Chapter 361: Chapter 361: Rivena
Rivena went still.
For a heartbeat, she said nothing—then her lips parted in a slow, amused smile, as if Trafalgar’s rejection had unlocked sothing she’d been waiting for.
"You know," she said lightly, her voice slipping into sothing softer, more poisonous, "you used to be much quieter." Her eyes traced his profile, lingering. "Back when you couldn’t talk back. Back when you couldn’t resist." She tilted her head, studying him with open curiosity now. "I almost miss that version of you."
The blade hovered near his throat again, not pressing, just close enough to remind him it was there.
"Maybe," she continued, lowering her voice, "you’ve forgotten how it felt." A pause, savoring the mont. "We could fix that. Try again. See how much you’ve really changed."
Sothing in Trafalgar snapped.
He turned.
Fully this ti.
It was the first ti he faced her head-on, and whatever Rivena had expected to see in his expression wasn’t there. No fear or hesitation. No flicker of old instinct trying to surface.
Only cold.
Mana surged at his side, sharp and imdiate. The air tightened as Maledicta materialized in his hand, the blade forming in a smooth, practiced motion. Blue light bled across its edge as mana flooded into the weapon, dense and controlled, wrapping the steel in a steady glow.
Rivena’s eyes widened a fraction out of surprise.
Her smile didn’t vanish—but it shifted, sharpening at the edges as she took in the sight of the sword, the aura, the intent behind it. She straightened slightly, blade still in hand, gaze locked onto his.
"Oh?" she said, arching a brow. "Looks like my little brother finally found so courage."
Trafalgar didn’t answer.
He moved.
The motion was clean, imdiate, without warning or buildup. Mana compressed along Maledicta’s edge in a tight surge as he swung, releasing everything in a single, inverted arc. [Morgain’s Final Crescent].
The crescent of energy tore through the air, silent and precise, aid straight for Rivena’s throat. There was no flourish to it, no anger shaping the strike. It was efficient. Decisive. A kill aid exactly where it needed to be.
Rivena’s eyes widened fully this ti.
She reacted on instinct, twisting her wrist and snapping her curved blade up just in ti. The impact hit with a sharp crack as the crescent split against her defense, the technique shearing apart into two fragnts that tore past her shoulders and vanished into the stone behind her.
She had blocked it.
Barely.
The force drove her half a step back, boots scraping against the floor. For a fraction of a second, everything stilled.
Then she reached up with her free hand and touched her cheek.
Her fingers ca away red.
It wasn’t deep. Just a thin cut, a line drawn across pale skin. But it was real. Warm blood slid down slowly, unmistakable.
Rivena stared at it.
Then she looked back at Trafalgar.
The shift in her expression was imdiate and violent. Whatever amusent had lingered there vanished, replaced by sothing raw and sharp. Anger, real anger, stripped of playfulness and pretense.
"So you really would have killed ," she said, her voice low. Her grip tightened on her sword. "That wasn’t a bluff."
Her eyes narrowed as she assessed him again, this ti properly. The mana control. The execution. The level of the technique.
"Now you’ve really ssed up, you little piece of shit," she said coldly. "I didn’t expect you to know such an advanced technique."
The cut on her cheek burned, and she knew what it ant.
He could hurt her.
The balance between them had shifted, decisively and irreversibly, and for the first ti since she’d begun "playing" with him, Rivena understood one thing with absolute clarity.
Rivena moved.
The mont stretched thin as mana surged around her blade, dense and violent, far heavier than before. The playful edge was gone. What replaced it was intent sharpened into a single line.
"Then let’s see how far that confidence carries you," she said.
Her sword ca forward in a straight thrust, mana flooding the steel in a concentrated stream.
[Morgain’s Linebreaker].
The technique wasn’t wide or flashy. It was direct. Brutal. Everything about it was designed to break through whatever stood in its path.
Trafalgar hadn’t seen it before.
The instant the technique ford, Sword Insight reacted.
Pain tore through his head without warning, sharp and invasive, like sothing being forced into place rather than learned. His vision blurred for a fraction of a second as information flooded in all at once. Structure. Mana flow. Timing. The exact angle of execution.
It was too much.
[You have learned [Morgain’s Linebreaker]]
The ssage registered, but the cost ca imdiately. The pain spiked, pulsing behind his eyes, sinking deep enough to make his body hesitate at the worst possible mont.
Too slow.
Too slow.
The corridor seed to compress as the attack closed in, mana roaring so loudly it drowned out everything else. The air itself bent around the thrust, pressure crashing forward in a single, rciless line. Trafalgar felt it in his bones before he saw it fully—the certainty that this strike was ant to end things.
Sword Insight scread inside his head. The structure of the technique unfolded instantly, every angle, every flow of mana forced into his awareness at once.
’Shit—don’t activate now.’
The knowledge ca with pain, sharp and invasive, dragging his focus inward at the worst possible mont.
’Tch...’
His body lagged behind his mind. He knew exactly how to answer the strike, exactly where to place his blade—but knowing and doing were not the sa thing. The realization settled cold and imdiate.
’She’s still stronger than .’
And worse—
’I’m still not ready to kill her. Not yet at least.’
The edge of the attack was already tearing through the space in front of him, mana screaming as it cut a straight path toward his throat.
Then the pressure shifted.
A sudden resistance crossed the line of force, absolute and immovable. Mana collided violently, detonating outward in a sharp shockwave that rattled the windows and sent frost sliding down the stone. Sparks of condensed energy scattered across the corridor like shattered glass.
The attack never reached him.
A blade stood between Trafalgar and death, steady despite the power bearing down on it. The figure holding it did not retreat, boots planted, posture flawless, eyes cold and focused.
Lysandra.
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