The sky was gray, stretched thin like old fabric. The wind howled past the cliff's edge, rattling the trees and shaking the broken earth beneath our feet. Far below, the ocean roared—waves smashing against jagged rocks, like it sensed what was coming.
Ren stood beside me. His wooden sword rested at his side, muscles tense. I could hear his breathing. Measured. Focused. But he was nervous. So was I.
Across from us, Sylvia stood alone. Her black hair swayed with the wind, and her aura spilled out in a way that made it hard to breathe. Heavy. Cold. Controlled.
"You two really teamed up," she said softly. Her voice held no anger—just something quiet. Something tired.
"I don't care what you're hiding," I said, tightening my grip on the wooden hilt. "But I'll break past it if I have to."
Sylvia didn't respond.
She vanished.
I ducked—barely. Her foot passed where my head had been, the air splitting with the force. Ren stepped in, blade swinging in a wide arc.
The clash sounded dull—wood against wood—but the force was real. Ren was flung back, rolling to his feet.
She was toying with us.
I surged forward, letting my stance flow into the rhythm I'd practiced.
"1st Art: Sorrow's Dance," I murmured.
My body moved lighter, faster. I spun, pushing off the ground and swinging my wooden blade in a clean, fluid arc aimed at her ribs.
She turned—just slightly—and blocked it with the flat of her own wooden sword.
"Still stiff," she muttered.
She slammed her elbow into my stomach.
I hit the ground hard, pain flashing through my back.
Ren didn't wait. He charged, his movements sharp. Wild. Unpredictable. His twin wooden swords struck at her from different angles.
Sylvia deflected both—barely moving her feet.
She swept his legs.
He flipped back, grunting as he landed in a crouch.
My fingers twitched against the dirt. I rose again, breathing shallow.
She's holding back. Just like always.
We moved together this time.
Ren attacked high—I struck low.
Sylvia twisted. Her sword blocked Ren's swing, and her knee came for my head.
I ducked, sliding under it, twisting, swinging upward.
She stepped back.
Our blades missed.
But just barely.
We were close.
Too close.
She knocked Ren back again. His wooden sword cracked from the impact.
Then she turned to me.
"You're forcing it," she said, eyes narrowing. "You want answers, but you're not ready for them."
She struck—and I blocked—barely.
My arms ached.
My legs shook.
But I couldn't stop.
Ren stood, coughing.
"This is pointless," he muttered. "We can't win like this."
I looked at my blade. My hands. The tremble in them.
The flame inside me was stirring—still chaotic, wild. Not yet ready.
But if I didn't do something—now—we'd lose.
I breathed in.
And remembered the rhythm.
The dance wasn't force.
It wasn't speed.
It was harmony.
I moved.
My feet flowed.
My blade hummed.
My aura synced with each motion.
The Dance Rhymed.
Black flame bloomed from me—not in chaos—but in rhythm.
"1st Art: Sorrow's Dance — Full Bloom."
Sylvia blinked.
Then I was gone.
My blade cut through air—and found her side. The flame burned, controlled and alive.
Ren moved in sync.
His broken sword became part of the rhythm.
He swept low—I struck high.
Sylvia's defense cracked.
She spun—but slower now.
I saw her face—focused. Serious. For the first time… pushed.
We didn't let up.
Each swing flowed from the last.
We became one rhythm.
Two blades, one beat.
Final strike—crossed slashes, burning black trails into the air.
She fell back.
Knelt down.
Breathing.
Her black hair clung to her face.
A thin line of blood ran down her cheek.
She smiled—not in mockery.
In respect.
"That…" she whispered, "was beautiful."