Lindarion moved first.
A burst of lightning shot from his feet, propelling him forward like a thunderclap. His first strike came in low, Zerathis glowing with divine light so bright it turned the courtyard shadows to ash.
The Sword Saint met it with a single, clean parry. The force of the impact split the flagstones beneath them, the shockwave blowing back dust and loose rubble.
Before the Saint could counter, Lindarion’s follow-up came, a sweep of darkness affinity, so dense it swallowed light, followed instantly by a pillar of fire roaring upward from under the Saint’s position.
The crowd, demons lining the walls, soldiers peering from balconies, roared at the display, a mix of awe and bloodlust.
But the Saint moved through it all like water flowing around stone. His blade cut through the darkness, dispersing it into harmless vapor, then angled just so, diverting the fire pillar into a harmless spray of molten sparks.
Lindarion pressed harder.
He didn’t slow for even a breath, layering affinities in ways no ordinary mage could manage. Lightning lanced out, threading between slashes of fire; arcs of ice formed mid-swing, freezing the Saint’s footing before shattering in a burst of divine energy.
Every strike was meant to overwhelm. Every motion was meant to force the Saint back.
And for a heartbeat, it worked. The Saint’s heels shifted. His guard lifted.
Lindarion pushed into the gap, Zerathis flaring blood-red now as he poured in the blood affinity, sharp, hungry, pulling at the Saint’s life force with every near-touch. The air around them stank of ozone, smoke, and copper.
The Saint’s lips curved. Not a smile, a predator’s acknowledgment.
The next parry wasn’t a deflection, it was a strike disguised as defense. His blade met Zerathis and in the same motion snapped upward, opening a thin cut across Lindarion’s jaw.
Before Lindarion could recover, the Saint’s footwork shifted again, impossibly tight angles, every step designed to close space while removing escape lines. Lindarion’s lightning bursts couldn’t buy distance anymore; the Saint was already inside them.
Three strikes came in under a single breath.
Lindarion caught two.
The third drove into his side, cutting shallow but deep enough to numb his left arm for a moment.
The crowd gasped, some demons shouting for the Saint, others jeering Lindarion with words he didn’t care to understand.
He forced his body to move, forcing Zerathis into a brutal overhead cut, mixing divine and darkness affinities until the sword felt like it would split the world open.
The Saint stepped in.
The blade missed entirely, the Saint’s movement so precise that Lindarion’s momentum betrayed him. And then —
Steel kissed his throat.
Not deep enough to kill. Just enough for the cold edge to speak the truth that he can end this whenever he chooses to.
The Saint stepped back, giving him space, no mockery in his face, only a challenge still burning there.
"Better," he said simply. "But still not enough."
Lindarion’s teeth clenched. His mana surged again, hotter and wilder than before. If he was going to lose, it wouldn’t be quietly.
The shallow line at his throat still burned, but Lindarion barely felt it. His mana boiled under his skin, surging into every muscle, every tendon, every nerve.
He knew it was reckless.
He knew it was burning through reserves his body wouldn’t recover from for days.
But he also knew this was his only chance to wipe that composed expression off the Sword Saint’s face.
Ashwing’s distant roar echoed from somewhere above, circling, restless. The crowd’s voices blurred into meaningless noise. The world narrowed to one point, the man before him.
Lightning ripped from his body like a storm breaking apart. He shot forward, Zerathis leading, divine light cutting through the Saint’s shadow.
The Saint raised his sword.
Lindarion did not stop.
He wove affinities faster than he’d ever dared — lightning for speed, fire for force, darkness to blur his strikes, ice to control space, blood to pull at the Saint’s stamina, divine to cut through even the smallest hesitation.
Every swing was paired with another. Every feint became an attack before it could be read. The courtyard trembled under their movements, flagstones cracking, walls shaking.
The Saint blocked, but he was no longer untouched.
A graze across his arm.
A cut along his side.
Small, shallow victories, but they fed Lindarion’s fury.
He drove forward, refusing to give space, his blade a blur of colors — silver-white, red, violet, gold — each affinity flashing and fading in rapid succession.
Then came the opening.
A moment where the Saint’s blade was angled just wrong, where his stance shifted half a step too far to the side.
Lindarion lunged, pouring everything into the strike.
A roar tore from his throat.
The ground split under the pressure.
The Saint had caught the strike not with force, but with precision, his blade sliding against Zerathis at an angle so perfect the impact bled away into nothing.
The parry transitioned into a step forward.
Lindarion’s guard dropped for half a heartbeat.
It was all the Saint needed.
The first cut sliced into his shoulder, severing his momentum.
The second drove into his ribs, forcing him to twist away.
The third came low, sweeping his legs out from under him.
Before Lindarion could hit the ground, a boot slammed into his chest, sending him skidding across the shattered courtyard.
Pain flared in every nerve. His breath caught in his throat. Zerathis clattered out of reach.
The Saint didn’t advance immediately. He let Lindarion push himself to one knee, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, before walking forward with measured steps.
"You’ve improved," the Saint said, voice as calm as if they’d been sparring. "But power without control is nothing."
Lindarion tried to stand, only for the Saint to be on him in an instant.
A single upward slash sent Zerathis spinning into the air, the follow-up strike smashing the flat of the blade against Lindarion’s side.
Air burst from his lungs. His knees hit stone.
The Saint caught Zerathis as it fell, weighed it in his hand, then tossed it to land in front of Lindarion.
"This is mercy," he said. "Next time, I won’t give it."
Then he turned, leaving Lindarion kneeling in the wreckage, the crowd’s whispers pressing in from all sides.
Lindarion’s vision swam. His mana reserves were in shreds. His body trembled under the strain. Every instinct screamed to rise and try again, but reason told him there would be no ’again’ today.
The Saint’s figure vanished into the estate gates.
The guards closed them.
And Lindarion was left in the courtyard, bloodied, furious, and alive, though he wasn’t sure if that was a victory or an insult.
He reached for Zerathis. His grip was weak, but the blade pulsed faintly in response, almost like a heartbeat.
’Next time’, he swore silently, staggering to his feet. ’Next time I will not fall.’