Ezmelral hovered amid the parted clouds, her root blade locked in a tense stalemate with Raiking's, the air still vibrating from their cataclysmic clash. Two paths branched in her mind—one of raw power, the memory of his city-cleaving strike flashing like lightning: a single motion unraveling buildings, foes, everything in its path. The ultimate swordsman's art, she thought, her heart racing. Naturally, that's the greatest way.
"I want to learn your style," she declared, her voice fierce over the wind's howl, pushing against his blade with renewed force.
Raiking's crimson eyes met hers, unyielding. "It's not possible."
"Why?" she demanded, her root thrusting forward in a defiant surge, the wood groaning under the pressure.
In the shadowed recesses of his mind, Eidolon's voice slithered like mist through cracks. Will you reveal your origins to her now? How much more will you yield before sorrow drags you under again?
A vision crashed over Raiking—an illusion woven by the spirit's insidious whisper. He stormed into a crumbling castle, boots echoing on blood-slick stone, only to freeze at the sight: a woman sprawled in a pooling crimson lake, her life ebbing in ragged gasps. Blood trickled toward him, lapping at his feet like accusing fingers. He couldn't advance to cradle her dying form, couldn't retreat to seek salvation—he sank, slowly, inexorably, the red tide rising to swallow him whole, drowning him in regret's unyielding depths.
Enough of your illusions, Eidolon, Raiking snarled inwardly, shattering the vision with a surge of will. Reality snapped back—a fleeting instant in the world, but an eternity of torment in his soul. He broke the stalemate with a twist, his voice steady as he addressed her. "I was chosen. My opinion... irrelevant in the matter."
"Oh," she murmured, the word deflating her push, her root blade dipping slightly as disappointment flickered across her face. But then, childhood dreams resurfaced—a vision of herself as a dual-wielding swordsman, master of every blade, every form, unchained by limits. "Then... I want to wield every weapon type," she said, resolve reigniting. "A master among masters—swords, bows, spears, all of it!"
Raiking's eyes narrowed, and with a downward cleave that split the air like thunder, he struck—sending her hurtling earthward like a blazing comet, wind screaming past her as she plummeted through the clouds.
She crashed into the forest floor below, impact cratering the earth in a burst of dirt and leaves. But... no pain. She pushed up, checking her body in disbelief—unscathed, not a bruise or scratch. "So this is the durability of King Level," she muttered, awe threading her voice as she rose, dusting off her clothes.
High above, Raiking hovered still, conjuring a mysterious orb in his palm—swirling with endless darkness, a void that tugged at her senses like the Shadow Realm's familiar embrace, where she'd honed her mental steel.
She watched, transfixed, as it rumbled like a caged beast, ooze-like tendrils poking and spiraling in chaotic directions, reshaping itself before her eyes. The mass coalesced, transforming into a bow cloaked in shadowy mist—ethereal strings humming with latent menace, arrows of night already nocked in phantom form.
He fired three arrows in swift succession, each one materializing from the shadowy bow like whispers of night given form. The first streaked forward at blistering speed, but the second lagged slightly, and the third even more so—as if the projectiles obeyed his silent command, dancing to an unseen rhythm.
Ezmelral twisted aside, dodging the first with the sheer speed of a King Level's enhanced reflexes, the arrow streaking past her like a shadow's whisper. Before it could embed into the ground, Raiking vanished in a flash—reappearing mid-air to snatch it from its trajectory. He swung it in a brutal arc, the projectile transforming mid-strike into a gleaming blade, its edge humming with dark intent. Caught off guard, she barely raised her root blade in time, the impact jarring her arms like a thunderclap as she staggered back, the force rippling through her bones like a quake in her core.
But before the blade could cleave her head from her body, it dematerialized in a whisper of shadow, dissolving into swirling fog that rushed past her face like acrid smoke, chilling her skin.
Then he was gone again, materializing by the second arrow—which had morphed mid-flight into a wicked dagger, its edge gleaming with void-black hunger. It hovered inches from piercing her skull, the tip grazing her hair. He snatched it from the air, his fingers clenching as the weapon dissolved in his grip like ink bleeding into water, absorbed into his palm without a trace.
In the same breath, he reappeared by the third arrow, his hand closing around it just as it transformed into a elongated spear, its tip sharpening to a lethal point. With a powerful downward slam, he brought it crashing vertically toward her. Ezmelral reacted on instinct, raising her root blade to meet the blow—the collision erupting in a cataclysmic shockwave that shredded nearby trees like brittle parchment and sent ferocious gusts ripping across the ground below.. The force drove her to one knee, her arms trembling under the strain, the air humming with residual power.
"This," Raiking said, his voice cutting through the roar like a blade through silk, "is Shadow Essence. If you seek to master all weapons... first conquer the Shadow Realm."
The spear vanished in a puff of dark mist as he released it, gliding back to the ground with effortless grace, the orb reforming in his palm like a loyal shadow returning home.
