The morning sun was already well past its horizon, but Emerald clung to the heavy blanket for as long as he could. When he finally forced himself up, the quiet house offered no trace of Eva. Wandering into the kitchen, he found his share of breakfast waiting. After eating his fill, he walked out onto the balcony, his eyes drawn to the front yard.
Greta was sitting in the grass, meditating silently in total stillness. Planted firmly in the dirt right in front of her was an ancient iron sword.
Curiosity pulling at him, Emerald strolled down the steps, gripped the hilt, and pulled the blade free. He inspected the cold steel, then glanced down at Greta. Her eyes were still tightly shut.
Assuming she couldn't see him, Emerald casually swung the blade toward her in a sudden surge of sarcastic humor.
Before he could even register the movement, his vision blurred.
THUD!
Emerald slammed flat onto his back, knocking the wind straight out of his lungs. He sat up, rubbing his spine, only to see Greta standing right over him, holding the very sword he had been gripping a second ago.
She was laughing.
"What—?!" Emerald sputtered, sitting up. "How did you—"
Greta rested the flat of the heavy blade against her shoulder, her laughter dying down to a smirk. "You really attacked someone who was meditating?"
"You left a sword in front of yourself!"
"That was obviously a trap."
"How was that obvious?!"
Greta laughed even harder. Emerald rubbed his aching back, groaning. "You're insane."
"And you're slow."
"That's rude."
"Again."
Emerald stared at her. "...What?"
"Attack me again." She tossed the sword back to him.
Emerald caught the hilt instinctively, feeling a sudden, sinking weight in his chest. He felt like he'd just made a terrible life decision.
The terrible life decision continued for the next several hours.
Swing.
THUD.
"Again."
THUD.
"Again."
THUD.
By the tenth time, Emerald had stopped trying to keep count. By the twentieth, the frustration had bled out of him, replaced by sheer numbness. By the thirtieth, he was actively questioning every choice that had brought him to this cursed island.
Finally, he dropped the blade into the grass. "I give up."
Greta stopped, looking down at him. "You haven't learned anything yet."
"Exactly!" Emerald threw his arms into the air in complete exasperation. "That's the problem! You keep throwing me onto the ground without explaining what I'm supposed to learn!"
Greta stared at him for a quiet moment. Then she walked over, picked up the sword, and held it with effortless grace.
"The Final Sword isn't about strength," she said softly. "It isn't about speed either. And it certainly isn't about swinging a sword harder."
Emerald crossed his arms over his chest. "Then what is it?"
"Efficiency."
"...That's it?"
"That's everything." Greta stepped forward. She didn't raise her arm to attack. She simply moved—one step, a slight rotation of her hips, a minor shift of the blade.
Emerald blinked. He hadn't even seen the strike, yet Greta was suddenly standing right beside him, the point of the blade hovering near his ribs.
"The human body wastes movement," she said, tapping his feet with the flat of her blade. "Your stance." She tapped his shoulder. "Your tension." She tapped his fingers. "Your grip." Finally, she pointed the tip toward his forehead. "And your thoughts."
Emerald frowned. "My thoughts?"
"You think before you move."
"Well, yeah. Isn't that normal?"
"Not for this." Greta tossed the steel sword aside and handed him a lightweight wooden training blade instead. "What I'm teaching you is something from my life—a century's worth of pure experience. A normal human body can't comprehend the impact of such ancient instinct, but I think I can impart it to you. The Final Sword is built around a simple principle." She locked her eyes with his. "Don't do anything you don't need to do."
Emerald stared at her, turning the wooden hilt in his hand. "That's... surprisingly simple."
"Yes."
"Then why is it impossible?"
Greta smiled faintly. "Because humans are complicated."
Emerald tried again. This time, he didn't rush in. He stood still, watching Greta intently—her breathing, the subtle angle of her shoulders, her feet, the position of her guard.
Nothing. He couldn't read it.
Then—her weight shifted a fraction of an inch.
Emerald moved.
Greta's eyes opened wider.
CLANG!
