General Kael reached behind her back with practiced motion, fingers closing around the familiar grips of her twin scythes.

The X-shaped weapons slid free from their mountings with a metallic whisper.

Across the scorched courtyard, the Marshal of the SBV's head branch drew his sword in a measured movement that commanded attention.

Behind him, three generals and a contingent of elite guards who held prestigious positions within the organization assembled in formation, their collective aura pressing down on the battlefield.

They were here to fight Kael.

All of them against one.

The Marshal raised his hand.

The guards stopped mid-step, frozen in place behind him. Some looked confused, glancing at each other with uncertain expressions. Others watched with anticipation.

The Marshal held a rank one star above the generals, a distinction that meant everything in an organization built on hierarchy and power.

Merin had been a general herself some couple years ago. She'd tried desperately to earn that final star needed to ascend to Marshal rank. There were only three Marshals governing over twenty-five generals across the entire organization. The competition was brutal. The requirements were absolute.

The more Merin had tried, the harder reality had struck her.

Marshal rank wasn't something you earned through accumulated merits alone. You needed to be at least Master(III) to even qualify for consideration. Even the strongest SBV generals had given up hope of ever earning that final star.

The reason was simple and insurmountable: breaking through within the Master tier wasn't like progressing from Novice to Intermediate, or Intermediate to Master(V). Many died trying to reach Master(IV). And to progress from Master(IV) to higher tiers, you needed more than resources that could be bought with currency.

You needed bloodline support. Innate inheritance. Something like Cassandra's dragon bloodline, a gift of birth that no amount of training could replicate.

"Deal with that X-scissor wielder," the Marshal ordered, his voice flat.

He turned away from Kael.

"But sir... she is..." The general who spoke clearly knew who Kael was. Fighting her without their Marshal's support was suicide.

"I will join you shortly." The Marshal's gaze shifted to the corner of the pond, his attention captured by something the others couldn't yet perceive.

His aura crackled outward... just a visible discharge of power that rippled across the pond's surface, sending waves expanding in perfect arcs.

Then it dispersed.

The energy simply vanished before hitting anything, absorbed or deflected by something unseen.

"The aura... it disappeared?" One of the three generals spoke up, stunned by what they'd just witnessed.

Then reality itself seemed to bend.

The image they'd been seeing twisted at impossible angles, warping in the air like heat shimmer over hot stone. What had appeared to be normal pond with a beautiful monk sanctuary floating on the pond's surface, now appeared to be damaged and previously hidden by perfect illusion.

A mirage created by a space attribute user.

The Marshal's aura had hit its mark after all. The damage had simply been concealed.

"Get moving," the Marshal said without looking back at his subordinates. "Stay alive until I get to you."

He walked toward the pond, completely dismissing Kael's presence as if she were no longer worth his attention.

Kael's eyes shifted from the Marshal's retreating back to the generals and elite guards waiting for her. Her grip tightened on her twin scythes, the curved blades catching the early morning light.

Three generals. Dozens of elite guards. All of them trained killers.

A slow smile spread across her face.

"I am no assassin," the Marshal's voice carried across the water, directed toward the damaged sanctuary, "but I was told I am hard to kill by the ones I killed."

His weapon was already in his hand, ready.

....

The silence did not fool the marshal. He was as still as a stone pillar and as alert as a cornered cat.

"Let me test that myself."

The voice came from atop the damaged sanctuary.

A woman sat perched on the broken structure, one leg dangling lazily over the edge as if she were enjoying a peaceful morning rather than facing a Marshal of the SBV.

Selka, the Duchess's strongest general. The shadow who moved through space itself.

"Let's get this done," the Marshal challenged, his body coiling in preparation.

Selka twirled her daggers in both hands, a flourish that was equal parts intimidation and habit. Then she leaped.

Her descent was like metal drawn to magnet. It was impossibly fast, impossibly direct. No grace. No stealth. No attempt to use shadows or deception.

Her blurred form, unlike any assassin's approach, met the Marshal head-on.

*************

Meanwhile, in the other end of the mansion's backyard..

Cassandra struck high in a diagonal slash aimed at the Sword King's shoulder.

The ancient warrior tilted his head slightly. The flaming blade missed by inches, close enough that the heat should have singed his beard. It didn't.

She pivoted immediately, redirecting her momentum into a low sweep aimed at his legs.

The ancient warrior lifted one foot with minimal effort, letting her blade pass beneath him, then stepped forward into her guard before she could recover.

His conjured sword flickered toward her ribs.

Cassandra twisted desperately, bringing up a barrier of compressed flame between them. The Sword King's blade kissed the fire and withdrew, leaving her unharmed but off-balance.

She pressed forward anyway, refusing to yield ground.

A thrust toward his heart — he sidestepped.

A horizontal slash at his throat — he ducked beneath it with fluid ease.

A vertical strike empowered by a column of descending flame — he simply wasn't there when it landed, having moved three steps to the left before she'd even committed to the attack.

Each of her strikes carried enough power to level buildings. Each one met nothing but air.

And then the cuts began.

Slice.

The first one appeared on her left shoulder in a thin red line that bloomed through the fabric of her dress. Not deep. Barely more than a scratch. But there nonetheless.

Cassandra hissed, more from surprise than pain, and retaliated with a rising slash that sent a crescent wave of fire screaming toward him.

The Sword King walked through it.

His aura dispersed the flames around him like a man parting tall grass on a morning stroll.

Slice.

Another cut. This one across her right forearm. The sleeve of her dress tore, revealing pale skin now marked with crimson.

She gritted her teeth and attacked faster, pouring more power into each strike. Flames erupted from her blade in torrents now, each swing leaving walls of fire in its wake, turning the courtyard into an inferno.

The Sword King moved through the chaos like a leaf on the wind, untouched and unbothered.

Slice.

Her left thigh. The red fabric split cleanly, revealing more skin, more blood. The ceremonial dress that had flowed so beautifully was beginning to look ragged, torn at the edges where his blade had found its marks.

Cassandra's breathing was becoming labored now. Sweat dripped from her forehead, mixing with the ash in the air. Her movements, still fast and precise were beginning to show the smallest delays. A fraction of a second longer to recover. A hair's breadth less distance on each dodge.

Three hundred years of experience versus two decades. Master vs Disciple. SwordKing vs SwordSaint.

The gap was showing.

She unleashed a devastating combination — five strikes in rapid succession, each one trailing flames of different intensities. Low, high, middle, spinning slash, overhead smash. A pattern designed to overwhelm through sheer variation and speed.

The Sword King's blade moved in a simple figure-eight pattern.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Five blocks. Five perfect parries. Each one redirecting her blade just enough to throw off the next attack in sequence.

And then...

Slice.

Her collarbone. The cut was deeper this time, blood flowing more freely. The fabric around her shoulder gave way completely, hanging loose and torn.

Slice.

The back of her right calf. Her leg buckled slightly before she caught herself, flames flaring from her feet to keep her upright.

Slice.

Across her stomach, shallow, but long. The front of her dress split horizontally, the beautiful ceremonial garment now torn in multiple places, barely holding together.

Cassandra stumbled backward, one hand instinctively going to the wound on her stomach. Her fingers came away red.

She looked up at the Sword King.

He stood exactly as he had at the beginning... breathing normally, expression calm, not a single mark on his pristine robes. His conjured blade hummed softly in his hand, still as sharp and deadly as when he'd first formed it.

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