A paradox of sensation.
Inviting... yet directionless.
As if the sword whispered:
"Co find ."
But gave him no map.
No guide.
Just the echo. The rhythm. The hum.
And he—he wanted it.
He wanted it like oxygen.
Not for glory.
Not to rival Rowen.
Not even to prove Gerald wrong.
But because sowhere, deep in that chaotic, sharpened ss he called a soul—
Lucavion wanted his sword to finally speak back.
To not just respond—
but to answer.
That feeling of breakthrough...
It had been a while since he’d felt it.
That thin, electric tension in the chest—right before a step forward is taken, not in body, but in understanding.
But right now—
Lucavion felt only the ache of proximity.
So close.
And still not enough.
Sothing was missing.
He didn’t know what.
Couldn’t na it.
Only feel it—like a pressure point he couldn’t quite reach, a lock with no visible key.
The sword kept whispering.
Co find .
But the path forward remained veiled.
And so—
He moved.
—CLANG!
Rowen’s blade ca down in a precise crescent arc—asured, honed, devastating.
Lucavion stepped inward, deflecting the curve just barely with a sharp flick of the wrist.
—SWISH!
He spun low, estoc dragging behind him like a silver fang seeking a soft gap beneath the ribs.
But Rowen adjusted.
—CLAAANG!
Their weapons collided again, sparks flashing between them.
Steel grinded.
Marble cracked beneath the slide of boots.
Lucavion was being pushed.
Each of Rowen’s strikes ca faster now, more complete.
The flow of [Sword Resonance] didn’t just enhance him—it elevated him.
Every movent had intent.
Every strike had answer.
Lucavion parried, dodged, pivoted. His coat fluttered behind him as he twisted away from a vertical chop that would’ve split most n in half.
—THWACK!
The flat of Rowen’s blade grazed Lucavion’s shoulder, enough to force a slide backward. His boots skidded across the dueling court, leaving lines of friction in polished stone.
He exhaled sharply, flicking his wrist. His arm stung, but the cut hadn’t landed.
’Still too shallow...’ he thought, teeth clenched.
Not the blade.
Not the stance.
But the resonance.
It was like trying to hear a conversation happening underwater.
So close—so damned close—but still unintelligible.
—CLANG—CLANG—SWOOSH—SHNK!
Rowen pressed forward with relentless rhythm, each movent a masterclass in control.
Lucavion countered again, ducking a wide slash and launching a snap-thrust at Rowen’s exposed thigh—
—but Rowen turned with it, twisting his blade in a flawless redirect, pushing Lucavion’s estoc off-course with surgical efficiency.
Lucavion narrowed his eyes.
Rowen was preparing sothing.
The tempo changed.
His steps beca tighter. His shoulder lowered. His wrist angled ever-so-slightly inward.
Lucavion saw it in the eyes first—
That sharpened gaze.
The kind one only held before executing a finishing technique.
’This one...’
Lucavion felt the weight of it before it landed.
—WHHHMM—!
The air trembled again.
Rowen’s blade dipped and rose with that faint hum of resonance, his feet setting into a perfect stance. The onlookers might not see it yet—but Lucavion knew.
He was about to decide it.
And yet, in that mont...
Lucavion watched.
Not to react.
Not to panic.
But to see.
And in that mont—
He took sothing.
Not the form.
Not the mana signature.
But sothing subtler.
’The pivot. That shift in the inner hip. The angle of breath before the strike...’
He’d seen this before.
No—he understood it now.
That minute motion.
The mont where intent condensed before execution.
The tell.
Rowen moved—
—SWOOSH!
A diagonal cut that blended into a full circle. A spiraling finisher from Form Eleven—ant to collapse defenses with simultaneous inside pressure.
But this ti—
Lucavion’s eyes widened.
Not in shock.
In realization.
There.
He stepped into it—into the spiral.
—CLANG!!
