The knight's body jerked awake.
Eyes shot open.
Falling.
Wind screamed past him. His limbs flailed before instinct kicked in.
His heart slammed against his ribs, beating so fast it felt like it might tear through his chest. He twisted midair, forcing himself upright, trying to get his bearings—how long had he been out? Where was the battlefield? The others?
Then—he saw it.
The ground.
It was coming fast.
He gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath, and tensed every muscle in his body. He wasn't a monster-slayer like the captain. Not one of the Awakened. But he was still a knight of kaladale—stronger than most men, trained to endure the impossible.
With a shout, he shifted his weight and braced for impact.
He hit like a dropped anvil.
CRACK.
The earth split beneath him, dirt and rock flying outward as he crashed into a crater of his own making. Pain lanced through his legs, up his spine, blooming behind his eyes. He gasped—then choked on it.
Agony.
But he was alive.
Barely.
He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his leg. Something was torn. Maybe worse.
Still, he forced himself upright, panting.
He'd survived.
Somehow.
He barely had time to breathe.
Before he could even rise fully to his feet, the air shifted.
A blur.
His body moved before thought—one step back, just enough.
CLANG!
A greatsword slammed down where he'd stood a heartbeat ago, carving a scar into the crater floor.
His balance wavered, thrown off by something unnatural that followed the swing.
Cold.
His eyes narrowed behind the visor.
"It's cold…"
A second later, the wind hit.
A wave of biting, spectral frost howled past him—piercing through armor, cloth, and flesh as though none of it mattered.
"Gh—!"
A strangled growl escaped his throat as his muscles seized. Ice wormed through his bones. His vision blurred for a split second, the agony sharp and sudden—like his nerves were being flayed.
Frostbite. Real frostbite.
His knees buckled—but didn't fall. His stance had shifted the moment he sensed the threat, reflexes honed from brutal drills and years of war. It wasn't enough to block it—but it was enough to blunt the worst of it.
He gasped, chest heaving, pain rippling through his limbs.
Still standing.
But only barely.
As the frost and dust settled, the knight forced himself upright again, blade raised, senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
Every muscle tensed, but training had already taken over, feet adjusted, stance set, vision sweeping for any angle of approach. He tracked movement in his blind spots through sound and pressure alone.
That last strike hadn't been a bluff. A fraction slower, and he'd be crippled—or dead.
Whoever this is… they're not ordinary. That blow could've shattered even a fully armored Caladale Guard.
His eyes narrowed behind the visor.
This enemy… might be near the Captain's level.
His gaze swept the battlefield again—and then froze.
A figure.
Someone lay near the crater's edge.
White armor with gold trim. Ornate, but impractical. Only the chest, shoulders, and one leg were protected which seemed more ceremonial than functional. Training armor, maybe.
The man was motionless.
Was he caught in the blast? Did I land on him?
The thought barely formed before instinct screamed again.
Behind—!
He twisted, blade rising just in time to deflect a slash aimed for his spine.
CLANG!
Steel rang against steel. The strike wasn't as heavy as the first but it still jarred his arms, sent pain shooting through his shoulders. He stumbled back two steps, teeth gritted.
Then came the wind again—cold, but softer. Less brutal than before.
His brow furrowed beneath the helm.
What changed? Why's it weaker?
He dropped into a counter stance, sword drawn close, one foot forward just as the enemy stepped fully into view.
And for the first time, he saw them clearly.
What—?
The opponent wasn't what he'd imagined.
A woman.
Slender, graceful. Hair the color of moonlit frost, eyes like the blurred space between dawn and midnight.
She was… dazzling. One of the most beautiful faces he'd ever seen, like something out of a dream painted by a dying poet.
But what truly rattled him wasn't her beauty.
It was everything else.
She wielded a massive greatsword—far too large for her frame.
And her attire—
His stance tightened instinctively as she moved, giving him a clearer view.
A blue cape draped over one shoulder. A backless black bodysuit trimmed in white. Detached white sleeves. A blue tie. Gloves with azure palms. Stockings. High-heeled boots.
What in the hell is she wearing?
Her entire back was exposed. The outfit wouldn't stop a single glancing blow, much less a blade. No armor. No reinforcement. Nothing about her appearance suggested survival—much less offense.
This isn't battle gear. This is suicide.
Yet she was still coming. Calm, composed, utterly unfazed—as though this was a dance of subjugation.
The knight gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip.
She was clearly unsuited to wield a great sword.
And yet, she did.
Another strike came—a vertical arc. He parried it with practiced ease, teeth clenched.
She's mocking the weapon.
The thought irritated him more than he expected. Great swords weren't toys. They demanded sacrifice—leaving you wide open, reliant on armor, on strength, on momentum. A single misstep, and you were dead.
They weren't meant for dancers.
Her outfit alone was suicide. That exposed back. Those heels. The soft fabric clinging to her skin like she was on stage, not a battlefield.
One clean strike. That's all it'd take.
But when he stepped in to punish her next over extension—she twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding his blade. Her boots barely kissed the ground before she pivoted, sending another blow screaming toward him.
He caught it on the flat of his sword, but staggered back a step.
He scanned her movements again, eyes narrowing.
She wasn't strong enough. Her footwork was too loose. Her form, completely broken.
And her swordsmanship? It was laughable.
Predictable patterns. Clumsy feints. No real technique. No rhythm. Just raw, awkward swings—like she'd seen knights fight once and decided to improvise.
They traded blows for nearly a minute. Strike, parry. Step, reset. Over and over.
It wasn't thrilling. It wasn't even difficult. It was a dance of dull repetition, her attacks bouncing off his guard with all the grace of a trainee.
Is she analyzing me? he wondered. But if she was, she was doing a miserable job of it. Her positioning, her choice of weapon, her form—everything about her screamed amateur.
And yet…
There were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—when their blades locked and they met eye to eye. Close enough to see the cold glint behind those serene irises.
That's when the realization struck.
She thinks she can win.
She truly, undeniably believed she could defeat him.
He didn't know who she was or why she'd attacked. But it didn't matter anymore.
This needed to end.
And judging by the sudden drop in temperature, she felt the same.