Sparks burst and scattered with each clash of steel—brief, hot flashes that flickered between the trees like fireflies caught in a storm. The sound of metal striking metal rang out sharply through the dense jungle, echoing off twisted roots and thick trunks. Each impact was sudden, crisp, and so quick it felt more like an electrical snap than a proper collision.
The elven teens struggled to follow. Even with their excellent vision, they caught only fragments—flashes of silver, a blur of dark hair, the glint of purple eyes, a glimpse of motion too fast to anchor in their minds. Weeping Phantom was relentless, her blade dancing with deadly precision. She came at Winter not just from the front but from angles that should have been impossible in such terrain. She moved low and suddenly rose high, springing off the broad sides of tree trunks with inhuman grace. Her feet barely made a sound on bark or vine. Obsidian hair snapped behind her like a trailing ribbon, and those eerie violet eyes narrowed every time she slashed down, gleaming with thrill and focus.
She didn't just attack—she flowed. Her momentum never stalled. Her footwork was liquid and unpredictable, and not once did she repeat a sequence. There was no rhythm to fall into, no pattern to memorize. One moment she spun wide to flank, the next she lunged from above, rebounding off a branch like a thrown dagger. It was clear that her prowess with the blade wasn't something learned through repetition alone—it was raw, innate brilliance. Her swordplay had that haunting clarity only seen in true prodigies, the kind born to wield a weapon the way others breathed.
And yet—she hadn't broken through.
Winter stood his ground, his spear flashing with every parry and redirection. He moved with a quiet, deliberate sharpness. Where Weeping Phantom was fluid and wild, Winter was exacting. His footwork wasn't fancy—just purposeful. He kept his back away from trees, stayed out of tight pockets of growth, always aware of where his spear could move without interference. Not once did his weapon scrape against bark. Not once did he misjudge his distance. Every block met her strikes cleanly, turning aside blade after blade without wasting motion.
He didn't dodge.
He didn't need to.
It wasn't instinctual brilliance guiding him—it was refined skill, carved into his muscles by years of unglamorous repetition. He moved only as much as he needed to. No wasted swings, no flourishes. His arms didn't jerk, and his shoulders stayed level. He let the weight of the spear work for him, pivoting around its haft like a craftsman working with tools he knew by heart. He didn't chase an opening—he watched, waited, measured.
To an outsider, it might seem evenly matched—one a tempest of aggression, the other a wall of unbreakable defense.
But anyone truly trained would see otherwise.
Weeping Phantom was pushing him back. Every blow demanded a new angle, every clash nudged him half a step, forced a minor readjustment.
But someone with true mastery of battle would notice something far subtler beneath the fury: despite the pressure, despite the aggression, it was Winter who was in control.
"You're not bad," Winter said, his tone calm and casual as his spear moved like a silver blur, intercepting Weeping Phantom's flurry of attacks with precise, snapping parries. Each clash sent sharp cracks echoing through the jungle, too quick for most beings to even process. Their exchange had become a whirlwind of speed and control—movements that defied nature itself.
"But you're no Bram," he added, just as their weapons locked again.
She pushed hard, gritting her teeth behind her smirk, trying to drive him back with both arms. Her sword trembled slightly in her grip, and though she masked it well, her breathing had grown shallow, erratic. Meanwhile, Winter—using only one arm—held her in place with ease. His expression hadn't shifted, and his stance remained firm, almost relaxed.
"Tch, don't compare me to a mere human," she spat, clicking her tongue with frustration. Then, with a burst of movement, she drew her sword back and unleashed a flurry so fast the sounds of impact came after the strikes themselves, trailing in a delayed chorus of ringing metal.
"Besides," she added, grinning between rapid strikes, "don't you know he's not even real?"
Winter's eyes narrowed, unimpressed. His spear moved like an extension of his will, parrying every blow—never rushing, never faltering.
"I think I know what you are now," he said, speaking between parries. "A nephilim—a half-demon, right?"
Weeping Phantom scoffed mid-strike. "Yeah? I am. So what?"
She twisted suddenly, spinning around him in a tight arc and lashing out again with a fresh series of slashes. They were faster, wilder—each one aimed to break his guard.
All of them failed.
Winter blocked every strike.
"I just wanted to confirm it," he said evenly, pivoting his weight, "so I'd know whether I should kill you or not."
Then, for the first time, he attacked.
Weeping Phantom came down with a vicious overhead slash—but Winter stepped into it. He swung his spear upward with a sudden roar of force, and the moment their weapons collided, her sword shattered into gleaming fragments. The impact created a shockwave so violent it parted the clouds directly overhead, splitting the sky open with a hiss of disturbed air pressure. The jungle fell silent. Not a leaf stirred. Even the birds and insects seemed stunned into stillness.
Weeping Phantom fell to her knees.
Her violet eyes trembled as she stared up at him, her chest heaving. Her body shook, not from pain—but from fear. The way she looked at him now was no longer playful or mocking. It was the look of someone who'd just realized how close to death they truly were.
"Don't... I don't want to—" she stammered, choking on the words as Winter raised his spear again.
She flinched, shut her eyes.
But nothing happened.
She opened one eye slowly, just in time to see Winter sliding his spear back onto his back.
"I was putting my spear away," he said, voice light. "Why are you scared?"
She blinked up at him, stunned. "You're... not going to kill me?"
Winter smirked down at her. "Nope," he said, voice full of amused cruelty, "but you'll probably wish I did."
He turned to the elves, who still stood frozen in disbelief.
"Hey kids! Grab some vines! I got myself a new prisoner!" he called, before glancing down at Weeping Phantom again, an utterly diabolical, shit-eating grin stretching across his face.