Rocky narrowed his eyes. Sweat was starting to bead across his forehead, not from exhaustion, but from the confusion that had been gnawing at him since their first clash.
It had only been a few minutes.
That first strike he launched—strong, fast, precise—should've been enough to break any untrained opponent. Especially this man in front of him, who looked like nothing more than a servant. His hair was a mess. His clothes were plain. No armor, no family crest, no mana aura surrounding his body. Nothing that hinted at any kind of combat background.
And yet…
That man had not only withstood his attack but had avoided it cleanly. His sword had deflected the blow right at the point that killed all its momentum. His movements were raw—like someone who'd only recently been taught proper technique—but there was something else beneath them. Something that made Rocky uneasy.
Awareness. Reflex. Instinct.
Three things only born swordsmen possessed.
Rocky gritted his teeth and struck again, harder, faster, trying to crush the man's guard through sheer force. But the longer they fought, the stranger it felt.
Riven wasn't attacking wildly. He wasn't trying to overpower him. But he wasn't just defending either. His footwork was light yet deliberate, adjusting and flowing with every move. He was learning, adapting, reading every motion, every gap between Rocky's swings. Even his strikes were starting to carry growing confidence, as if his body were remembering something it once knew.
And that was what unsettled Rocky most.
The man started smiling.
A small, quiet smile, but unmistakable. The kind of smile worn by someone not only in control, but enjoying it.
"Damn it…" Rocky muttered, stepping back a few paces.
As a trained knight, he was used to winning with raw power. He had awakened his affinity—stone—granting him the strength to harden his body and amplify his attacks manyfold.
Yet he hadn't used it. Because if he did, it would mean admitting that this man's swordsmanship alone was enough to corner him.
Impossible.
How could a noble knight lose in technique to some stablehand?
Rocky inhaled deeply. His voice came lower now, less arrogant.
"What's your name? You never introduced yourself."
Riven didn't answer immediately.
He took a step back, drawing a steady breath to calm the rush of battle in his chest. His fingers adjusted around Riftmaker's hilt, his eyes never leaving the man in front of him.
Then he spoke, quiet but firm.
"Riven."
He stepped forward once, then dashed in—no hesitation, no wasted motion.
Riftmaker's blade rose from below, slicing upward in a smooth, calculated arc. Rocky barely managed to block, but a second strike followed from the side, then a quick thrust that forced him to retreat.
Now Riven pressed the attack.
His movements began to flow. The training with Ashtoria over the past few days—the balance, the precision, the rhythm—finally came together. Every motion was still rough, still flawed, but instinct filled the gaps. He advanced again and again, relentless.
And most of all, he was enjoying every second of it.
Ashtoria's voice echoed faintly in his mind: Keep your center. Read their breath. Strike where the weight shifts.
Each lesson melted into one rhythm that guided his body without thought.
Rocky grunted, deflecting one strike, then another, then a third, but he was being driven backward.
What the hell… he hissed under his breath. Impossible…
He was a knight. A noble. Gifted with stone affinity, his body tougher and stronger than any common fighter. Even without activating it, this shouldn't be happening. There was no way someone like this could push him back.
And that humiliation boiled inside him.
"Enough!" Rocky roared as Riven's next strike nearly slipped past his guard. He leapt back, putting a few meters of distance between them.
Riven stood firm, his chest rising and falling, his eyes blazing with restrained excitement.
Rocky glared—uncertain, angry.
He couldn't let this continue. Not in front of anyone. Not when he was this close to being humiliated.
He clenched his left hand over his chest. A faint vibration rippled from his body, deep and harsh, like the earth groaning beneath pressure.
Then his body began to change.
His skin hardened, darkening along his arms and shoulders, taking on a faint, stony sheen. The air thickened, heavy and oppressive.
Riven narrowed his eyes.
"What is this…?"
Rocky bent his knees, lifting his head with a cold grin.
"Playtime's over," he said. "Now you'll see why they call me Rocky the Stone Fist."
A low rumble echoed as he stepped forward, the ground trembling beneath his boots. The aura of his stone affinity enveloped him completely.
Riven felt the weight of it, a new kind of pressure.
But his face showed no fear.
Rocky growled, then suddenly threw his sword aside. The steel clanged heavily against the dirt. Without warning, he charged, moving faster than his bulk should allow.
Riven's eyes widened.
That speed didn't make sense for his size. But even through the surprise, Riven saw the opening. His gaze sharpened, his grip on Riftmaker tightening, but not with tension—with control. For a split second, instinct took over.
I can cut him.
No restraint. No hesitation. No thought of holding back. The world narrowed to a single motion—to strike, to pierce, to end it.
And for the first time, Rocky flinched.
Those eyes staring back at him weren't the eyes of a servant. Not a beginner.
They were a hunter's eyes. The eyes of someone who could kill without blinking.
His reflexes saved him. He brought up his arm—the one hardened by stone affinity—just in time. The flat of Riven's blade crashed against it and bounced off with a dull metallic clang.
"Kh—!"
Riven's eyes flickered in surprise, but before he could retreat—
Rocky's fist slammed upward like a hammer.
The blow landed square in his chest, heavy and merciless.
"Ugh—!"
The sound cracked through the air.
Riven's body shot backward, but even as pain exploded through his ribs, his reflexes forced a desperate counter. He kicked Rocky's stomach, trying to launch himself away.
Too late.
The impact had already hit.
Air burst from his lungs. Fire spread through his chest. He flew backward, slamming into the same boulder he'd trained against every morning.
The rock shuddered under the force, hairline fractures crawling across its surface.
Riven collapsed to the ground. He coughed once, twice, and a spray of blood splattered onto the grass.
The world spun. His chest burned.
But in his eyes—
The fire still hadn't gone out.