The Will You Hold in Your Sword
Rowen looked at me and let out a hollow laugh.
"What the hell have you raised? You."
Grinding... Rowen shook his head at the sight of Hanna relentlessly unleashing her sword aura. It had come as a massive shock—his daughter had grown far beyond anything he'd imagined.
Rowen thought he knew Hanna's weakness. Swinging her sword with straightforward honesty, as if there were a single correct answer, was one of her chronic flaws.
In the past, he'd watched Hanna's sword—not out of fatherly love, but to measure if his daughter's blade could carry the Histania name. The verdict from that scrutiny had been brutal.
Hanna's sword lacked power. It was honest, with no variables; if someone taught her one technique, she'd force herself to fit into it. No creativity. No grit.
Having observed her for some time, Rowen was confident he understood her weaknesses well. That's why he'd shared his strategy with Mikhail—to exploit them shrewdly and turn a winnable fight into an easy victory.
No matter that Hanna had awakened her aura; the talent he'd seen in her was pathetic. She might look like a prodigy to others, but to Rowen, she was just slightly better than average. He'd never thought deeply about her swordsmanship. To be honest, he'd looked down on her.
Grinding... Rowen clenched his fist and swallowed dryly.
"I can't understand it."
Rowen wasn't the only one shocked. I'd been surprised by Mikhail's swordplay too—not a little, either. I'd thought it'd end in one exchange. If Mikhail's skills had stagnated, a single strike would've wrapped up the duel. But he'd held on far better than expected.
I let out a hollow laugh as I watched Rowen, fixated on the duel.
"What the hell did you do?"
"..."
Both fighters had shattered the limits they'd expected from each other, growing leaps and bounds beyond. To outsiders, it might just look like sword swings, but the two of us could clearly see their progress.
Frankly, I couldn't call the winner. I clenched my fist and stared at Hanna.
*
The blade slicing through petals grazed Mikhail's shoulder by a hair's breadth. In the silent flow of their sword dance, Mikhail parried Hanna's strike, and Hanna prepared her next attack without pause.
It was a strike without aura. As if testing her own level, Hanna's sword approached unenhanced. Mikhail met it head-on in kind—he needed to gauge her prowess too.
But.
Grinding! The weight of Hanna's downward slash was far heavier than he'd anticipated. A heavy blade. Unlike what his master had described, it was dense with power; mishandle it, and he'd lose his grip in one go.
"Hold your sword straight, senior."
"...Hup!"
"Get your head in the game and fight properly."
Hanna moved her blade swiftly as she spoke to Mikhail.
"I've bet everything on this duel."
Mikhail staggered back a step with a clang! as their swords met under Hanna's silent, heavy downswing. Even as Mikhail fell into a defensive stance, Hanna swung calmly.
Don't rush just because you've seized momentum—it gives them room to grow. Press slowly.
She focused solely on one goal, wielding her sword fast and concise to prove her worth for victory. Hanna stepped swiftly into Mikhail's guard and raised her blade.
"That's why I can't lose."
"...Me neither!"
"No. You're different, senior."
"I have someone cheering me on."
"So I..."
Hanna drew a shallow breath and thrust.
Clang...!
"Can't lose."
Mikhail had sparred with Hanna before—not enough to know everything, but plenty to grasp her weaknesses. Before awakening his aura, he'd always beaten her; after, he'd always lost.
The current Hanna was strong. Her past sword had been weak. Speed-focused, yes, but lighter and less destructive than others. Not aiming for lethal blows, but victory through accumulated minor wounds—that was the strength of Hanna's style, in Mikhail's and Rowen's eyes.
Overwhelm her with your physique.
Rowen had given Mikhail one clear direction: leverage his size advantage.
No swordsman overcomes a physique gap easily. Your sword's slower than hers, but it's sturdy.
I know you'd be better off switching to speed like her, but it's not easy to change now—and you don't want to anyway.
Go classic. Brutish but effective.
Rowen had told him to block Hanna's strikes. No matter how fast and nimble, they'd shatter or vibrate against a massive wall, forcing a drop. Exploit that opening.
Rowen was certain a strong parry would leave Hanna unable to react quickly. Mikhail had accepted the plan.
And it crumbled.
Rowen's "easy win" strategy was falling apart. The plan to find an opening in the clash's shake was torn by Hanna's heavy blade.
