Strongest Incubus Sy Chapter 120: Cut. Parry. Spin

Chapter 120: Cut. Parry. Spin.

Caerth remained silent for a mont, observing Damon with that analytical, impassive gaze that seed to pierce skin and read bone. The wind sliced ????through the courtyard like an invisible blade, and the distant sound of the trees rustling added to the sense of emptiness that pervaded the place. The veteran took a step forward, stopping a few feet from Damon.

"Get up," he ordered.

Damon, still panting, obeyed. His body ached as if beaten, and every muscle seed to protest.

"Tomorrow," Caerth continued, "you will leave this useless armor and this ego at ho. Co dressed in sothing light. Nothing that makes you believe you are invincible."

"And why?" Damon asked, wiping the sweat from his face.

"Because the wood will show you that you are just a man," the veteran replied, turning his back. "And until you accept that, you will never be a warrior."

Damon stood there for a mont, unsure if this was a lesson or a provocation. Perhaps it was both.

The next morning, the sun hadn’t even risen yet when Damon arrived in the courtyard. The air was cold, damp, and a fine mist covered the ground. He wore only a simple shirt and training pants, as Caerth had ordered. He felt almost naked without his armor.

Caerth was already there, of course. Sitting on a stone bench, sharpening a short dagger, as if ti were sothing he patiently shaped.

"You’re late," he said without looking up.

Damon looked up at the pale sky. "The sun isn’t even up yet."

"Yes. And you’re already late," Caerth replied, standing and picking up two wooden swords leaning against the wall. He tossed one to Damon. "Take it."

Damon held the weapon, asuring its weight. It was strangely light, almost ridiculous compared to steel. The polished wood bore ancient marks—cracks, scratches, signs that it had already dealt a great deal of pain.

"It looks like a child’s training stick," he murmured.

"It will look less so when she’s hitting you." Caerth gave a slight smirk, the kind of humor that sounded more like a threat. "Let’s begin."

They positioned themselves in the center of the courtyard. The silence was broken only by the birds beginning to sing in the distant canopies.

Caerth raised his wooden sword and took up his guard. Damon did the sa.

"First rule," the veteran said. "Wood is alive. It gives back what it receives. So if you hit too hard, you’ll feel the blow echo all the way to your shoulder. If you hold on too tightly, your wrist will lock."

Damon arched an eyebrow. "Then it’s like fighting myself."

"Exactly." Caerth stepped forward. "Let’s see how much you can handle."

The first blow ca quickly. Damon barely had ti to react before the dull sound of wood hitting his arm echoed. The impact vibrated like a lightning bolt. He gritted his teeth.

"You’re squeezing your fist too tightly," Caerth said. "Let go."

"If I let go, you’ll rip my head off."

"And if you don’t, you’ll lose your hand. Choose."

Damon snorted, readjusting his fist. The second blow ca, and this ti he managed to block it. The sound was hollow, but the impact reverberated.

"Better," Caerth said. "Now feel the movent."

Damon tried to counterattack, rotating his hips as the veteran had taught him. But the blow was too strong—the wood hit Caerth with a crack and ricocheted, lightly hitting his own shoulder.

"There it is," Caerth said, impassive. "Wood doesn’t lie."

"It seems it hates ."

"No. She just doesn’t respect you yet," Caerth replied.

The training continued. Strikes, parries, corrections. The dry sound of wooden swords beca the rhythm of dawn.

"Breathe with the movent," Caerth instructed, spinning around him. "The sword is air. If you push too hard, you suffocate."

"That’s easy for you to say."

"It’s easy for

because I already died to learn," the veteran replied, his gaze cold. "You’re still too alive to understand."

Damon gritted his teeth, lunging forward with another blow. Caerth dodged, twisted his fist, and slamd the side of the wood into his abdon. The sound was sharp. The air was knocked out of Damon’s lungs.

"The sword isn’t made for fighting," Caerth said. "It’s made for finishing a fight."

Damon fell to his knees, coughing, but got up. His gaze held sothing different now—a stubborn, almost feral determination.

"Again," he said.

Caerth arched an eyebrow, satisfied. "Finally, sothing worthwhile."

They resud. Caerth attacked him from varying angles, testing his reflexes. Damon began to sense the rhythm. His feet moved almost instinctively; his body twisted without thought.

The wood humd in the air, and the pain beca a cruel but effective teacher. Each mistake left a mark. Each success brought a strange sense of harmony.

"Are you starting to feel the weight?" Caerth asked between blows.

"I feel the weight... and the pain."

"Then you’re learning," he replied. "The body rembers pain better than technique."

Hours passed. The sun rose, gilding the stones of the courtyard. The sound of the blows beca more asured, more steady. Damon wasn’t missing as much anymore. His body was beginning to obey, even as his mind scread.

Caerth took a step back, assessing. "Better. Now stop."

Damon lowered his sword, panting.

"What now?" he asked.

