In the beginning, I kept track. Counted every failed attempt, every inch I'd thought I'd gained, every wound, every brief moment of hope, snuffed out with his blade. The numbers were my anchor to sanity, to progress—to the vague idea that if I just kept going, I'd eventually break through.
But now? I've lost count. Attempt ??? is what my mind tells me. I don't even know if I've been here days, months, or years.
Somewhere in the thousands, maybe, my sword would shatter every few swings. His was forged for this, and mine was nothing but a frail tool by comparison, doomed to break, over and over again. Sometimes it would be in my hands, sometimes mid-swing, and I'd hear the telltale snap a heartbeat before his blade tore through me. My bones broke as often as my blade, splintering beneath the weight of every blow he landed. Heal, reform, repeat.
A few hundred thousand attempts more, and the counter had started to fade into meaninglessness. The pain grew dull and muted, almost background noise, replaced by something else—no longer panic or anger, but calm, relentless focus. There was nothing left but this duel.
His strikes were unchanging, practiced, flawless. In the beginning, I could barely keep up, could barely survive three strikes before I was skewered, thrown back to my mental reset, only to try again. He was perfect, a monument of unyielding precision, and I was barely a shadow at his feet, mimicking his movements in vain.
Then, with enough time—and enough deaths—something changed.
Slowly, I began to mimic him, imitating his exact stance, watching for every faint twist of his wrist, each subtle shift in his weight. It was muscle memory at this point, beyond any instinct or learned reflex. I no longer thought before dodging or parrying; I simply moved.
But even after hundreds of thousands of deaths, I still died.
Then one attempt—or maybe it was several hundred thousand attempts later—I stopped fighting altogether, began watching him more than anything else. Ashkart moved like water, each motion as smooth and inevitable as the next, his blade a continuous flow of power. Each stroke he dealt was a controlled release, not a single ounce of force wasted. He didn't rely on sheer power; he wielded finesse that could shape mountains, command rivers.
I moved with him, within the invisible rhythm of his strikes, imitating the current of his attacks. And maybe by the hundred-thousandth imitation, I could almost feel the pulse of it, his heartbeat in every strike.
Ashkart's style was no longer alien to me, no longer something I strained to grasp. It had etched itself into my bones.
I couldn't say when exactly I stopped trying to merely keep up and started dancing alongside him, matching his tempo beat for beat. My mind, once sharp with frustration and desperation, had quieted. Now, it was as if I existed in the void between thoughts, flowing as he did, lost in the dance of our blades, a rhythm as relentless and eternal as the stars.
The fight became something else, something beyond survival. And as I flowed with him, I felt myself changing, felt every single step, swing, and stance honing me. My grip on the sword had become ironclad, natural, as if it was an extension of myself.
With every step, I absorbed more of his essence, melding with his technique, until the movements were no longer his alone. They were ours.
By the time the counter was beyond my comprehension, the swords were no longer distinguishable—theirs and mine. He wielded his, and I mirrored with mine, not a second behind. He moved with aura, and I pulled from my own, wielding my energy in arcs of perfect, lethal grace.
Somewhere deep in the infinite deaths, I'd found something more than just a desperate attempt to win. I'd found mastery, something I'd never felt even in my endless magical prowess.
I was no longer a mage wielding a blade in desperation. I was something else, something refined and sharpened by every failed attempt, every wound, and every fragment of time.
I was my own weapon.
I no longer hesitated, no longer felt the sting of doubt. Aura surged in rhythm with mana and chi, each balanced and honed to precision. It was a force far more profound than the spells I had once clung to in desperation, far more fundamental. This wasn't something I'd cast; it was something I became.
Now, it was Ashkart who seemed to notice. A glimmer of recognition passed through his gaze, almost imperceptible but enough for me to feel it. I could see it, a flicker of awareness beyond his mindless duty, something beyond his relentless, unbreakable will.
But then his blade descended, and as I met him once again, I felt it—that faintest of hesitations as he met the mirror of himself, perfected.
I didn't know if this would be the attempt. Maybe the millionth, or the billionth attempt later, I'd break through. Or maybe I wouldn't.
But for the first time, I didn't care.