unleashed.
"Uooooohhh~!" I squeal inside, barely holding back the bubbling excitent.
And then, with a wicked grin and eyes lit like wildfire, she says its na—
"Second Sword Style! Dual Wield—Chaos Tempest!"
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