Estoc t sword, not in deflection, but redirection. Lucavion’s blade didn’t contest the power. It slid along the arc and pivoted the force away, bypassing the collision point.
A crack of energy burst between them.
The pressure broke.
Rowen’s eyes flashed.
He staggered—not by strength—
—but by timing.
Lucavion had slipped through the rhythm.
He didn’t find resonance.
Not yet.
But in its absence—
He picked sothing else.
And with that—
He twisted behind Rowen, feet skating across marble—
—estoc drawn back low—
"Mine now."
—SHHHNK!
Rowen felt it—
A tremor, not of fear, but of danger.
Lucavion had slipped into the rhythm.
Not by matching it.
By threading through it. Like a crack forming in glass.
His pivot was too perfect.
Too exact.
Rowen knew in that instant—this wouldn’t end as planned.
Not unless—
His fingers tightened. His shoulders rolled slightly back.
’Then I’ll end it with the one I never ant to use...’
He shifted.
To anyone watching, it would seem like nothing—just another stance. Just another beautiful Drayke form poised for execution.
But to him—
This was his serenade.
The one he was forbidden to use in real combat.
The one that demanded everything and returned nothing—because no mana path aligned with its fra. Because no magic could assist its intricacy.
Too inefficient.
Too beautiful.
He had called it a mistake.
But tonight—
It was perfect.
Rowen stepped forward.
And the sword moved.
Not like a weapon.
But like a dancer’s arm.
Each step rolled seamlessly into the next, foot crossing behind foot, shoulders swaying, blade weaving in and out in figure-eights and crescent swirls.
The marble glinted beneath his polished boots, and the air split with the whisper of silver steel. It wasn’t ant to kill. It wasn’t ant to intimidate.
It was ant to fold reality around the blade—ant to force Lucavion into his tempo.
The crowd watched in stunned silence.
"A dance...?"
"No... that’s a technique—"
Valeria stood frozen at the terrace edge, breath held. Even she hadn’t seen this one.
And still—Lucavion didn’t falter.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t retreat.
Instead—
His eyes widened.
But not in panic.
In recognition.
"Hehe..."
The sound cut through the hush like a crack in ice.
Then—
Lucavion moved.
No elegance. No flourish.
He stepped into Rowen’s spiral again—this ti not around it, but through it.
And that motion—
It was wrong.
Not clumsy.
Not amateur.
Just—
Unthinkable.
Sothing no noble would ever do. Sothing no sword school would ever teach. Sothing no one raised in the tradition of steel and legacy would even consider.
Lucavion shattered the spiral.
Not with strength.
Not with speed.
But with angle—
With a cut so deliberately flawed, it slipped through the perfection of Rowen’s pattern and jamd its rhythm like a stone in a music box.
Rowen saw the estoc flash.
But what chilled him was the voice that ca with it.
"[Sword of Annihilation.]"
Lucavion’s left hand opened.
"Shatterpoint."
—CRAAANG!
The sound of collision was unreal. Not sharp like blades—but deep. Hollow. Like the echo of sothing cracking beneath weight it wasn’t ant to bear.
Rowen’s technique unraveled mid-swing.
Lucavion’s estoc, now sideways against his chest, halted an inch from Rowen’s throat.
But Rowen’s blade?
It was already angled above Lucavion’s heart.
The two froze.
Neither moving.
Neither breathing.
And then—
The air collapsed.
The resonance fell silent.
One heartbeat passed.
Two.
Then the judge’s voice rang out:
"...Draw."
Murmurs rippled.
Not outcry.
Not disappointnt.
Just stunned awe.
Lucavion exhaled, lowering his blade. A half-smile tugged his mouth.
"Not bad."
Rowen stared back—expression unreadable, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling.
He hadn’t lost.
But it didn’t feel like victory.
Because in Lucavion’s broken rhythm...
He had seen sothing terrifying.
A sword that obeyed nothing.
And answered only itself.
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