The crowd thought they had seen Maiael Astarod at her coldest when she fought without a smile. But her true face emerged now—expressionless, hollow, and terrifying. It was not anger, nor was it indifference. It was the mark of her Gift, the trance-like state she entered when wholly consumed by curiosity. She no longer wasted energy on emotions or expressions. Every nerve, every thought, was sharpened into analysis.
And Connor McCloud was her subject.
Her mind spun with questions: How did he block the unseen wind? How far could he endure? How long before the storm cut him apart?
The duel pressed on. Connor's body screamed with fatigue, his breath ragged, yet he braced himself with the instinct of a man who had fought on battlefields where hesitation meant death. The pain in his forehead surged again, his Gift shrieking as blades of invisible wind lashed out.
Steel clashed against the unseen storm. His body was thrown back, boots digging into the stone, and when he looked up, Maiael was there, face inches from his, her gaze unblinking. Then the world dissolved into white.
Visions consumed him.
A slash from below to above.
A diagonal cut from high to low.
A sweeping strike from right to left.
He blocked the second, but the third severed his leg. He gasped, clutching his weapon, only to realize the injury was not real—it was a fragment of the future.
Another illusion followed, crueler than the last. His wrist shattered beneath a thrust that twisted unnaturally, as though the wind itself bent to Maiael's will. Each glimpse left him rattled, yet strangely, each vision gave him the map to survive.
This was his new Gift—the power to see a fraction of the future when standing at the edge of death.
Without it, he would already be a corpse.
In the stands, the academy's guardians watched in silence. A hulking professor, known for his iron body and strict training, grew restless. He turned to Principal Parcaso, the painted headmaster whose very existence was bound to canvas.
He warned that this was no longer a match but an execution. Maiael, when trapped in her Gift's obsessive focus, would continue pressing until the mystery was solved—until Connor was dead. But Parcaso only smoked his painted pipe, voice calm, almost amused.
Where the professor saw tragedy, Parcaso claimed faith. He believed Connor could work a miracle. He believed that this mercenary, untrained and scorned, would endure the storm and shatter all expectation.
The professor clenched his fists but could do nothing. The stage below would decide fate.
Maiael unleashed her next sequence. Her wrist moved, jewel flashing, and the storm returned with greater fury. Four strikes, then five. Straight, diagonal, curved—the tempo shifting like music only she could hear. Connor's arms grew heavy, his shoulders bruised, his skin marked with shallow cuts. His posture faltered, yet each time, his sword moved to where it needed to be, guided by visions of doom he refused to accept.
Her curiosity deepened. How is he doing this? His movements did not follow drilled sword forms, nor did they reveal habits of long training. Each defense was born fresh, improvised in the moment, as if he already knew what was coming.
For Maiael, this was no longer about victory. It was discovery. The Highlander was a puzzle she had to solve, no matter the cost.
At last, she raised Whispy Whistling with both hands and whispered a command.
"Release. Dance, storm."
The jewel burned with light, and the Demon Sword shed its restraint. No longer a narrow blade of wind, but a typhoon—a wild storm that shredded earth and stone. The invisible edge became visible at last, its presence so fierce that even untrained eyes in the crowd could see the air distort, could hear the roar of a storm caged within steel.
This was not a technique meant for sparring. It was slaughter.
And yet, as Maiael prepared to unleash the gale, she froze. Instinct, that same predator's intuition that had carried her through countless victories, warned her: Step back.
Connor was no longer the same man she had toyed with moments ago.
Deep inside, a warmth spread through him. His exhausted limbs steadied. His blurred vision cleared. It was as though power flowed into him from another source, strengthening his will. Kyle's voice urged him forward, sharp and urgent—this was the moment.
The crowd screamed as Connor charged, cutting through the storm's roar with nothing but his sword and desperation. Each step felt like defiance against fate itself. Maiael's expression cracked for the first time, the faintest sign of surprise flickering across her otherwise empty face.
The typhoon surged. The Demon Sword howled.
But as Connor's blade descended, Kyle's voice whispered the ancient word of silence.
The storm collapsed.
Whispy Whistling, stripped of its edge, swung harmlessly with only its jeweled handle. The typhoon dispersed into harmless air.
Connor's sword stopped at Maiael's neck, the edge trembling from exhaustion but unwavering.
For the first time, Maiael smiled.