When artists try to paint wind, they often rely on strokes of white or blue, long and curved, to hint at movement unseen. People imagine the Blade of Wind as something glowing, a swirling streak of light. But reality is harsher. The blade has no color, no flame, no shine. It is nothing but an invisible wave, sharp enough to slice through flesh and steel.
Connor McCloud learned this truth the hard way, for that unseen edge was now tearing at him.
Maiael Astarod rushed forward, her jeweled weapon gleaming faintly, though the true strike was not visible. Only Connor's forehead warned him—the Gift throbbing like a drum of danger. He raised his sword in pure instinct, bracing for what he could not see.
A crushing weight slammed down. The air itself bore fangs, pressing his steel toward the ground. The storm whipped through the arena, tossing Maiael's hair like a banner of war. From the jewel embedded in her strange knuckle-guard, blades of wind surged forth with each motion of her wrist.
The crowd gasped. Common-born students erupted in cheers at his defense, their voices echoing: the Highlander had blocked the impossible. Nobles, by contrast, remained cold and silent, unwilling to praise a mercenary's defiance.
Connor soon realized the truth: this was not even a real strike. What he had parried desperately was only a light probe, a mere test of ability. Maiael had not yet grown serious. The gap between them yawned like a canyon.
He pushed the invisible edge aside and forced distance between them. Yet even this space seemed intentional, as though Maiael was allowing him time to observe. She took her stance again, movements slow, calculated, almost instructional.
The key was not the unseen wind. It was her hand. The jeweled handle, the twist of her wrist, the angle of her arm—those were visible. With focus, he could predict where the invisible edge would strike.
Kyle's voice stirred within him, urging calm, promising aid. Magical energy surged from within, strengthening his limbs, sharpening his vision. For the first time, Connor saw more than just the blur. He saw the rhythm.
Maiael advanced again, her speed terrifying. Pain spiked across his forehead—his Gift screaming louder, clearer. He timed his defense to that exact crescendo of pain, when the blade of wind reached its peak. Steel met storm. The gust howled away, scattering dust across the stage.
The arena roared louder. Twice he had survived the impossible. Nobles whispered, commoners shouted, and the name "Highlander" carried higher than ever. Yet Connor himself felt no triumph. The Demon Sword was devouring his strength, its edge biting into his steel as though eager to carve it away. He could feel why legends feared this weapon.
Maiael's eyes shone with curiosity. She asked not in mockery, but with true interest: could he sense the wind with his Gift? To her, this was all experimentation, a leisurely spar. To him, it was a battle for life itself. Rage stirred in Connor's chest. He attacked with raw intent, twisting his wrist to pin the invisible edge and moving to close the distance.
But Maiael read his movements with frightening clarity. She retreated two steps, her genius allowing her to see through him with ease. Then she raised her arm again, this time preparing a thrust. Her jewel gleamed, her stance declared the attack openly. It was obvious. Too obvious.
Connor's Gift flared once more, but what came next was stranger. His vision split. For an instant, he saw the future.
He saw himself too late. The thrust came faster than expected, the wind's length extended beyond its normal range. His sword slipped from his hand as the gust slashed across his fingers. He was thrown back, unarmed, staring at Maiael's triumphant smile.
Then—he was back. The vision vanished. Time had not moved. Maiael still advanced, the thrust not yet loosed. The crowd still waited, breathless.
Was it illusion? Was it his Gift awakening to something more? Whatever it was, the meaning was clear: if he trusted only instinct, he would fall.
Connor steadied himself. Sweat dripped from his brow as his hands clenched his sword. He remembered the detail—the left foot, the kick, the moment the blade lengthened. He braced earlier than his Gift told him, one step ahead of fate.
The strike came exactly as foreseen. But this time his blade was ready. Metal screeched against the storm, redirecting the thrust. Wind curved along his sword and slashed harmlessly through the air, grazing his hair instead of his hand. Maiael's eyes widened for the first time, startled.
Kyle's voice pressed him forward: this was the opening.
Connor charged, too close for her to swing again. With his sword locked, he struck with his body. His elbow crashed against her forehead, jolting her stance, forcing a groan from her lips. The noble princess stumbled, posture broken for the first time. The audience gasped in disbelief.
To a mercenary, no tactic was dishonorable when survival was at stake. He had no hesitation, no shame. But Maiael was not finished.
Her fingers shifted subtly, the jewel glinting toward the ground. Connor felt the sting of warning and rolled aside just as a gust ripped open the stage where he had stood. Stone shattered, dust flew. Had he remained, he would have been cut to pieces.
The duel grew fiercer, the crowd louder. Students shouted in awe and confusion. How could the Highlander block attacks none of them could even see? Even nobles leaned forward now, whispering to one another. Across the stands, other national representatives watched with narrowed eyes—Prince Bergt muttering to his aide, Zephyros glaring with intensity. Connor had become the center of every gaze.
Kyle marveled at his defense, demanding to know how he had achieved it. Connor admitted what he had glimpsed: not just instinct, but a future that might come to pass. It was a vision of defeat, used now as a map toward survival.
Maiael, meanwhile, had changed. The smile she carried since their first meeting was gone. Her laughter, her playfulness—vanished. She straightened, eyes empty of emotion, her aura tightening like the calm before a storm's heart.
The real duel was about to begin.