Attempt #1,000,253
It's hard to say how much of my mind is left at this point. A million attempts? I laugh. It feels like some twisted prank that keeps me here on a loop, alone with him, my would-be grim reaper. Each failure, each time I'm thrown back, I see less of myself. And Ashkart? He's as tireless and flawless as ever, standing there with his unsheathed blade, unbreakable and ever-watchful, the ideal sentinel.
I thought—no, knew—I was clever enough to get past him. Thought my magic was powerful enough to simply overwhelm, to whittle him down to nothing, if only I chipped away long enough. But here we are. My mind numb, hands trembling with frustration, and Ashkart's HP bar still stubbornly refusing to dip below fifty percent.
I don't want to check the stats again. I don't need to.
I've memorized his health bar. Every millimeter it drops and every millimeter it refuses to yield.
This time, I don't bother with a full barrage of spells. I'm tired of casting them like a machine, tired of seeing them dissolve on contact with his blade or armor. It's as if my own power has become my enemy. Each spell that doesn't work feels like a reminder: You can't win this way. You need to face him.
I try to shake off the absurdity. I've been training as a mage, I think. Magic is where I've honed every ounce of my power. It should be enough. It's supposed to be enough!
But it isn't.
I look at Ashkart, feeling more raw than ever, yet somehow eerily calm. I'm used to that face now—the blankness in his gaze, like he's the very embodiment of fate itself, calm, inevitable, implacable.
Attempt #1,000,310
It's a blur. Dodging his strikes has practically become muscle memory. Every lunge, every cut of his blade—I know the angles, the trajectory of each movement, even the exact, slight pause he makes between them.
It doesn't matter. He's still too fast, too strong. I can keep up with his movements, but the moment I stop to cast, he's there, ready to cut me down. Any magic I cast feels like an insult, some flimsy trick he doesn't even acknowledge as real.
It's like I'm throwing air at him.
I'm beyond frustrated. I'm furious. But beneath that anger, there's a quiet, resigned part of me. I have to face facts: I've exhausted my every magic. No amount of chanting, no tier of spell will reach him.
He's immune to my highest level of magic, like it's nothing more than a nuisance.
I grit my teeth, hands tightening by my sides. There's a slight tremble in my fingers as I release the staff. It drops to the ground, echoing slightly in the stillness of the corridor. It's a simple sound, and yet it marks a decision I never thought I'd make.
If magic won't work, maybe… maybe it's time to rely on something else.
I exhale sharply, fingers twitching. Swordsmanship isn't my strength. It's just something I picked up, an afterthought, an insurance policy, something for close-quarters when I didn't have a choice. But against Ashkart?
It's absurd. Laughable.
Yet here I am.
My fingers brush the hilt at my side. It's still foreign, that weight of the sword. I'm a mage—was a mage. Or am I? The thought feels slippery, intangible, like I'm grasping at the memory of who I once was, someone lost in these endless attempts.
Bargaining with the clawing sense of apprehension lurking inside me, I say, 'Okay, let's give him something different.'
With deliberate slowness, I wrenched the sheath open while letting the blade ring possessively as it left its confines. The edge of the cold metal was catching light from the narrow corridor, the angle of steel sharper than the urge crystallizing within my breast. I lift my sword awkwardly, its form heavy but reassuring.
This time, the distance, I will cover myself. There will be no spells, no complex movements—only a single focus. I tug at my shoulder muscles, noticing without any feelings of surprise the weariness fade away. This time, the situation is marginally different.
He observes with a vacant look that feels timeless, and I sense an unusual feeling of resistance growing inside me. You've fought a million of my magic strikes, I think, my grip tightening on the hilt. Now, face me.
Ashkart's sword lifts, a slow, graceful movement. No hesitation. Just readiness, anticipation—as if he knows. As if he's been waiting for this moment, too.
I don't give him the chance to swing first.
Attempt #1,000,311
I lunge, bringing the blade down with as much force as I can muster, every muscle straining as I pour myself into the strike. He meets me head-on, his sword intercepting mine in a sharp, ringing clash.
The shock reverberates up my arm, jarring my teeth, but I hold firm. He presses down, the weight of his strength nearly overwhelming me. His sword is like an immovable wall, a barrier I've spent countless lifetimes trying to break.
For a brief moment, the earth beneath us seems to throb, quaking under the intensity of our confrontation. I exert myself more, clenching my jaw, pushing myself to keep pace with him, little by little.
His blade draws nearer, its heaviness pulling me down.
Yet, I sense something. A delicate shift—a slight alteration in the tension. He's relenting, even if just a little, enough to allow me to recover.
I realize this is a challenge. A strategic maneuver. He's assessing my capabilities, gauging the extent of my perseverance.
Fine. I'll show him.
I take advantage of the opening, twisting my blade and pushing forward. Our swords slide past each other in a deadly arc, and for the first time, I see his eyes narrow. Just a fraction. Just a glimmer of recognition.
I got your attention, didn't I?
Attempt #1,000,352
I'm unsure how long this will continue. Each encounter, each strike, resembles a heartbeat—a continuous, endless pulse as we trade blows. At first, my movements are awkward, the sword heavy in my hands. Yet with every attempt, my skills sharpen, every misstep shaping me.
Gradually, I start to adapt. I begin to understand. I start to predict his actions, keeping pace with him, observing the slight, subtle changes in his position.
Now the sword feels different, lighter, almost like an extension of myself. With every swing, every block, I sense the burden of his expertise weighing down on me, insisting I dig deeper, demanding more than I believed I could give.
Then, amidst this rhythm, something shifts.
The separation between us—it seems like it's becoming less solid, each strike of our swords chipping away at the gap, dismantling the barrier that has kept me from truly confronting him. I can sense it in his eyes, the subtle, almost undetectable glimmer of recognition.
Yet, it's still insufficient. Not at this moment. I can feel the immense weight of his strength, the sheer, staggering force that has only just begun to falter.
My thoughts race, every instinct urging me to push further, to penetrate this final obstacle. I somehow understand that this is the key. This is the path ahead