I exhaled slowly and shifted my gaze back to the sword in my hand.
"Skill description: [Violet Violent Swordsmanship]."
There was a flicker of hesitation, as if even the system needed a mont to register the request. Then the blue holographic screen shimred back to life.
——[Violet Violent Swordsmanship]——
Type: Growth-Type
Creator: Cassius Lancaster
Rank: ★★★ (In Developnt)
Affinity: Lightning | Nothing
Description:
A self-originated combat art created by Cassius Lancaster, born from instinct, rage, and necessity. Violet Violent Swordsmanship embodies unrestrained aggression channeled through refined motion. It marries brute force with calculated finesse—where speed ets savagery, and destruction is wrapped in elegance.
This swordsmanship adapts to its wielder's growth. It does not follow established forms, but rather evolves with each battle fought, injury sustained, and victory earned. With ti, its techniques beco more unpredictable, its strikes more devastating, and its form more unorthodox.
The signature trait of this art is its "Violet Pulse"—a surge of unstable lightning mana that disrupts the opponent's rhythm while empowering the wielder's next movent.
Current Mastery Level: 12%
Known Techniques:
— [Indigo Bloom]
— [Thousand Slash]
Notes: This is a living skill. It rembers. It learns.
——[Close]——
Just what the hell was this cuck trying to accomplish?
First, that cursed ocular nonsense—Eye of the End.
Now, so badass, self-created sword technique with a na cool enough to make even the ga's final boss blush.
And the kicker?
It was a growth-type skill.
aning it could evolve. Mutate. Beco stronger.
If pushed hard enough, it might one day reach— ★★★★★★ or maybe even beyond depending on my talent and hardwork.
I didn't know why I had this power. Or how I got it.
But thinking about that now wouldn't get anywhere.
Not yet.
So I shelved those questions—the who, the why, the what-for.
Instead, I zeroed in on the how far.
Motivation surged through my veins like wildfire. My fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of my sword, and I marched toward the training dummies.
This ti, they stood still.
Unlike that first session—where Isolde had puppeteered them like psychotic marionettes and made sure Mia and I got beaten six ways to Sunday—these dummies were rcifully silent.
For now.
I exhaled, focusing.
The atmosphere shifted.
I could feel it now—mana. Not just within , but everywhere.
Like the very air, the room, the sword... was alive.
I called out to it, not with words, but with intent.
And the world answered.
Electricity blood to life in jagged streaks across my blade, crackling with a beautiful, violent light.
Athyst lightning—darker than usual, wilder. It wrapped around the weapon like serpents, then curled around my arms, coiling down my back.
I grinned.
No—I bared my teeth like a beast.
I didn't move like a human anymore. Not like a conventional trained swordsman. No calculated footwork, no pristine posture.
I lunged.
A predator set loose.
Each strike flowed from pure instinct—raw, unfiltered rage, channeled from those strange visions that haunted every night.
Those dreams where I wanted to tear through existence itself.
Those dreams that blood from the Eye of the End.
The first swing cleaved through a dummy, lightning trailing behind the blade like a tail of destruction. The remnants of the strike hung in the air—a violet afterimage, humming with residual mana.
The dummy instantly reconstructed itself. Just like in a ga.
Perfect.
That ant I didn't need to hold back.
I wouldn't hold back.
"[Thousand Slash]!" I roared.
And my sword danced.
Inhuman speed. Countless blows. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands—each one leaving behind a glowing violet scar on the dummy's body.
It was a whirlwind of death. A painting of destruction in motion.
I barely gave it a mont to reset before following up.
"[Indigo Bloom]!"
The strikes converged into a single point, and from that impact, a ghostly bud ford—a flower made of mana and lightning. It pulsed once... twice... and blood.
The explosion that followed wasn't just raw power. It was beauty. The petals—sharp as blades—shot out, piercing through surrounding dummies with eerie precision, embedding themselves deep enough to leave gaping holes.
So dummies outright exploded, splinters and hay flying through the air, only to stitch themselves back together a mont later.
Again and again, I attacked. My movents blurring into a storm of violet light and feral instinct.
No pattern. No rcy.
Just rage given form.
And I loved it.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. I couldn't tell anymore. My arms ached. My body scread. My vision swam in and out of clarity, and each breath ca with a sharpness that tasted like blood and ozone.
Finally, I stopped.
The dummies were still standing—rebuilt, whole—but I didn't need to see their shredded remnants to know I'd done sothing real.
I had grown.
The sword dropped to my side with a satisfying clink, and I wiped sweat from my brow.
"Enough for today," I muttered.
The hunger hit next. A deep, gnawing emptiness that clawed at my stomach.
I staggered back toward the mansion, ignoring the soreness in my legs. The training arena's doors shut behind with a heavy thud.
Thankfully, the dining hall was empty. No Mia. No Isolde. No Lucian.
Just peace and the heavenly sll of food.
I slumped into a chair and waved a servant over. "at. Rice. Eggs. Soup. Bread. I don't care. Just bring everything."
Within minutes, the table was filled. I didn't even bother with manners—I devoured the food like a starved animal, my mind still echoing with the rhythm of my strikes.
When I finally finished, I pushed my empty plate away, let out a long sigh, and stood.
The walk to my room was a haze.
And the mont I collapsed onto my bed?
Darkness claid instantly.
But this ti...
There were no nightmares.
Only silence. And the distant mory of a violet flower blooming in the background.
Reviews
All reviews (0)