Location: Highland Pass – Western Ridge of Rhygross Island
The wind screamed louder the higher they climbed.
The path to the summit narrowed until the stones beneath their boots threatened to betray them with each step. Mist crawled up from the cliffside like ghostly fingers.
Shanks stopped. "We're being herded."
Ankit nodded. His hand had been resting on his hilts for several minutes now.
"There," he whispered.
Across the ridge—standing as still as a statue—was a figure cloaked in gray. His face was obscured by a broken mask of bone, carved from the skull of a sea-beast. Twin blades hung at his hips.
Mace instinctively raised his rifle.
"Don't," the figure spoke. "This isn't for you."
His voice was gravel wrapped in silk. Cold and calm.
His eyes locked onto Ankit.
"You. The one who swings twin swords but walks like a student."
Ankit's jaw tensed. "And you are?"
The figure drew his blades—polished, curved, not unlike Ankit's. But older. Used. Each one bore a notch, and the way he moved with them…
He didn't draw them. He woke them.
"I am called many things," the man said. "But if you seek the truth of the blade, then you must first survive my rhythm."
Duel Plateau – Seconds Before the Clash
Shanks stepped back. No grin this time.
Mace muttered, "Should we stop this?"
Shanks shook his head. "No. This is the kind of storm Ankit needs to walk through himself."
Ankit took his stance. Both swords unsheathed. Feet low. Breathing steady.
[System Prompt:
Duel Challenge Initiated
"Ghost Duelist" – Rank Unknown
Recommendation: Retreat
Bonus Unlock: Sword Form Insight +0.5% on Victory]
He didn't flinch.
The duelist's first movement was not a charge.
It was a side-step. A pivot. Then an upper feint that shifted instantly into a spinning heel slash.
Steel met steel.
Ankit parried—barely. His foot slid a little too far. His left blade trembled under pressure.
Another strike came low, aimed for his knee. He blocked again, but the ghost duelist was already behind him, twin blades slicing like ribbons through the air.
Ankit ducked, rolled, slashed back.
The clash rang across the ridge like thunder.
Mid-Fight – Ten Minutes Later
Sweat poured down Ankit's brow. His breathing grew heavier.
The Ghost Duelist showed no signs of fatigue. His expression unreadable.
"You swing like a man chasing power," the duelist said coldly, deflecting another of Ankit's cross strikes with a single flick. "But you hesitate. You doubt."
"I don't."
"You do," the duelist said, stepping into Ankit's guard and cutting across his shoulder.
Blood sprayed.
Ankit stumbled back.
"You think swords are tools," the man continued. "But a true swordsman—" He slammed both hilts together, creating a deafening clang "—fights with conviction, not calculation."
Ankit's system chimed again.
[Proficiency Feedback:
Dual Sword Style – Imbalance Detected.
Recommend Adjusted Footwork and Anchor Timing.]
He grit his teeth.
"Then I'll learn. Now."
The Shift
The next time the duelist came in, Ankit didn't backpedal.
He advanced.
He dropped his left sword just slightly—deliberate—catching the descending strike and locking it against his crossguard.
Then twisted.
The bone mask cracked as Ankit's elbow slammed into the duelist's face.
For a moment, the rhythm shifted.
He pressed forward—quick slashes, not for damage, but for control. He kept his steps small. He mirrored the duelist's rotations. He didn't overpower—he outread.
The man's blade scraped along Ankit's forearm—but not deep.
This time, Ankit didn't stumble.
He stepped in again—and both swords met at the throat of the masked man.
Breathing heavy. Muscles trembling.
But victorious.
After the Duel
The masked man took one step back—and bowed.
"Passable."
Then turned and walked toward the mountain's edge.
"You're not gonna finish the fight?" Ankit asked.
"I already did. The fight was never about winning. It was about whether you'd learn mid-battle… or die clinging to pride."
He looked back once.
"If you survive long enough, we'll meet again."
With that, the Ghost Duelist stepped off the cliff—and vanished.
No splash.
No scream.
Just... silence.
Return to Camp – That Night
Mace patched Ankit's shoulder. Shanks said nothing for a while.
Then: "You're better."
Ankit didn't reply. He stared at his own reflection in a shallow puddle. Bloodied. Bruised. But... stronger.
He didn't win because of the system.
He won because he adapted.
And somewhere, hidden beneath layers of code and data, the system approved.
[Proficiency Update:
Dual Sword Style – Level 2 Unlocked
Passive Trait Gained: Flow Reading (Minor)]
End of Chapter 10 – The Mark of the Ghost Duelist
Next: Chapter 11 – "Smoke at Dawn"