A resounding BANG! splits the air as Riya and I collide. The force of our clash sends a gust of wind billowing outwards, stirring up dust and leaves. The air buzzes with electric tension, both of us feeding off the energy of the duel.
Swoosh! I hear the distinctive sound of our bodies darting toward each other. Each movement is amplified, every sound accentuated, as we engage in this rapid-fire exchange. I can hear our breaths, short and controlled, the shuffle of our feet, and the occasional grunt when a hit lands or is narrowly avoided.
Tsk. I strike at her side, but she anticipates it, blocking swiftly. She tries to counter with a sweeping leg kick, but I'm quicker, pivoting on my heel to avoid her strike and aiming a punch at her abdomen. She blocks, shifting her weight and trying to grapple my arm.
An annoying realization hits me. The damn manabinders on her wrists, meant to limit her abilities, are proving to be little more than a temporary setback for her. She's adapting, finding ways to work around them. "Dammit," I mutter under my breath, "She'll be free of those in no time."
If I really wanted to, I could exploit the brief moments of vulnerability she shows and make my escape. But... a smirk forms behind my mask. The sheer thrill of this fight is intoxicating. Besides, Ilka would never let me hear the end of it if I passed up on this.
Her movements are a fluid dance of offensive and defensive techniques, but I've trained for years, mastering the art of chain reactions. I start with a feint, pretending to aim for her head, but then I swiftly change direction, landing a solid punch to her ribs. She counters with an elbow strike, but I deflect it with my forearm, spinning around to try and land a kick to her back.
She dodges, but I'm already on the move again, using the momentum to unleash a flurry of strikes — a punch, a kick, another punch. She parries the first two but takes the third one on her shoulder. In retaliation, she lunges at me, attempting a knee strike. I sidestep, grabbing her arm and trying to throw her off balance.
But Riya's fast, twisting her body and flipping over, freeing herself from my grip. Our eyes lock for a split second — a silent acknowledgement of each other's skill — before we're back at it.
Her speed is dizzying, but my training kicks in, allowing me to anticipate and counter her every move. Each strike I deliver is met with a block, and every time she tries to gain the upper hand, I'm right there, parrying her efforts.
The sound of our combat is a rhythmic symphony, echoing in the night. We're evenly matched, but I can tell I have the edge in raw power. My strikes are starting to land more often, pushing her back, forcing her on the defensive.
With each exchange, our dance grows more intense. Sweat drips down my brow, but I barely notice. Every fiber of my being is focused on this duel.
At one point, I manage to trap her arm, pulling her into a grapple. Our bodies press close, and for a moment, everything is still. Then, with a burst of strength, I toss her aside. She rolls gracefully, regaining her stance almost immediately.
The rhythm of our combat changes, becoming a meticulous dance of strategy and foresight. Every move is calculated, every strike planned with precision. This isn't just a test of strength or speed now; it's a battle of wits and intuition.
I lash out with a right hook, aiming for her jaw. But Riya, ever the strategist, is already a step ahead. She deflects my punch with a smooth, upward sweep of her arm. Before I can pull back, she strikes, targeting my exposed ribcage. I counter her strike by pivoting, redirecting her force and attempting a backhand.
But she's anticipating that too. She ducks under my arm, her body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash a devastating uppercut. As her fist rockets upwards, I twist sideways at the last moment, using her momentum against her to pull her into a throw.
Yet, even in mid-air, Riya counters my maneuver. She kicks out, catching me in the chest and using the impact to flip backward and land on her feet. I stagger back from her kick, but immediately regain my balance, lunging at her with a series of jabs.
She deflects the first, redirects the second, and catches the third, twisting my arm in an attempt to immobilize me. But I'm already countering her counter, shifting my weight and rolling forward, breaking her grip and aiming an elbow at her face.
She leans back, narrowly avoiding my strike, and immediately tries to capitalize on my overextension with a swift kick to my side. But I was expecting that. I grab her leg mid-kick, attempting to sweep her other leg out from under her.
However, Riya's agility is unmatched. She jumps, using my grip on her leg as leverage to spin in the air and land a kick to the side of my head. I stagger but don't go down. Using the momentum of her kick, I spin, sending a powerful roundhouse toward her.
She counters by ducking low, sliding underneath my kick and coming up with a punch aimed directly at my stomach. I counter her punch by sidestepping and attempting a knee strike. She responds by leaning back, allowing my knee to miss by mere inches, and counters with a palm strike towards my chest.
The sequence of moves is dizzying, each of us anticipating the other's attacks and responding with perfectly timed counters. It's less like a fight and more like an intricate dance, each step leading to the next, each move seamlessly flowing into another.
-
The impact sends a shockwave through my body as I crash into the wall, dust and debris showering around me. I groan, lifting my head to find Riya confidently approaching, her eyes blazing with intensity.
"Looks like I need to change my technique now," I whisper to myself, steadying my breathing. Drawing on the lessons from Ilka, I allow my fighting style to morph. Instead of the raw, defensive approach, I adopt a fluid, adaptable form — one that moves like water, unpredictable and ever-changing. I was trying to improve my defensive martial arts but unfortunately, this is as far as I'll get with her. I should really thank that moron for actually having some high-quality seals on those binders.
Riya lunges, aiming a powerful punch towards my face. But instead of blocking, I simply shift, letting her fist glide past me like a stone skipping across water. Before she can react, I twist around her, striking her side lightly, a reminder of my presence.