Mikhail couldn't comprehend it. How had she overcome the weakness he and Rowen knew in such a short time?
Then he spotted the answer in Ricardo's stony gaze from afar.
Mikhail gripped his sword firmly. Hanna shouted, blade in hand.
"Is this all...?"
Clang...!
"This is all it took for Father to be satisfied?"
Grind grind grind!
"This is why he tried to kill me?"
In Hanna's softly echoing yell, Mikhail held his sword steady, seeking an opening. He had his own reason to win.
He knew Hanna had bet big on this duel, but he couldn't lose either—not this time. The blue spear would reveal the past he desperately wanted to know. Unbelievable, sure. But even one glimpse could free him from his long nightmare. That hope weighed heavier than Hanna imagined.
Petals scattered amid a barrage of strikes, wounds multiplying. Continuing this losing trade meant defeat for Mikhail—the small cuts hindered his movement.
I need to decide.
A failed strategy didn't mean no victory. Just no easy path. His efforts remained. Plenty of potential. He hadn't shown his aura-infused sword yet. Nor his new techniques.
Mikhail gathered his aura, infusing it with the will he'd honed in his blade.
He stared down Hanna's heavy incoming strike. Now's the chance.
As her blade grazed his shoulder, Mikhail erupted with bright aura, drawing a massive arc.
Crunch...!
A slicing sensation. Mikhail's sword left its first cut on Hanna, scraping the ground. Dust billowed in the training ground.
Mikhail swung again at the hazy black silhouette in the cloud. Vision was a huge weakness for speed-based swordsmen.
Slash...!
Another cutting feel. Then a pale brown blade cleaved the dust, grazing past Mikhail's nose.
Blood dripped from Hanna's sword. From her left arm, staining the blade and pooling on the ground.
Hanna smirked bitterly.
"Now I get it."
She reversed her grip, lowering her stance.
"The weakness the butler mentioned."
With that, her sword whipped into a frenzy. Once at his side, next at his open chest—relentless and fast.
As if her wounded arm meant nothing, Hanna bit her lip and swung, murmuring low.
"Get your head straight from now on. I might actually kill you."
Her short taunt rang out. Did Mikhail blank for a split second? Hanna's black-aura blade sliced his side swiftly.
Drip. A drop of blood fell from her sword.
In that unnoticed instant, she'd spotted his weakness and struck the gap. Cold sweat beaded on Mikhail's forehead.
What was the weakness? Where had he slipped? His thoughts tangled.
"You know, senior, I used to like you."
"..."
"Your sword for the weak looked cool and just. I'd wonder why I couldn't swing like that, sometimes yelling I'd try to be like you, working my ass off."
Hanna's blade no longer trembled. The tension-shake was gone; it breathed with her rhythm.
She inhaled shallowly and raised it.
"Not anymore."
Mikhail thought, watching her composure.
Don't get swept up in her pace.
He couldn't let her control the flow. Her strikes pinpointed his flaws perfectly. Her knowing gaze made his shoulders quake, but he exhaled, steadying his breath.
Get it together.
Blood was flowing. Too much, unnoticed. This path led to real danger—pathetic loss without showing his hand.
He needed the flow. Couldn't let it stick. Had to win. Absolutely. For his reason.
Mikhail gripped his sword, enduring pain, blurring vision, biting his lip.
Just one opening. One chance to seize control.
He gathered aura into his blade. Mana drain be damned—he'd show his creation.
Focusing solely on Hanna as aura built. Hanna swallowed a groan at his stubbornness.
"Give up."
"..."
"You can barely stand."
"I have to win."
"You've lost too much blood."
"I have to win..."
Petals fluttering, Hanna raised her sword with a deep sigh.
"Fine, you're on your own."
As Mikhail's blade flashed to reclaim momentum, Hanna closed her eyes, swinging in sync with the slow flow of time.
And.
"Enough."
The duel ended. Mikhail's eyes widened at the massive back blocking his path. Red hair. Familiar. Infuriating. Annoying. But warm—shielding him.
*
I turned to Rowen, who stared at Hanna with trembling eyes.
"Are you insane?"
I glared at Rowen, standing stock-still, teeth gritted.
And.
"No...!"
Mikhail clutched my collar, sobbing.
"Please... please...!"
Desperately.