"You’re still locking your shoulder," Caerth said, stepping closer. "Look."

He stood behind Damon and guided his arm, adjusting the angle. The touch was firm, technical. "The power doesn’t co from here," he said, touching his shoulder. "It cos from here." He moved his hand to his hip. "The blow starts on the ground, goes up through his legs, through his torso, and out the tip of the sword."

Damon tried to repeat the movent. The wooden blade cut through the air with a different sound—lighter, cleaner.

Caerth nodded. "That’s it. You’re starting to understand the flow."

"So, I finally did sothing right?"

"Don’t exaggerate," the veteran said with a slight smile. "You just accidentally stopped missing."

Damon laughed wearily. "I think it will take

years to learn that."

"Maybe," Caerth replied. "But every wrong blow brings you closer to a right one. That’s how a sword is built... and a man."

Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.

Caerth stepped back and pointed to the weapon rack. "Put away the sword."

Damon obeyed.

"Tomorrow," the veteran continued, "you will train alone. I want you to practice the sa cut until you feel your body move without thinking. When that happens, co find ."

"And if it doesn’t?"

"Then you will keep cutting until your body understands." Caerth turned, ready to leave. "Wood is patient. I, not so much."

Damon stood still, watching him walk away. The man walked as if the whole world were at his pace, as if nothing could hurry him.

As Caerth disappeared through the halls of the mansion, Damon looked at the wooden sword in his hands. The marks of the blows were already beginning to darken on the surface, and he noticed sothing curious: despite the pain, there was a strange pleasure there.

Not the pleasure of victory, but of seeing a piece of himself beginning to fall into place.

The next morning, the courtyard was empty. Damon was alone.

He raised his wooden sword and took a deep breath. The morning wind carried the scent of damp earth.

Guard position.

Breath.

Flow.

He began.

Cut. Parry. Spin.

At first, everything was awkward. The sound was wrong, the movents stiff. But as ti passed, his body began to respond. His weight distributed better, the sword moved like a natural extension.

As sweat began to pour, Damon realized he was no longer thinking. Just... moving.

For a brief mont, he felt what Caerth had said. His body had stopped fighting him.

And in that small mont of silence between one blow and the next, Damon realized sothing that made him smile:

for the first ti in a long ti, he wasn’t trying to be strong.

He just was.

And the sword—even though it was made of wood—seed to recognize this.

The sun had already risen high when Damon finally let the wooden sword fall to the ground.

The hollow sound echoed in the silent courtyard, and he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm, almost in ti with the wind. His hands trembled, his fingers ached, and his wrist was marred with purple bruises. Yet he felt no defeat—only exhaustion and a strange contentnt.

The courtyard was empty. No sound, no judgntal gaze, just him and the echo of his own persistence.

For a mont, Damon considered stopping, but then he bent down, picked up his sword again, and began again.

A cut.

Another.

One more.

Each movent was a silent conversation between body and wood.

The sword vibrated back, corrected, complained, demanded attention. And Damon responded—not forcefully, but with adjustnt. The wood forced him to listen.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him. Damon didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

"You’re back early," he said, without pausing.

Caerth crossed his arms, watching him. "No. You’re late."

Damon smirked. "I thought today was for training alone."

"It was," Caerth replied, stepping closer. "And you’re still doing everything wrong."

Damon snorted, without stopping his training. "Have you ever tried a complint?"

"I tried once. The boy died three days later." Caerth watched him carefully, his eyes analyzing every twist, every movent. "But... I admit. You’re less clumsy."

Damon stopped, raising his sword. "Was that a complint?"

"Don’t get used to it," the veteran said. "Keep going."

He circled, like a predator gauging its prey’s pace.

"You’re starting to breathe properly. The blow is flowing better, but you’re still pushing too much with your shoulders. The force cos from below, not above."

Damon adjusted.

Cut. Spin. Short step.

The sword whistled through the air.

Caerth nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Better. Now, strike."

Damon hesitated. "You’re not ard."

Caerth grabbed another wooden sword leaning against the wall. "I am now."

The blow ca suddenly. Damon blocked instinctively, but the impact sent his arm vibrating all the way to his shoulder. Caerth didn’t stop—another blow, and another. Quick, clean, relentless. Damon backed away, parried the third, tried to counterattack, but was disard with a twist.

The sword flew from his hand and fell far away.

"And that..." Caerth said, lowering his weapon, "is what happens when you think you’ve learned sothing."

Damon was breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his neck. "You didn’t warn

you were going to attack ."

"The enemy won’t either," the veteran replied.

"Sotis I think you just want to hit ."

Caerth gave a half smile. "Maybe. But for now, I’m trying to make you soone worth the effort."

Damon retrieved his sword and put himself on guard again. "So, again."

Caerth stared at him with that usual cold, impassive expression. But there was sothing different in his gaze—a barely perceptible glint, a silent recognition.

"Again, then," he replied.

The training resud.