Chapter Two: Ten Years Later

  Ten years later—

  The way he maneuvered his legs across the open field revealed a refined sense of control over his body. His movements were fluid, deliberate, practiced. As he ran sideways, the wooden sword in his grip tilted slightly, its edge angled in preparation rather than defense. Each step carried intent, every shift of weight calculated.

  In a sudden pivot, he turned sharply and raised his sword just in time to counter an incoming strike, the wooden blades colliding with a dull thud.

  "You were slow there," she remarked calmly.

  Gritting his teeth, he exerted every ounce of strength his body could muster. The force of his push allowed him to parry her sword aside, and without wasting the opening, he followed up with an attack of his own.

  His sword swept upward from the ground in a clean arc, then, just as the motion neared completion, he altered its trajectory mid-swing, redirecting it sharply to the side. It was a feint designed to deceive—an attack meant to exploit instinctive reactions.

  Against most opponents, it would have worked.

  But she was no ordinary opponent.

  A master of her craft, she saw through the deception instantly. Her movements were precise and unhurried as she halted his blade and stepped into his space, delivering a solid shoulder push that disrupted his balance and nearly sent him crashing to the ground.

  Yet he was no novice either.

  He stumbled backward deliberately, allowing his upper body to bend as if he were losing control. Then, at the last possible moment, he followed through with his left hand, his body responding in perfect synchronization. The culmination of his actions resulted in a seamless, one-handed backflip that carried him away from her while restoring his footing and maintaining a safe distance.

  "Good," she said, nodding once in approval. "But not good enough."

  Without hesitation, she sprinted toward him. She made no attempt to make her approach predictable or easy to counter. Her legs moved in rapid, complex patterns meant to confuse and mislead. As she closed the distance, her form seemed to fracture, splitting into multiple overlapping images.

  It looked as though she was attacking from every direction at once.

  "Mirages," he muttered under his breath, frustration evident as a streak of sweat slid down the side of his face.

  He tightened his grip on the sword with both hands and forced his racing heart to steady. He reminded himself of her instructions—don't rely on your ears; rely on your senses. Yet putting those words into practice was far more difficult than hearing them.

  The afterimages rushed toward him, their movements nearly indistinguishable from one another. He waited, watching, calculating. He took a slow, deep breath, forcing calm into his body.

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  His ears twitched as his eyes locked onto one specific mirage. There—something about its movement felt different. Subtle, but real.

  That's the original.

  Take out the original, and the technique would collapse.

  He waited until she entered the range of his sword, timing his strike with unwavering focus. Then he moved. His blade came down in a precise arc, aimed directly at the mirage he had marked.

  The sword struck true, smacking down squarely on her head.

  He had wo—

  Pain exploded across his forehead as another wooden sword slammed down with a heavy thwack.

  "My win. Again," she said coolly.

  She withdrew the tip of her sword from the center of his forehead, allowing him the chance to tend to it as he staggered back.

  "Not again," he groaned, rubbing the throbbing spot with a grimace.

  "This makes it what," she continued casually, "my four hundredth win?"

  "Technically, it's three hundred and seventy-two," he corrected. "Don't exaggerate it. And also, if it wasn't for your mirage skill, I would have taken the win this time."

  She smacked him again in the exact same spot, drawing another pained cry from him. "How many times do I have to repeat myself?" she scolded. "You don't make excuses for your losses. You learn from them. You grow through them."

  He grumbled under his breath. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one dealing with seven versions of you coming at once."

  She shifted her posture slightly, folding her arms. "Exactly. Seven. If I went all out, I could create over twenty mirages. Not seven."

  He didn't bother arguing. The way she said it made it clear she was holding back. He knew her well enough to understand that if she truly wanted to, she could exceed even that number with ease.

  "Just you wait," he said stubbornly. "I'll get you back for this—hundreds of times over—once I awaken my soul core."

  At his words, she fell silent.

  Contrary to what he expected, she did not tease him or dismiss the statement. Instead, her expression shifted, something troubled flickering across her face. She looked worried—hesitant, even—though she quickly tried to hide it.

  He noticed anyway.

  He had lived with her for fifteen years—practically his entire life. That was more than enough time to recognize her emotions, even when she attempted to conceal them.

  "What's wrong, Aunt Mira?" he asked cautiously. "Did I say something wrong?"

  Despite being called his aunt, she possessed remarkably youthful features. By appearance alone, she could easily be mistaken for a woman in her early thirties.

  "No, Adrian," she replied softly. "You didn't." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's just…"

  She hesitated again, clearly weighing her next words. She wanted to lie—he could tell—but something held her back.

  "You didn't say anything wrong," she continued. "It's just that there's something I need to tell you about your soul core awakening."

  Concern crept into Adrian's expression. "What about it?"

  "You need to know, Adrian," she said slowly. "About tomorrow's awakening, you—"

  "Adrian! Adrian!"

  The voice carried clearly across the open plains, sounding much closer than it should have given the distance. Aunt Mira and Adrian both turned toward the sound.

  A young girl was running toward them, waving energetically as she closed the gap.

  Aunt Mira sighed lightly. "Isn't that your girlfriend, Carrera?"

  Adrian snapped his head toward her with a glare. "She's not my girlfriend. She's just a really, really passionate girl who won't stop following me around."

  A teasing smile curved Aunt Mira's lips. "Exactly," she said. "Your girlfriend." She drew out the word deliberately.

  "Ah, ah, Aunt Mira. Very funny," he replied dryly. "Can you please continue what you were about to tell me before she gets here and drags me off?"

  Carrera's arrival meant their training session was effectively over. Knowing her, Adrian could already imagine the endless list of activities she would insist on dragging him into.

  Aunt Mira hummed thoughtfully. "You know what," she said at last, "let's talk about it later. Attend to your girlfriend in the meantime. All right?"

  "For the last time, she is not my girlfriend!" he shouted.

  But she was already gone.

  In the span of a single second, Aunt Mira vanished from sight entirely. No sound, no trace—just empty air where she had stood moments before.

  As always, it amazed Adrian every time she did that.