Their wooden swords collided mid-air. Emerald stumbled backward from the force, but he didn't fall. For a split second, deep within his left eye, a faint, icy blue light flickered in his pupil.
Greta's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Again."
He attacked. She blocked. He shifted direction; she met him instantly. He stepped back; she advanced.
But something fundamental had broken open inside Emerald. He wasn't thinking about the weapon anymore. He wasn't thinking about winning, nor was he even thinking about Greta. He was simply watching and letting his body react before his mind could interfere.
Her foot moved—his foot moved.
Her shoulder turned—his body turned.
Her blade cut toward his neck—his sword was already waiting there.
CLANG!
Greta's eyes widened in genuine shock. Emerald froze, staring at the contact point. "...Did I do that?"
Greta didn't answer.
Emerald pressed forward and attacked again.
CLANG!
Again.
CLANG!
Again.
CLANG!
The afternoon slipped away unnoticed. The sun slowly sank toward the horizon, painting the front yard in long, golden shadows, and Emerald just kept moving.
There was something eerie about the way he moved now. The actions weren't blindingly fast, nor were they ridiculously powerful. They weren't even visually impressive. They were simply... correct.
Every single step had a absolute purpose. Every movement linked flawlessly to the next. Not a single calorie of energy was wasted.
Greta's expression slowly shifted from intrigue to utter disbelief. She knew exactly what she was looking at.
No. That couldn't be right. Not him. Not after a single day.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Emerald almost collided with her, pulling his strike back at the last microsecond. "What's wrong?"
Greta stared at him intensely. "Do it again."
"Do what?"
"Attack me."
Emerald shrugged. "Okay."
He raised the wooden sword, and Greta readied her guard. Emerald moved—one step, one turn, one fluid strike. Greta moved her blade to block, but Emerald didn't resist her force. His body shifted naturally with her momentum, slipping past her guard. The wooden blade came to a dead stop a finger's width from her exposed throat.
Silence descended on the yard.
Emerald stared at the blade. Greta stared at him.
Slowly, Emerald lowered his sword, breaking the silence. "...Did I win?"
Greta didn't answer right away. She looked down at his sword, then at his face, then back at his stance. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped her lips. "You learned it."
Emerald blinked, taken aback. "I did?"
"The Final Sword." Her smile grew, wide and disbelieving. "You actually learned it."
Emerald looked down at his own hands. It had taken him one day. One single day. The swordsmanship that generations of master duelists had written off as a mathematical impossibility... the style that only Margareta Larsson of House Stenbock had ever truly mastered... he had somehow absorbed it completely.
Emerald looked up at her, a confident smirk spreading across his face. "So..." He pointed at his own chest. "I'm a genius?"
Greta's smile vanished instantly. "No."
SMACK!
She whacked him hard over the head with her sword.
"Ow!" Emerald yelped, clutching his scalp.
"You're an idiot."
"What?!"
Greta turned away, walking toward the porch, though a faint, fond smile lingered on her lips. "...You're an idiot who learned the Final Sword in one day."
Emerald grinned, following her up the steps. "That's still pretty impressive."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Greta let out a long sigh. For the first time in three centuries, the impossible sword had found its second master.
A short while later, Greta called him over to the bench on the balcony, handing him a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. Emerald accepted it without fuss, sitting down and taking slow, quiet sips.
"I spent three centuries refining that technique," Greta murmured, staring out at the darkening lake. "It took you one day to learn."
Emerald smiled softly into his cup.
"What you hold now is all I really have," she continued quietly. "The creator of the Final Sword is the only true identity I hold left—not the name Margareta Larsson. So... be reasonable enough to remember me by it."
Emerald set his cup down, looking at her directly. "See, that's where you're wrong about me. I may not keep a thousand people around me, but I never let go of the ones I know from my heart."
Greta looked at him, surprised, before softening. "I'll take the honor, I guess."
As the very last faint trace of blue completely faded from Emerald's left eye, Greta caught it. She smirked, taking a quiet sip of her tea. She knew exactly what that eye meant—what kind of monster or shadow lingered inside him—but right now, she was simply content to sit in the quiet evening air, enjoying the rare company of a true friend.
(To be continued)