Ezmelral took a deep, steadying breath, the weight of the strike lingering in her bones like an echo of thunder. She stared at the orb, its endless darkness pulling at her gaze—a void that whispered promises of untold power. In that moment, she saw it: her path forward, woven through shadows, leading to mastery beyond the elements she knew.
He glided slowly to the ground, descending with ethereal grace, landing in front of her like a shadow touching earth. She snapped out of her trance, pulling her gaze from the Shadow Orb's endless void, its dark whispers fading as reality reasserted itself.
Together, they began walking back toward the house in companionable silence, the forest's whispers resuming as if nothing had disturbed its peace. On the way, curiosity gnawed at her. "What is Shadow Essence, anyway?"
Raiking glanced at her sidelong, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Answering that would count as your question of the week."
"No!" she blurted, shaking her head vehemently. "I don't want to know that badly."
"Are you sure?" he teased, his tone light, almost playful.
"Yes!" she yelled, crossing her arms with exaggerated finality, though a spark of intrigue lingered in her eyes.
And so, the first night of sword training drew to a close—her body aching but alive with new power, her mind buzzing with tomorrow's challenges. Meanwhile, at Dawnfall, shadows of a different sort loomed: Shannon knelt in the grand main hall, flanked by stern courtsmen in gleaming armor to her left and right, their eyes watchful as judges. Before her, on the elevated dais, sat the Queen and King, their expressions a mask of regal concern laced with unspoken dread.
"Tell the court what you told us," the King commanded, his voice steady but laced with the weight of impending storm, leaning forward on his throne as the throne room's chandeliers cast flickering shadows across the assembled faces.
Shannon rose from her kneel, her armor bearing the dust of hasty travel, her expression unyielding as forged steel. "As inscribed in the Emergency Tier 3 Essence Scroll, Your Majesties," she began, her tone precise, echoing off the marble walls. "When I arrived at the site, I searched first for survivors... but there were none." She paused, her voice steady but the weight of the revelation hanging heavy in the air, as if the silence itself mourned the lost. "The ruins matched the report: buildings cleaved in half with unnatural precision. Bodies mauled as if by savage beasts—deep claw marks rending flesh and bone. Some pierced through, but not by any blade or spear I've known."
She hesitated then, drawing a deep breath as if bracing for disbelief, her eyes flicking across the assembled court with a flicker of uncertainty. The Queen noticed, leaning forward with a reassuring nod. "Speak freely, Shannon," she said gently, her tone a balm amid the growing tension. "We trust your eyes and your blade."
Emboldened, Shannon continued, her posture straightening as she addressed the room. "After confirming no one remained alive, I proceeded to my second objective: investigating the cleave." She swept her gaze over the crowd, meeting skeptical eyes head-on. "Some of you dismissed it as rumor—a fierce duel between multiple swordsmen gone awry. But no... this was no prolonged clash of steel on steel. It was one clean slice—impossible, yet undeniable."
"Impossible!" one courtsman blurted from the left flank, his robes rustling as he stepped forward, face pale with disbelief.
"It is true," another interjected, a grizzled veteran from the right, his voice gravelly with conviction. "I was there myself. I'm no master like Shannon, but I saw it with my own eyes—each structure carved from left to right, as if a mighty sword had swept across the land in a single, godlike stroke."
The testimony ignited the room; mutters rippled through the courtsmen like wind through dry leaves—whispers of fear, doubt, and dawning horror filling the grand hall.
A female courtsman, her gown embroidered with the kingdom's crest, raised her voice above the murmur. "What are we to do, Your Majesties?"
The Queen exchanged a grave glance with the King before responding, her words measured and resolute. "We are repositioning troops from Athenrail's borders to the villages—fortifying the vulnerable. Once we understand what we're facing, we proceed with full force."
More mutters followed—some nods of agreement, others laced with caution, a few shadowed by pessimism. The air grew thick with unease, the court's unity fraying at the edges like a worn banner in the wind.
The King and Queen sensed it—the undercurrent of doubt, the fear of an enemy lurking in shadows while they stood exposed in the light. Impulsive action could doom them; patience was their only shield until the playing field leveled.
Then General Kennedy stepped forward, his boots thudding against the marble like a call to order. The room fell silent, all eyes on the battle-hardened commander, his scarred face a map of past victories. "I will station myself to the west," he declared, his voice booming with authority. "Shannon to the east. Generals Harlan and Vesper to the north and south. We'll hold central positions in each quadrant. Should any guard spot trouble, Fire Essence users will deploy Tier 3 scrolls for immediate signals—no delay, no hesitation."
The nobles exchanged glances, heads nodding in gradual accord—the plan a solid anchor amid the storm. Tension eased, if only slightly, the court's murmurs shifting from dread to cautious resolve.
Yet, as the assembly dispersed, the King and Queen knew the truth: this was merely a bandage on a gaping wound. Without unmasking their true foe, they remained blind—vulnerable to strikes from the dark, where shadows whispered of greater perils yet to come.