We were staring at each other. Peter's stance looked free, relaxed, almost careless—but it wasn't. Fun fact for the record: the Imperial Carlisle swordsmanship Peter was using is basically a deviation of Ashkart's style in its most advanced form. If I imitate what Ashkart used—well, of course, I never actually bothered memorizing every single stance—but since I'd already memorized every kind of strike and form imaginable, that alone already shows in my movements. After all, my instructor was none other than Ashkart himself. It's more accurate to say that his teachings were beaten into me since childhood. My control over both skill and physical strength wasn't something I simply learned—it was ingrained into me.
But I kept pressing forward. Training, failing, dying, getting back up, and repeating it again and again. Even if that was the case, I can't exactly say I'm grateful for it—because I can still feel that old sensation, like my head is about to come off any second, the lingering chill of Ashkart's relentless stabbing drills. That chill still hasn't left me.
Peter lunged forward and aimed for a wide blow. I dodged the first time, but then decided to meet it head-on. I blocked it easily, deliberately casual, just to show him how far he had to go. If Peter knew better, he'd understand that relying on sheer force would only drain him faster. That kind of attack might look strong, but in a drawn-out duel it just burns out too much energy.
Then he shifted into a double strike at my lower body. Obviously, I wasn't falling for that. He feinted, switched his footing, and went for a direct stab instead. For a second, it looked like he might bait me into reacting too early, but I wasn't fooled. If I had dodged carelessly, he could've followed up and pressed his advantage. But contrary to what he believes, I'm not slower than him—if anything, my reaction speed is sharper.
I know Peter is a 9th-tier swordsman now. That much is undeniable. But when it comes to me, no one can beat me in pure strength. And he has to realize that.
When he lunged again and aimed a thrust toward me, I didn't bother stepping back. I moved forward, caught the strike, and drove my hilt hard into his abdomen. He stumbled from the impact, grimacing in pain. He tried to counterattack, but I struck his wrist with my hilt. His sword dropped with a loud clatter. Without waiting, I kicked it further away, making sure it was well out of reach, and advanced on him again.
I only meant for my follow-ups to be "light" attacks, but even those started bruising him up. He staggered back, trying to reach for his weapon, but I struck his wrist again before he could touch it. Another kick, and the sword slid even farther away.
"Gonna cry?!" I asked, mocking.
But instead of breaking down, Peter looked dead serious. Determined. He sprinted straight toward his weapon anyway.
So I kept punishing him. I repeatedly smacked his back with the wooden blade as he ran. Each hit landed heavy and sharp. I deliberately avoided vital points—because this way, I could keep hitting him more, keep layering pain on him. "Hehe." Even then, he didn't flinch. He didn't stop. He just kept pushing forward, inching toward the sword.
I brushed past him, driving my hilt toward his solar plexus. The blow landed square, knocking the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, but even then… he didn't stop moving.
Peter still reached for his sword.
He grabbed it at last, rolling across the dirt as he snatched the hilt. Before he could even stand, I was already there, blade descending. He raised his weapon just in time, the wood vibrating from the clash. His arms shook violently; mine didn't.
I pushed him back without effort. The difference in strength was almost laughable. My strikes weren't even serious, but every swing of mine forced his knees to buckle, every block rattled his bones.
Still, he held on.
Peter roared and swung high, reckless again. I caught the strike mid-arc, twisted, and slammed my hilt into his shoulder. He winced but didn't let go. That alone was impressive. Most people would've dropped their weapon from the pain.
"Persistent mutt," I muttered, stepping forward and delivering a kick to his side. He flew several paces back, coughing hard, yet he still clutched his sword and rose again. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes—those damn eyes—were locked on me like he couldn't imagine doing anything else but fighting.
He came at me again, slashing wildly, and I deflected them one after another, my motions sharp, clean, efficient. His were desperate, fueled by adrenaline and stubbornness. The sound of our blades colliding filled the training ground, sharp cracks echoing like thunder.
"Peter, you're hopeless," I said flatly.
And then I punished him. My strikes poured in—overhead, side, sweep, thrust. Each blow heavy enough to bruise bone, each deflection driving him farther back. His footwork grew sloppy under the pressure, but still, he moved. Still, he blocked.
I swept low; he jumped back, barely avoiding the strike. I lunged; he parried but nearly lost his balance. I spun my blade, pressing down hard against his guard until his arms trembled. He dropped to one knee, sweat pouring from his forehead.
Before he could even react, I drove my knee into his stomach, sending him sprawling. He coughed violently, clutching his gut, but his grip on his sword never faltered. I stepped forward, looming over him, wooden blade poised at his throat.
"That's the difference between us," I said coldly. "One hit means nothing if you can't finish the fight."
He glared up at me, teeth clenched, trembling all over but refusing to yield. He tried to push himself up, sword raised even as his arms shook like they'd snap.
I could've ended it a hundred times over. I could've broken his guard, his stance, his will. But the fact he kept standing—even bruised, battered, humiliated—made my chest tighten in something I refused to call respect.
"You're still standing after all that?" I asked.
Peter coughed, wiped blood from his mouth, and forced a shaky smile. "Until you knock me out cold, My Lady… I'm not stopping."
I lowered my blade, exhaled slowly, and looked at him. Bruised. Beaten. Still moving.
It should've ended there. But he refused.
Snarling, he shoved upward, knocking my blade aside with a burst of strength I hadn't expected. He charged, striking three times in rapid succession. The first two, I batted away easily. The third—he feinted, slipped under my guard, and for the briefest second, his wooden blade scraped across my arm.
A hit.
Just a graze, but a hit all the same.
He froze, panting, chest heaving like he'd run for miles. I blinked down at the red line forming on my sleeve. My eyes narrowed.
"…You actually touched me."