It was... hell.

The welcoming, enthusiastic tower keeper and friendly old instructor had vanished.

In his place stood a merciless butcher.

From the moment Garba dropped his act, the temperature in the chamber seemed to plummet. An icy dread settled in Kaiser’s chest, urging him to run.

He tried, of course. But it was useless—Garba was simply too fast, even for him. With a gust of wind, a sharp sting lanced across his skin, a fresh cut blooming despite his reflexive attempt to dodge.

It had worked before, didn’t it? So… how? Why had his instincts failed him?

No. Garba had lured him into it. Unleashing a feint that had been perfectly calculated, coaxing Kaiser to evade the wrong way, then striking precisely where he least expected it. The realization hit him hard: his mentor was several steps ahead, anticipating his every move.

If only he could discern feint from real strike, maybe he would have stood a chance—but it was too late for regrets.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of Garba blocking his path of escape.

The old man’s transformation was staggering. Gone was the familiar humor, the warm enthusiasm, the carefree attitude that joked around earlier. Instead, an eerily tranquil expression had settled on Garba’s face, as if his consciousness were somewhere else entirely, floating in a realm of perfect calm. His face was relaxed, his gaze distant. There was no strain, no fierce resolve—only an otherworldly serenity, a stark contrast to the tense grimace of warriors engaged in battle.

And then, almost without warning, that brief glimpse was gone as time ticked by. What happened after that... Kaiser wasn't sure himself, because his situation turned into a surreal, tranquil nightmare.

Garba seemed to dissolve into the air, his body moving like a shadow on the wind as he maneuvered with his blade. In that instant, Kaiser understood. He understood what mastery truly was—what swordsmanship looked like when refined to its absolute peak. Or rather… what it felt like. For following a master wielder like Garba, one who’d honed a style as fluid and elusive as the wind, was beyond anything Kaiser could manage at his current level.

He tried to track his mentor’s movements, eyes darting from one side to the other. But it was hopeless. All he could catch were the faintest glimpses of Garba’s passing figure before he vanished again, exploiting every blind spot with effortless precision. Another line of searing pain erupted on his arm. Then his leg. Then his shoulder. He was being cut apart piece by piece. Well, that's exaggerating it.

Windslayer’s transparent blade was nearly invisible, a shimmer of steel that blurred and flickered as it zipped around him. Kaiser raised his own sword to defend, but his blade might as well have been made of mist. Windslayer slipped past it with ghostly ease, like a breeze unbound by solidity, leaving fresh wounds with each pass.

The air itself seemed to come alive, swirling around Garba as if obeying his every movement—or perhaps Garba was moving with it, his steps in perfect sync with each shift in the atmosphere. Moving with it and creating a breeze that kept disrupting his subconscious defensive perception. Causing his reflexes to go haywire, coupled with the feints being mixed with real strikes. Feints and real strikes wove together in a deadly, indiscernible tapestry, each movement setting him up for the next cut.

Panic surged within him, twisting into a helpless awe. The overwhelming beauty of Garba’s swordsmanship was inescapable. Each step, each pivot, every swing flowed seamlessly, the seams of his robe fluttering in perfect harmony with his movements. The soft rustling of fabric became a haunting melody in Kaiser’s ears, punctuated by the quiet, relentless hum of Windslayer. Which never stopped, blurring past him in a ceaseless dance of lethal grace.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Kaiser tried to follow, tried to anticipate, but Garba’s form dissolved before his eyes, flickering like an illusion. Each attempt to defend was met with the sudden sting of failure, as Windslayer traced yet another line of pain across his skin. His foot, his leg, his arm, his cheek—one by one, fresh wounds appeared, searing pain spreading across his body. Blood began to soak his clothes, darkening in scattered crimson patches that bloomed and spread with every cut.

The onslaught was relentless. Kaiser's mind wavered, teetering between terror and awe. Garba’s mastery was too vast, too fluid, too utterly horrifying. He was helpless to resist it, his every move undone by his mentor’s unyielding skill.

And through it all, Garba’s face remained unchanged. Tranquil. Almost peaceful. Eyes half-closed, focused on something far beyond, lost in a world of serene control.

'What the hell is this?' The thought clawed at Kaiser’s mind, a single refrain echoing in his head as he struggled to comprehend the one-sided slaughter unfolding around him.

