Amidst the towering bamboo forest, Bluebell moved with a mesmerizing rhythm.
Her sword slicing through the air as if it were an extension of her very being. Each strike landed with precision, and yet her movements carried a grace that seemed almost otherworldly.
Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light that danced along her blade, making her appear both ethereal and dangerous.
Her hand gripped the sword's hilt tightly, but her actions were fluid—like a stream flowing over smooth stones.
With her striking features and elegant poise, one might mistake her practice for a ceremonial sword dance, a performance crafted to enchant.
But her piercing light brown eyes betrayed the truth—this was no performance. This was preparation.
The bamboo stalks around her fell one by one as her blade carved through them with ease, widening the clearing. But she didn't stop there.
Occasionally, she leapt into the air, her feet landing lightly on the swaying bamboo poles, her balance impeccable.
At times, she ran, climbed, and twisted her body with an agility that defied logic. And when her gaze landed on the wooden dummies scattered around the clearing, she struck them with ferocity, as if they were real enemies.
Her focus was absolute, unbreakable. Until it wasn't.
The faintest shift in the wind caught her attention—an anomaly so subtle it would have escaped anyone else's notice. But not hers.
Before the shadow behind her could even complete its attack, Bluebell was already moving. Her body twisted to the side, the blade meant for her neck slicing through empty air.
She spun gracefully, her sword raised, her feet planted firmly on the ground as she faced her attacker.
"Not bad," the man said, his voice calm yet laced with a hint of challenge.
Bluebell didn't respond. Her gaze was cold, her body poised for combat. Without hesitation, the fight began.
Their swords clashed with deafening intensity, the metallic clang echoing through the bamboo forest. They moved like shadows—quick, precise, and deadly.
Bluebell's strikes were as swift as lightning, but her opponent matched her blow for blow.
The battle was relentless, every movement calculated, every strike meant to incapacitate.
Despite the intensity of their duel, neither of them bore a single scratch. Their skin remained unblemished, and their movements as sharp as ever.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bluebell spotted an opening. Her opponent faltered, just slightly—but it was enough.
With a sharp kick, she swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground.
In one fluid motion, Bluebell aimed her blade at his throat, stopping mere inches away from his skin.
Her lips curled into a victorious smile, her face flushed from exertion but glowing with pride.
Lying on the ground, the man let out a deep, resonant laugh.
"Incredible," he said, his eyes filled with admiration. "You truly are unbeatable."
Bluebell lowered her sword and extended her hand. The man grasped it, and she helped him to stand.
"Was there anything I could've done better?" she asked, her tone serious despite the playful glint in her eyes.
The man shook his head, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "No, nothing. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I corrected you. Maybe when you were ten?"
Bluebell chuckled, a sound as light and clear as birdsong.
She retrieved her sword's sheath and slid the blade inside with practiced ease.
"Don't flatter me too much, Uncle," she teased. "They say pride brings bad luck."
"Nonsense," he replied with a wave of his hand. "Do you really believe in that sort of thing?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully, her eyes drifting toward the sky.
"Sometimes. I feel like I need to believe in something—anything—to keep myself grounded. Because I can't afford even a single failure."
Her uncle nodded slowly, his expression softening, "And your life force? It hasn't weakened, has it?"
Bluebell shook her head.
"What I feel, it's stronger than ever. I haven't skipped a single day of training. I've even increased the duration of my meditation and energy cultivation."
The two of them walked side by side through the forest, the crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound accompanying their conversation.
Finally they reached the river—crystal-clear waters sparkled in the sunlight, revealing the smooth stones and darting fish beneath. Beyond the river lay an open area. And at its center stood a modest stone house with a small garden. Beside it, there's a wooden gazebo, surrounded by a furnace that emitted faint wisps of smoke.
"You're late again," came the flat, rasping voice of an old woman.
Bluebell's face immediately shifted into an apologetic expression, though there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Grandma. I got... a little carried away with training."
The old woman—Grandma Lór—her presence commanding despite her calm demeanor. Though she wouldn't scold her, there was something in her aura that made even the most defiant soul shrink.
"Go clean yourself up," she said at last. "Your potion is almost ready."
"Yes, Grandma."
Bluebell hurried inside the house, leaving her uncle and grandmother alone in the clearing.
"How is she?" the man asked, his voice low. "Is she ready?"
The old woman's gaze lingered on the house for a moment before she answered.
"You haven't been here for a long time, and now you're asking about it straight away."
A sigh escaped from her mouth.
"She's ready. She was ready the last time I checked—months ago."
"That's too long," he said, frowning. "You need to check again."
"You know it hurts her," she replied sharply. "I can't keep doing it."
"You have to," he insisted. "We can't afford to be uncertain. She must be truly ready."
The old woman sighed heavily, her expression darkening.
"The flowering season is near, Lór. That means the selection will begin soon."
Instead of replying, her gaze turned upset. She lowered her head and stirred her potion.
"Sometimes… I feel sorry for that girl. If there was a potion or spell to kill revenge, I would love to give it to you."
The man frowned.
"Osgar. It's been almost twenty-two years. Hasn't the pain in your heart faded?"
"I survived twenty-two years with her," his hand pointed into the house, "for only one purpose—to take revenge. Nothing can change our plan."
"Your plan."
"What?"
"It was all your plan. Not hers—" She looked ready to argue more when a sudden arrow pierced the air, embedding itself in one of the gazebo's wooden posts.
Both of them froze.
The man scanned their surroundings, his eyes sharp and alert. He approached the arrow cautiously, pulling it free to reveal a small note tied to it. Unfolding the paper, he read its contents.
His face grew even graver as he crumpled the note and threw it into the smoldering furnace nearby.
"Calinya has called for a meeting tonight," he said grimly. "The selection will take place next week."
The grandmother nodded, her face unreadable. "I'll prepare everything. I'll prepare her."
Though her voice was calm, her heart ached. She knew what needed to be done, even if it meant hurting the girl she cared for.
As Osgar disappeared into the forest, moving with a speed that made him seem like he was gliding, the old woman's hands trembled slightly as she stirred the potion.
"I really wish there was another way to erase the pain. For her. For him. For all of us," she whispered to herself.