Night crept into the ruins slowly, swallowing the broken stones in cold blue shade.
Arion didn't stop training until the sky had darkened completely.
His arms felt like iron rods.
His legs trembled every time he shifted his stance.
His shoulders burned from holding the rusty blade up for so long.
But he didn't stop.
Not until his body gave up before his mind did.
The memory of the dream boy's strikes kept playing in his head—clean angles, precise steps, minimal movements.
No wasted strength.
No hesitation.
Arion swung again, trying to imitate the motion.
It felt stiff. Awkward. Wrong.
He stood still for a moment, panting.
He remembered the boy's cold eyes, the way he analyzed every mistake Arion made.
The way he said—
"You cannot progress."
Arion grit his teeth.
I'll prove that wrong.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked around. The ruins were silent again. No mercenaries. No footsteps. Only the faint whistle of night wind.
He sat down against a broken pillar, sore muscles screaming. His fingers trembled as he dropped the sword beside him.
The blade pulsed faintly.
Hardly noticeable… but definitely there.
Arion stared at it for a long moment.
"What are you?" he murmured.
The sword didn't answer.
Of course it didn't.
But Arion wasn't stupid—something inside it was connected to the dream world.
And that boy.
Arion leaned his head back. Exhaustion swallowed him whole. His eyelids drooped. His breathing slowed.
He didn't even realize when sleep took him.
---
The blue world returned.
Instant.
Cold.
Silent.
No sunrise here.
No transition.
Just… existence.
Arion stood barefoot on the smooth blue floor again.
His rusted sword appeared in his hand as if it had always been there.
He took a deep breath.
This time, he didn't panic.
He looked around slowly.
The boy was there—ten paces away once more.
Same posture.
Same calm expression.
Same noble discipline.
Like the dream froze whenever Arion wasn't inside it.
The boy tilted his head.
"You returned quickly."
Arion's grip tightened.
His heartbeat raced, but he forced himself to stay composed.
"I didn't come here to lose again," Arion said.
The boy's face didn't change, but something faint—barely there—passed through his eyes. Amusement?
Or pity?
"Readiness does not equal ability," the boy said calmly.
"You still lack the foundation for a duel."
Arion raised the sword.
"Then I'll learn."
The boy raised his blade in a more formal posture this time.
Right foot slightly behind.
Left foot pointed forward.
Blade angled across his chest.
A dueling stance.
Arion swallowed hard.
He copied it—clumsily, but he tried.
The boy's eyes narrowed, analyzing.
Then he moved.
Not as fast as last time.
Not a blur.
Still sharp, but controlled—testing Arion instead of overwhelming him instantly.
Arion blocked the first slash.
Barely.
The impact rattled him, but he held firm.
The boy didn't stop.
Second strike.
Arion parried clumsily.
The boy's blade slid down his and tapped Arion's wrist lightly.
A cut would've landed there.
"Too slow," the boy said.
Arion gritted his teeth.
Third strike.
Arion stepped back just in time.
Wrong step—
His balance tilted.
The boy tapped his knee with the back of his blade.
"A predictable retreat."
Arion stepped forward instead of back for the next strike—closing distance aggressively.
The boy raised an eyebrow, almost impressed.
"Better."
Their blades clashed again.
Arion blocked wrongly—his wrists bent backwards, pain shooting through his arms.
The boy knocked the sword aside and struck Arion's ribs with the blunt side of his blade.
Arion gasped.
Pain flared.
He staggered—
—but didn't fall.
The boy stepped back exactly three paces.
"You memorized my previous movements," he said.
"But you imitate without understanding."
Arion forced air into his lungs.
"Then teach me."
The words came out harsher than he intended.
The boy didn't react emotionally.
But his stance lowered slightly.
"That is not my role."
Arion frowned.
"Then what is your role?"
The boy raised his blade again.
"To measure your worth. Nothing more."
Arion growled under his breath.
Then I'll force you to acknowledge me.
He rushed forward—sloppy, untrained, but determined.
The boy stepped aside effortlessly.
Arion missed and stumbled—
—but instead of collapsing, he twisted his foot the way the boy did last time and regained balance mid-slip.
Not perfect.
Not elegant.
But close.
The boy's eyes widened slightly.
"You learn… faster than expected."
Arion swung again, keeping his elbows tucked the way the boy positioned his own.
The blow was weaker but more controlled.
The boy blocked with zero effort—but his expression shifted for the first time.
Acknowledgment.
For two heartbeats, Arion felt hope.
Then the boy moved seriously.
Fast—clean—deadly precise.
A slash went across Arion's ribs.
Another tapped his ankle.
Another jabbed near his shoulder.
Not deep enough to maim—
but each hit marked a vital opening.
Arion stumbled backward until the boy's blade was at his throat—cold, steady, unwavering.
"Still unrefined," the boy said quietly.
"And still far too emotional. Thinking clouds your stance."
Arion clenched his jaw.
"So what? You want me to fight without fear?"
"That would be ideal."
"That's impossible."
"It is necessary."
Arion glared at him.
"Then I'll learn it."
"You are not ready."
"I'll still learn it."
The boy pressed the blade lightly against Arion's throat—
reminding him who controlled the outcome.
"You lose again."
Arion gritted his teeth.
"I know."
The boy lowered his sword.
"You will remain here until you surpass me."
Arion's breath caught.
"What do you mean—remain?"
The boy's expression stayed neutral, but his voice sharpened.
"You do not progress. You do not descend. You do not advance.
Not until I fall."
Arion felt the coldness of that rule settle into his bones.
He wasn't trapped in the ruins.
He was trapped here—
in this dream,
in this blue world,
with this boy guarding the path forward.
Arion tightened his grip.
"Then I will defeat you."
"You won't."
The boy sheathed his blade—
a motion so natural and practiced it seemed insulting to Arion's clumsy grip.
"Not yet."
The world trembled—
like someone knocking on glass.
Arion blinked.
"What is—?"
A crack split the dream.
Bright white.
Blinding.
Shattering.
The floor beneath Arion rippled like water.
The sky fractured like broken ice.
"You are waking," the boy said simply.
Arion reached forward—
"Wait—! I still—!"
But the dream broke apart before he could finish.
---
He woke with a gasp.
His vision swam.
His heart pounded.
Every muscle ached.
But something had changed.
He wasn't shaking from fear this time.
He was shaking from determination.
He stood—slowly, painfully—gripping the sword tightly.
He replayed the dream movements in his head:
The boy's footwork.
His angles.
His wrist rotations.
His breathing.
Arion inhaled.
Exhaled.
He adjusted his stance.
Not perfect.
Not even good.
But better.
He swung.
The blade didn't wobble as much.
His balance didn't collapse as easily.
Arion lowered the sword and whispered into the cold air:
"I'll beat you.
No matter how long it takes."
The sword pulsed faintly—
as if agreeing.
Or waiting.
---