There was a loud clang of crossed blades, followed by a piercing screech of sliding metal. The boy met the commander's swing, holding the sword at an angle, but not straight, but with an intentional tilt. He wasn't trying to fully accept the force of the blow—only to soften its consequences.
His hands trembled: the commander's power exceeded his own several times. The boy recoiled backward, trying to catch his breath, but barely had he managed to inhale when the opponent rushed forward, delivering a side strike.
Not having time to gather himself, he instinctively raised the blade, but the power of the attack proved too great—the blow threw him several meters.
"What a pity, and I was just warming up," through the helmet a malicious smirk was visible, and the voice sounded saturated with contempt and mockery.
Meanwhile, the boy tried to regain control over his body. His hands shook, his legs buckled, depriving him of stability. The commander had no intention of giving him a respite—he was already approaching, preparing another side strike.
Feeling the enemy's approach, the youth raised the sword again for a block. This time the blow came a little easier to him, but before he could recover, the metal sole of the commander's boot crashed into his chest—right into the solar plexus.
The boy flew back, dropping the sword, and clutched the struck spot with his left hand. The air seemed to disappear—he couldn't breathe, as if the very ability to breathe had been taken from him in one instant.
This shock completely threw him off balance. With his left hand, he clutched his ribcage; his eyes widened to the limit, exposing the whites. His mouth convulsively caught the air, but the body refused to obey, leaving only futile attempts.
"For such scum we came with a whole squad? Any mongrel could handle this! His commander's fury knew no bounds. "Even killing you is a pity... But to torture..." he drew out the last word, making it clear what awaited the boy in the next moments.
Approaching his exhausted figure, he saw how he convulsively gasped for air with his mouth, like a fish thrown ashore. The man kicked his arms, forcing him to roll onto his stomach.
Thoughts raced in panic; the body desperately tried to restore breathing. Consciousness sank deeper into itself, clinging to scraps of memories, as if seeking instructions on how to start breathing again.
"Get up!" a female voice sounded in the boy's head, authoritative and alluring, but painfully familiar.
"What?" flashed in his thoughts, and at that very moment his lungs filled with air, and his consciousness cleared.
The sword lay a step away from him, but a little farther than needed. The commander was already raising his blade, preparing to pierce him.
At that moment, the boy remembered the truth he had held onto all these months. To survive was the main rule of his path. No matter the cost. The main thing—to survive.
Feeling the mortal threat, he thrust his hands forward, not trying to stop the blow—only to change its trajectory. The chains of the shackles struck the blade with all their force, deflecting it to the side.
The blade embedded itself in the stone several centimeters from the body. The commander froze for a moment, stunned by the miss, and that instant was enough.
The boy pushed off the ground and lunged for his sword. Grabbing it, he thrust the blade into the opponent's chest.
But the metal of the armor reflected the blow, and the blade merely slid sideways.
"You filthy beast!" the commander growled, trying to pull his sword out of the stone.
But before he could do so, the boy's blade pierced the slit in the helmet.
"How?.. Did I really lose?" the commander's voice echoed in his consciousness. But already in the next moment it fell silent, and the boy, sharply pulling out the sword, recoiled backward.
"Congratulations. That was impressive."
The female voice, full of satisfaction, sounded right in front of him. "How?! When did she manage to get so close?" a shiver ran down his spine. The thought of attacking immediately faded—he had seen what she was capable of. All that remained was to submit. He slowly raised his head.
"And you are clever, human child," she added, as if reading his thoughts.
"Human child?.. But she speaks in my language... Could it be that she is not human?" questions swarmed in his head, but the woman continued:
"You are the one who passed the trial... Amazing." A note of slight annoyance was heard in her voice. "My brothers and sisters prepared for years, but no one succeeded. And you... With such skills... You should have died at the entrance."
The boy stared at her mask, unable to utter a word. So many questions—and not a single answer.
"I came for you. The Elder is confident that we are needed by you. But first... What is your name?" her voice sounded firmly.
"I can't speak... And I don't have a name... Or... do I?" the mental cry mixed with realization. "I know it! I remember!"
"Finn... My... name is... Finn..." each word came with difficulty, as if he were pronouncing them aloud for the first time.
"I will remember that name, Finn," the woman replied calmly. "But it's time for us to go. We rarely act so openly, but your detention forced us to make sacrifices. Others will come here now, and we don't need extra problems."
One of her servants picked up Finn and threw him over his shoulder. The entire group swiftly disappeared into the distance, leaving behind only dust and silence.
And from the alley meanwhile emerged a snow-white cat with the same snow-white, bottomless eyes, and sat at the exit. Beside her appeared a tomcat, her complete opposite, like yin and yang descended from paintings, and both directed their gaze toward where the boy had disappeared. Seeing him off to the very horizon, they slowly dissolved, like smoke.