Northern said nothing, looking at the Patriarch with a cold, dark but even stare. Then he stepped forward with unhurried, deliberate steps—like when a serial killer was slowly walking his way towards a scrambling target.
The Patriarch straightened, slowly and painfully.
"Who are you? I’ve read all about you, from my brother’s mory. Quite an anomaly you are. But I think I know what you are."
He fixed Northern a vicious grin and then his essence flared.
"Long long ago. The first patriarch of—"
Northern clicked his tongue, "I’m not going to have a story mont with you." He moved sharply, before the man could even follow and buried a blow into his chest.
The Patriarch’s flaring essence seized for the mont, his entire body paused and broke apart to process the intensity of that simple blow. A blast of wind exploded from his back and he folded towards Northern before exploding away like a fired missile.
[You’re using Wind Embrace]
Northern took flight, vanishing into the wind at a terrible rate, he twirled and slamd a kick down the flying body of the Patriarch, causing him to crash into the ground. A massive shockwave of stones and debris exploded outwards and a deep crater instantly ford in the ground.
The Patriarch shrieked where he was. Quickly, he spun and shot up. The darkness of the domain accompanied him, leaking out of every corner, from the dark clouds to the ground, and the swirled around him like a second body before extending to form two extra hands and for swords.
Northern looked at him with interest, tilting his head.
For a mont, Northern considered just finishing him off. But there was sothing that he couldn’t resist. It was the sa thing that had always plagued him from the beginning.
Surely he was stronger than the Patriarch but the man was a Paragon, who could be considered the peak of the secretive combat style of the Kageyama clan. This was his opportunity to improve his combat mastery and style.
It was sothing he enjoyed and couldn’t resist when the ti ca.
[You’re using Shadow Blade.]
The Patriarch’s eyes widened for a mont, then they turned sharp.
"I see... Shin’s suspicions were rather true. You’re capable of copying abilities. That must belong to Kai."
Northern looked at the slightly long straight sword that ford out of darkness, he consciously reduced the weight to make it lighter. Then he looked at his left hand. Another shadow swirled above his hand.
[You’re using Supre Shadow]
[You’re using Shadow Blade]
This other sword was different, it was crafted from Northern’s own semi-autonomous shadow that had its own senses. Hence, through it Northern could also sense movents through air displacent and wind patterns.
Not that it mattered much, but that just simply ant that the Sword will work its best to defend and create options for opening.
’I think I just got an idea for the first weapon I want to forge.’
Northern created a clone that instantly ran towards Shin and began to create a cocoon of wood around both of them.
The Patriarch’s eyes tracked left—toward the clone and Shin—for a fraction of a second.
That was all Northern needed.
He materialized behind the Patriarch, both shadow blades already in motion. The right sword ca high, the left swept low—a scissoring attack designed to split focus, force a choice.
The Patriarch spun. His four shadow-ford swords moved independently—two blocked high, two blocked low. The clash rang out like struck bells.
But Northern was already moving.
His right blade disengaged, reversed grip, ca back around in a circular slash aid at the neck. His left sword pushed forward, driving toward the ribs.
The Patriarch’s third and fourth shadow hands intercepted—barely. The force drove him backward three steps.
Northern didn’t pursue. He stood there, observing. Analyzing with a soft azure glow in his eyes.
The way the shadow hands moved. The positioning. The weight distribution. The timing between blocks and counters.
’Dual-wielding, but with four weapons. Each hand operates semi-independently while maintaining overall coordination.’
The Patriarch straightened with a slightly frustrated line on his face, then he attacked again.
This ti faster. More aggressive.
His blades beca a blur—slashing, stabbing, feinting. Each strike ca from a different angle, different timing, testing the Patriarch’s defensive matrix.
The Patriarch’s four swords danced. He parried, deflected, redirected. His footwork was immaculate—sliding backward, pivoting, creating distance when pressed too hard.
Northern’s Omnisphere tracked every micro-movent. Every weight shift. Every breath.
And he began to adapt.
His next combination mirrored one of the Patriarch’s defensive patterns—but inverted. Used offensively. The right blade feinted high while the left ca in with a thrust that slipped through the Patriarch’s guard by milliters.
The Patriarch twisted, avoided it by a hair’s breadth.
But his expression shifted. Surprise. Then concern.
"Don’t tell ... abilities are not the only thing you can copy."
Of course, unaware that Northern was not making use of any ability to copy his combat style and even invert it. This was all the young boy’s experience, and self-sufficient capacity.
Northern said nothing. Instead he pressed forward.
Twenty exchanges. Thirty. Each one faster than the last.
The Patriarch’s expression darkened. His four shadow swords dissolved—then reford as two actual blades in his hands. Real steel. Ancient weapons that humd with accumulated essence.
He dropped into a stance Northern hadn’t seen yet. Weight distributed evenly. Both swords held at odd angles—one high and inverted, one low and forward.
"Crow’s Descent stance..."
The Patriarch moved.
Not in a straight line. He ca at Northern like a bird diving—irregular, spiral trajectory, switching directions mid-motion. His blades cut the air in crossing patterns that created a web of death.
Northern’s eyes tracked every angle.
[You’re using Flow Perception]
The montum beca visible—lines of force, vectors of movent, the precise path each blade would take. He saw the attack before it fully ford.
Northern’s right sword rose, caught the descending blade. His left sword swept horizontal, intercepted the low strike.
But the Patriarch twisted mid-clash, his body spinning like a corkscrew. Both his blades disengaged and ca back around from new angles—unpredictable, flowing.
"Feather Step."
He was not fighting like a human swordsman. He was fighting like wind through feathers. Every strike connecting and flowing to birth even more threatening and complicated strikes.
Northern gave ground. One step. Two. Analyzing the rhythm. The way each strike fed into the next. The seamless transitions between high and low, left and right.
The Patriarch pressed harder. His strikes ca faster. Each one blended into the next without pause—a continuous assault like water pouring downhill.
Northern blocked. Parried. Deflected.
And copied.
His footwork shifted. Started matching the Patriarch’s irregular rhythm. His blade angles adjusted—mimicking the inverted grip, the crossing patterns, the spiral approaches.
The Patriarch’s eyes widened. "Impossible. That took decades to—"
Northern’s counterattack ca mid-sentence.
He used the Patriarch’s own technique—Feather Step—but sharper. Cleaner. Without the wasted micro-movents that ca from years of human habit.
The Patriarch barely blocked. Barely.
His breathing quickened.
Northern tilted his head, watching.
"Continue. I want to see more."
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