The conclusion was simple, almost disappointingly so, once everything settled into place within my head.
The hitbox, the blue outline, was the dium through which damage was delivered, but damage itself only ever ca into existence the mont it t the hurtbox.
Until that precise overlap occurred, nothing truly happened. Hitbox striking hitbox did next to nothing, a aningless collision, negligible enough to be dismissed entirely.
I assud the sa held true for hurtbox against hurtbox, though there was no practical way to verify it, at least not without variables I wasn’t willing to introduce.
That, in essence, was the skill.
Not an offensive technique by nature, not a weapon, but information.
Pure, brutal clarity disguised as perception.
And yet, indirectly, it leaned toward offense so heavily it almost mocked the distinction.
In the hands of soone careless it would be useless, but used properly, thoughtfully, it could be bent into countless forms, enough to save a life, or end one, sotis without ever striking directly.
I found myself weaving scenarios without aning to, possibilities stacking atop one another, each more vivid than the last, all hinging on how far this technique might evolve with rank.
Ascension, however, was never guaranteed.
’There is no telling...I might remain here for eons, or tear through it all in a blink.’
I exhaled in acknowledgnt, loosened my grip on the sword, and let it fall where it was, the tal clanking once before settling.
My legs gave in shortly after, and I sank into the lone chair, careless enough to topple the basket of enchanted fruits onto the floor, though not before plucking one for myself out of habit more than intent.
"I need water," I muttered, biting into the fruit again.
There was none.
Not within my kicking radius, at least. Not even within the colossal hall itself.
The realization left a faint bitterness behind, sharper than the taste on my tongue.
Back on Earth, I had pushed my body to its limits. Endurance nearly maxed out.
Sleep deprivation, hunger, pain, things I had learned to ignore so thoroughly they barely registered anymore.
My nerves had dulled, conditioned to the point where stinging sensations simply... stopped mattering.
This body was different.
Here, I was an apprentice at best. Fragile. Weak in ways I hadn’t needed to think about in a long ti.
Rael’s body had never been trained, not really. How could it have been?
The circumstances alone made that obvious.
Still, there was an upside.
A significant one.
Strength, agility, endurance, every physical parater here was prid for growth. Not linear, but Exponential.
Once training truly began, once I pushed both technique and flesh in tandem, the returns would compound rapidly.
That thought was enough to steady .
Creaak.
My gaze drifted toward the absurdly humongous polished wooden entrance door as it opened with a strained, complaining screech, the kind that made it feel as though the thing had been standing there for millennia, watching people co and go, rembering every single one of them.
The sound echoed faintly through the hall before dying out.
A figure stepped inside.
His clothes were simple.
A faded, knee-length tunic hung from his shoulders, the fabric rough, worn thin by use rather than neglect.
Whatever color it had once been was long gone, settling now sowhere between ash and bone.
A narrow mantle lay across his shoulders, sleeveless and unadorned, Just above his heart, sewn deliberately into the cloth, rested a small iron insignia.
Plain.
A rope belt cinched the tunic at his waist, securing it over black trousers that bore no embellishnt whatsoever.
It was unmistakably the Rebel Church’s official attire, stripped of ceremony and excess, nothing like the cloak Lunera wore with her quiet defiance.
The pale light of the otherwise darkened hall flickered across his face as he stepped forward, catching on black hair cut short and neat, on almond-colored eyes that held neither curiosity nor warmth.
A scar ran along his cheek, thin but prominent, ending just short of the philtrum, as if soone had stopped their blade at the last possible mont.
He looked like a man who had walked through doors like this many tis before.
"There is soone who wishes to et you, sire. I assure you it is no one from the Church, and from what I have gathered, they appear to be of utmost importance to you."
He spoke in the sa plain, even tone as before, stripped of inflection, stripped of interest, and once the words left his mouth he simply stood there, posture unmoving, as if he were nothing more than a ssenger carved out of discipline and bone.
"Utmost importance... and to ?Figures."
I muttered, the words slipping out before I bothered to filter them, a faint scoff following soon after.
"Who is it. Did they give a na, an identity, anything at all?"
I asked, my thoughts already skimming through every possible face and faction I could recall, searching for a reason soone would seek out here of all places, when hardly anyone should even know I was within the Church’s walls, unless the news had already slipped its leash.
"They are diplomats of the Lethyrae race."
Nothing more. No preface, no explanation.
Straight to the point.
Yet for the briefest mont, I caught it. A faint glint in his eyes.
Curiosity, restrained but undeniably present.
’What. The Lethyraes?Why would they want to et . They shouldn’t even know I exist. And yet... diplomats, not scouts, not observers. And the matter was apparently important. Utmost importance, even.’
A surge of thoughts bubbled up all at once, overlapping, colliding, dragging along that familiar, unpleasant sensation curling in my chest. Could it be related to, no.
That wasn’t possible.
I exhaled slowly, then motioned for him to lead the way, pushing the questions aside for now. Whatever this was, I would find out soon enough.
"...This better not be about sothing I’ve already forgotten doing,"
I muttered under my breath, just as the doors began to close behind us.
----
Lore drop coming soon, buckle up.
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