She grunts in frustration, throwing a series of kicks. But with my new technique, each of her moves meets nothing but air. I sway and flow, evading her every attempt, striking her in quick, smooth motions — a tap on the shoulder here, a light kick to her shin there.
Her face flushes with anger, her attacks growing more desperate and wild. But the more aggressive she becomes, the easier it is for me to read her, slipping past her defenses and landing clean hits.
There's a fluidity to my movements now, a dance-like grace that's hard to anticipate. Riya tries to adapt, but my strikes are layered with nuances from Ilka's teachings, making them intricate and nearly unreadable. Every time she thinks she has me figured out, I introduce a new twist, keeping her perpetually off-balance.
Suddenly, I catch her in a soft grapple, pulling her close. She struggles, trying to break free, but I guide her energy, redirecting it and sending her sprawling to the ground. As she tries to get up, I'm already there, landing a solid kick to her abdomen.
She stumbles back, gasping for breath. But instead of anger or frustration, there's a glint in her eyes, a spark of something that surprises me. She slides her hand through her hair, laughing softly, a dark, amused sound. "Hmhmhmhm."
The laugh sends shivers down my spine. Dammit, I get it! It's fun to challenge yourself, but why do you have to sound so creepy!?
She stands tall, wiping away a trace of blood from her lip. "Interesting technique," she remarks, her voice dripping with intrigue. "It's completely different... yet I still can't read it. How many high-ranking techniques do you have?"
-
The manabinders on Riya's wrists start to show visible cracks, tiny fissures running like spiderwebs across the surface. My eyes widen, and my breath catches in my throat. Shit, there isn't much time left. The logical part of me screams to leave, to make my escape before those restraints break entirely.
I weigh the options in my mind, but before I can reach a decision, a devilish smirk forms on Riya's lips. "Are you afraid of what might happen when they break?" she teases, her voice dripping with a mix of amusement and menace.
Choosing to ignore her, I focus inwardly. I circulate my mana and aura, letting it coat me in a rhythmic pulsation. I can't let her get a read on me, not now. She's already formidable, but if she were to gauge my true rank... well, the tables might turn unfavorably. I've worked hard to maintain the illusion of strength.
"Pick up your sword," I command, my voice unwavering. "I won't use much, but I want to see that technique of yours."
Riya's gaze sharpens, the coldness in her eyes making it feel as if the very temperature around us has dropped. She slowly unsheathes her blade, the metallic sound echoing in the stillness. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath, and the atmosphere around her shifts, becoming palpable with tension.
"Please enlighten me, Mask Man," she sneers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I'm momentarily distracted by the way she's holding her sword. It's so... effortless. The weight, the balance, everything seems to be in harmony with her.
My eyes lock onto hers. "Don't hold back," I challenge.
Her lips curve into a mocking smile. "Oh, I won't."
The next few moments are a blur of steel and movement. Despite the manabinders, she demonstrates finesse and skill that few can rival. Every swipe, every thrust, every parry is executed with deadly precision.
But as we clash, I begin to notice something. With each strike, a pattern emerges. There's a rhythm to her swordplay, a beat that I can tap into. Using the pulsating flow of my own mana and aura as a guide, I predict her movements, allowing me to stay one step ahead.
Yet, she's relentless. Even as I parry and evade her attacks, she keeps coming, her strikes growing faster and more ferocious. It's evident she's trying to wear me down, to find a chink in my armor. Not that she can pierce through it.
-
My block holds for a moment under the weight of her transformed sword, but her next move catches me completely off-guard. Instead of a follow-up swing, she grins – a devilish, mocking smile that I instantly recognize as the precursor to something unexpected. "Don't my attacks look quite predictable?" she taunts, her voice dripping with malicious mirth.
My eyes widen in realization. Shit. I should've seen it coming. The very air around her shifts, her sword beginning to emanate a soft, yet threatening, pink glow. Petals start dancing around it, carried by an unseen wind, indicating the transformation of her attribute. It's not the aura or mana I had anticipated; it's something far more potent. Her attribute... sword resonance. The scattering petals...
Regret gnaws at my insides. Dammit. Without Umbra, I'm at a distinct disadvantage.
As her sword resonates, the ensuing strike, infused with her unique attribute, lands with an explosive force. I barely manage to harden my aura around my hand in time to meet it, but the sheer impact sends me flying like a ragdoll, skidding painfully across the ground.
Groaning, I push myself up to find her approaching, each step she takes filled with confidence. Her smile doesn't fade; it grows wider, taking pleasure in the precarious position she's put me in. The petals swirling around her blade indicate her growing exhilaration.
I didn't think she'd use it this early... she shouldn't have mastered it yet. But the evidence is clear – she's more than capable.
Pain radiates through my body, but I manage to roll over, sliding a small, inconspicuous marble out of my sleeve. She's close now, her blade still humming with power.
I can't beat her yet.
In a swift motion, I throw the marble directly at her. She easily catches it, curiosity evident in her eyes. "What is this?" she inquires, examining the tiny orb.
I tap the side of my mask, my voice laden with fatigue but also a hint of triumph, "Goodnight."
The marble suddenly bursts, releasing a cloud of deep purple gas. Riya's eyes dart around, realization dawning too late. She tries to retreat, but the gas quickly envelops her, and she collapses, her sword clattering to the ground beside her, its glow fading.
I drag myself to my feet, grimacing from the pain. With Riya temporarily incapacitated, my mind races to my next immediate concern. Lysandra... I need to check on her.