He was... utterly helpless. Despite his light armor and sword in hand, he felt naked without anything to defend himself as cuts appeared on his body. Kai urge his mind to come up with anything, anything at all to escape this one-sided torture and somehow claim victory.

He didn't want to lose.

But in the end, he lost.

Of course he did. What chance did he stand in a true exchange of swords against a master? When both fought seriously, the answer was clear—none at all.

Garba's swordsmanship was something else entirely, unlike anything he had ever seen before. Compared to this flowing, ghostly technique, the swordplay Brick had shown in the inn—the one he relatively struggled with—felt like child’s play. Even Alfred's Greatsword, capable of shaking the ground with its devastating strikes, seemed simple and mundane beside Garba's art. The closest he had seen was Zara’s feral style, honed from mastering her own body rather than any single weapon. She could wield anything at hand—dagger, axe, spear, or even her bare hands—as extensions of herself. Her combat was wild and adaptable, a beast unleashed. But Garba’s style was nothing like that. His entire being was poured into the sword, his skill refined to a level Kaiser hadn’t known was possible.

His mentor was like a wraith on the wind, his translucent blade flickering in and out of sight as he moved around Kaiser with lethal grace. Staying at his blindspots while sending elusive yet deadly strikes, an unending series of blows that hinted at the true horror of a master’s full strength. And what made it even more chilling was the ease, the absolute relaxation in Garba’s every move. Kaiser barely heard his steps, felt no tension or hesitation; it was as though his teacher floated above the ground, completely at peace in this deadly dance. Yet each strike, each passing cut, was so sharp that it felt like it could flow past him, it was clear Garba could end him with a single blow if he wanted.

And that's his mentor holding back, purposely landing only superficial cuts to teach him a lesson. Just imagining his mentor fighting seriously—a true fight to the death—sent a chill down his spine.

Kaiser was no stranger to swordsmanship. Even back on Earth, where swords were ancient relics rather than practical weapons. Therefore, he didn't expect much for its use.

However, here, in a feral world without advanced weaponry, Kai had been drawn to them by necessity and multiple reasons. It was his first weapon, coupled with the majorities influence. Furthermore, they seemed to be the most versatile option and easiest to master.

But he had never imagined swordsmanship could reach such an insane level of complexity. The sheer skill, the absolute mastery, left him speechless, helpless in the face of a true blade master. All his struggles were rendered futile as Garba's sword just kept flowing in and out of him, creating cuts that might as well be lethal, or even cause the death of him in serious confrontation.

Just how many times would he have died if Garba weren’t his mentor, but an actual enemy?

Kaiser shuddered.

He lost count.

Now, sitting obediently on the floor with his clothes stained with blood, Kaiser had truly learned his lesson. He just endured what felt like a near-butcher’s treatment. Despite Garba’s usually welcoming demeanor and boundless enthusiasm, the old man was ruthless in training, especially if pissed-off. He didn’t stop even when his student was covered in blood, relentlessly delivering precise slices across Kaiser’s skin, knowing his student would heal anyway. But still, to continue like that, leaving him in constant pain, was just cold. The lesson didn’t end until Kaiser dropped his blade. Perhaps satisfied that his student hadn’t cried out or wavered, even as his regeneration began to falter.

Little did Garba know that Kaiser had intentionally slowed his healing—anything to dull the agony that was starting to become unbearable.

Either way, Kaiser survived the ordeal. From now on, he would think twice before angering his mentor again. Or maybe not. Because, strangely enough, facing a furious master had been kind of a fun experience. He wasn’t sure whether he was entirely done with pushing his teacher’s limits.

But not right now, his traumatized mind had yet to recover and Kai had to finish the consequent punishment for his recklessness.

Kaiser sat cross-legged, struggling to focus on the scene at the center of the chamber. His expression was twisted with discomfort as he rubbed his sore eyes, trying to keep them on his “punishment."

"Why... why, of all sh*ts in existence, why do I have to watch *this*?"

In the middle of the chamber, a half-naked old man was dancing, his movements breathtakingly graceful—almost more beautiful than any famous dancer Kaiser had seen. And yet, as smooth and skilled as Garba’s form was, the scene felt deeply wrong. No one had warned him about this kind of training.

He wanted to look away, to escape the surreal wrongness of it all. But he can't, unless he wanted to repeat the bloody past without question.

So, he swallowed his nausea and forced himself to endure.

'What the heck am I even doing with my life?'

His starting to regret every life decision that leads to this point.