The clash of steel echoed through the battlefield as Saya spun low, her black katana carving through the air in a deadly arc. Sparks flew as Lily barely managed to parry the strike, sliding back several feet. Her boots skidded through the dirt, the force of Saya's blade overwhelming despite her defensive stance.
Nearby, the boy coughed dust, bruised from the earlier exchange. He rushed back into the fray without hesitation, sword raised. Saya didn't miss a beat. She twisted her body mid-slash, sidestepped his incoming blow, and delivered a brutal knee to his side. He gasped, stumbling, but kept his grip.
Their coordination was tight—Lily blocked, the boy countered—but Saya danced between them like a ghost cloaked in speed. Every swing of her katana had weight and intention. It wasn't wild or reckless; it was honed, sharp, and fast—too fast for them to fully react.
Lily attempted to regain control. She locked blades with Saya, hoping to halt her rhythm. For a heartbeat, their swords pressed against each other, strength against strength. But Saya wasn't interested in contests of might. She ducked under, twisted, and slammed her elbow into Lily's ribs. The woman reeled, breathless, and before she could react, Saya launched a spinning heel-kick directly into her sternum, sending her crashing into the boy.
The two collided and fell in a tangled heap.
Saya's breathing was steady. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, but her eyes were cold—focused. She didn't allow them time to regroup. As Lily pushed herself up, Saya was already in the air. Her katana came down in a cleaving arc—Lily blocked instinctively, but her stance was off. The shock traveled through her arms like a quake, and Saya used the opening to whip her leg around and land a crushing kick to Lily's jaw. Blood sprayed as the woman collapsed again.
The boy shouted and charged, aiming a wide, heavy slash meant to decapitate. Saya bent backward at an impossible angle, the blade singing past her nose. She flowed with the motion, caught her balance, and delivered a lightning-fast slash across his chestplate—not deep enough to cut, but enough to stagger.
Another kick followed—this one low, to his shin. He buckled. Saya slammed the hilt of her sword into his gut and finished with an upward knee strike that sent him sprawling.
They were skilled, no doubt. Their technique, discipline, and strength were formidable. But Saya was a storm—unrelenting, unpredictable. Every strike was paired with a kick, every block followed by a movement to reposition, to disrupt, to dominate.
Lily stood again, lip bloodied, expression grim. The boy forced himself to rise beside her, panting. Both bruised, battered, and cautious.
Saya's blade gleamed black in the dying light as she pointed it toward them. Her clothes were torn at the shoulders, scratches visible along her sides, but her stance remained firm—unshaken.
The three locked eyes once more. Blood had been spilled, bones rattled, but none were done yet.
The dust swirled around them in a choking cloud. Saya's katana gleamed in her hand, blood and dirt flecked across its edge. Lily wiped her mouth, tasting the iron of her own blood. The boy clenched his teeth, one hand on his side. Both of them were hurting—but something in their expressions changed.
Then Lily whispered something—words that Saya couldn't hear—and the faint outline of crimson runes flared across her blade.
The boy followed suit, muttering a chant beneath his breath. A pale blue shimmer coated his sword like frost. Both swords began to pulse with energy—alive, hungry.
Saya narrowed her eyes.
Lily moved first.
Her sword erupted with phantom flames—not real fire, but something spectral, something ghostlike. As she dashed toward Saya, each of her swings left behind fiery afterimages that lingered mid-air, flickering like haunted memories. Saya ducked, weaved, but one of the phantoms burst beside her shoulder, sending a shockwave of searing pain across her upper back.
She hissed and leapt back, only for the boy to dash in, his sword glowing a cold blue.
His blade moved in silence, but every strike carried freezing pulses. Saya blocked, but the moment her katana clashed against his, a frost burst erupted along her weapon, ice creeping up her hilt and slowing her grip. Her reaction dulled. He capitalized, pressing forward, not to wound—but to overwhelm.
Saya twisted and kicked the boy in the ribs—again—but it had lost some of its edge. Her back burned. Her limbs were slower. And the two were fighting with magic-enhanced fury, synchronized now.
Lily came from the side. Her blade swept low, igniting another phantom burst that Saya narrowly evaded. She flipped backward, only to find the boy mid-air—coming down on her with a heavy, freezing overhead strike. She blocked, but the impact cracked the ground beneath her.
She staggered, knees threatening to buckle.
The pressure was mounting.
But she refused to fall.
With a roar, Saya surged forward. Her katana spun in a wide arc, its sheer speed forcing Lily to step back. Saya turned that momentum into a dash, shoulder-checking the boy before he could react. He stumbled—and Saya struck. A clean hit to his temple with the back of her hilt.
He dropped to one knee, dazed.
But Lily was there.
A phantom burst exploded beneath Saya's feet—sending her flying. She slammed into the ground, rolling, breath knocked from her lungs. Her grip on the katana loosened, but she forced herself to hold on.
Lily stood now, breathing heavily, the phantoms around her blade flickering erratically. Her mana was draining fast. The boy struggled to rise, eyes unfocused. Both were bruised, scratched, bloodied—but so was Saya.
She pushed herself up, swaying slightly.
Crimson dripped from her forehead. Frost still clung to her left arm. Her shoulders ached from the blast. But her eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—remained locked on them. Steady.
A single wind blew between them, ruffling hair and cloaks.
Three warriors.
Three swords.
One storm.
They stared across the clearing at each other—wounded, exhausted, but not broken.
"You kids have really done it now. I never thought a bunch of mere brats would push me this far... but fine. In the end, you'll only have yourselves to blame for your downfall."
And at that very moment, Saya's left hand began to move—slow, deliberate—toward the white katana.
She unsheathed it with care.
The blade was pure, gleaming white. From its elegant hilt to the razor-sharp edge, it was the perfect contrast to her black katana—radiant, almost ethereal. Where the black blade whispered of death, this one glowed with solemn grace. It was not just a weapon…
It was a warning.