I gaze from the rooftop over the field of the unfinished stadium. My interest isn't piqued by the workers, their actions, or the construction equipment. Instead, my eyes are riveted on three silhouettes that stand still at the center, brandishing ethereal weapons.

I listen.

"You are like children!" There's a smirk in Crixus' voice; I can discern it even from this elevation. "Who runs around like that, on the roofs, in plain sight?!"

Dobrynya and Baenre remain silent, only clutching their palms tighter.

"You are so predictable!" The Myrmillon's helmet swivels. "This isn't a bad spot. But-but!! You shouldn't try to flee. You won't manage! You have three paths. First, we relocate to a secluded spot, where we engage in combat. After you lose, I'll ensure no one nears your bodies and can't identify you until you awaken. The second option: you decline, and I initiate the fight here. Regrettably, in this case, I can't guarantee your anonymity. And the third one, you are acquainted with the Knight named Maestro, and inform me of his whereabouts. I myself doubt such a possibility, but who knows!" He chortles outright.

"Why?" Baenre questions through clenched teeth.

"You are feeble. Everyone in this town is a weakling." Crixus' voice brims with irritation. "Projection isn't a cure-all! Raigs must evolve and advance! BKDW, open Break Knights, la-la-la... Nonsense! Empty words! There's not a single true warrior in all of Novilter!"

"Maestro..." Dobrynya murmurs softly.

"Indeed." The third-level raig agrees. "Except him! And he's hiding from me! But worry not, I'll locate him. I'll demonstrate to this old man that I'm superior!"

"Actually... Maestro isn't hiding." Dobrynya nearly spills.

"Wow! We have an admirer of the old man here!" Crixus feigns delight. "Enough chatter, children. Which option do you opt for?"

I plunge head-first and land with a roll.

"The choice is mine." My words drop like stones.

"Wha..." Crixus is genuinely taken aback by my appearance, whereas the Padawans, contrarily, exhale in unison with relief.

"Were you seeking me?" I signal to the apprentices to retreat. "Consider that you found me." I step forward. "Why so glum?" I also flash a derisive grin, and with no helmet obstructing my face, it's far more noticeable. "Unhappy? After all that commotion, all that ruckus..." I motion to the Padawans, "stay out of this!"

"You irritate me to no end!"

With this outcry, his Gross Messer sword springs from its scabbard. Sliding, altering course, another Sliding.

Strike.

Another.

Triple combo.

Shift in attack elevation, feint, feint, a new assault.

All this is thwarted by the unassailable blade of "Purity" in my palm.

"Is that the best you've got?" I provocatively refrain from unsheathing "Word."

"Fight with me!"

The Gross Messer weaves a dance of slicing strikes along irregular trajectories and surprising attacks from seemingly impossible positions.

The incensed raig has accumulated quite a bit of knowledge over the past month.

Indeed, quite a bit.

But he falls so far behind on this path...

If one were to draw a comparison, he has grown by the span of a hand, and I have simultaneously shot up by two heads.

There's simply no comparison.

And a one-level difference in Power doesn't make up for this skill chasm.

Strike, rebound. Somersault, rotational assault. Almost all of it misses due to my simple but timely movements. Anything that does come close is neutralized by "Purity."

He is good!

Truly.

With one wakizashi, I can't reach him. He adeptly leverages the disparity in blade length and breadth. However, I'm not intent on attacking him.

I was right when we first crossed paths. He was schooled in blade usage. The weapon was likely different: double-edged, straight. I can infer this from his technique and distinguishing movements.

His style is a folk dance. Mine is an academic one.

Hopak versus bolero.

The Gross Messer howls, moans, screeches, unable to so much as graze me. Its owner growls, gritting his teeth.

"Attack!" He hollers.

"Don't feel like it." I shrug my shoulders, evading the subsequent combo.

"Attack!" Crixus bellows furiously.

"You're amusing." Leap, semicircle, dodge, Sliding, block.

The hefty sword hunts for openings, It lunges tirelessly.

"Don't toy with me!"

"Pf-f-f-f..." I disregard his outbursts.

I squat, dodging a broad slash. Break the distance, moving clear of the descending blade. Slide back from a swift thrust. Block, circle, close in. Strike with "Purity," feinting to keep him on edge.

I still can't pinpoint what's amiss with his technique. On one hand, it's proficient; on the other, it's obviously defective. The harder he strives, the more this inadequacy and lack of polish come to light.

"I've never slain other raigs." Having broken the distance, Crixus alters his stance. "You'll be the first, old man!"

Such a flurry of attacks — I must admit, I'm impressed. Had he been with me in Orpheidos during the Breakthrough, skeletons would have tumbled in heaps, akin to corn stalks before the scythe of a seasoned farmer. Alas, he would have promptly perished at the hands of the boatswain, let alone the captain. He is far too uncontrolled, impulsive, and aggressive.

I must tread carefully and not let my guard down. He possesses a golden skill still unknown to me. Does he genuinely wish to kill me? Judging by the movements and the roar from beneath the visor, it seems likely. The thought is disconcerting. I didn't want it to reach this point.

The longer our duel persists, the clearer a realization dawns on me. I need this guy! Desperately so.

Indeed, he is overly emotional and obsessed with becoming the best, but even this can be harnessed to my advantage.

Ah! That was impressive!

A false cascade sequence transitioning to a ground-level Sliding, and immediately the Gross Messer sketches a curve from bottom to top. I should take note of this. I barely dodged with a gymnastic flip overhead. In addition, I had to parry two attacks mid-air before landing.

There it is! His legs, his entire body... and his sword-wielding arms. They seem to belong to different entities. No, it's one individual, but he moves as if the sword exists separately from the rest. Concurrently... Blast it, that's how he was instructed! He's not flawed; this was deliberately imposed on him by his anonymous mentor.

Why?

Rebound, parry, Sliding, roll.

A feigned assault, Taro's sequence, I nearly struck him, but "nearly" doesn't cut it. However, I managed to push him back; otherwise, Crixus had become far too rampant.

"Fight with your full strength!"

"You're too feeble for that."

"I'll kill you! I will kill! I will kill!"

If only his fury and energy were directed towards a peaceful path!

"You need to be retrained." I manage to voice amidst his flurry of feigned swings.

"You don't have the authority to lecture me!"

It's a pity that projections don't know fatigue. In reality, he would have worn himself out minutes ago to the point of dropping his sword.

Parry, parry, circle, Sliding.

"Why?"

My question leaves him dumbfounded. I could have impaled his neck even with a short wakizashi blade if I'd wanted to.

"What 'Why'?!"

Circle, dodge, parry, feint.

"Why not me?"

"You're too conceited, old man!"

The Gross Messer initiates a dance resembling madness more than combat.

"You know nothing about me!"

The heavy sword rends the Break, stretches... Crying out in futility.

"I'll be the best! I'll prove it!"

"So far, you're failing... A boy with weak Blood."

"A-ah-ah-ah-ah!!!"

Seems like I overstepped; that scream mirrors the roar of a lunatic. His barrage of attacks persists, ceaseless, for nearly a minute.

"Did you leave home of your own accord, or were you expelled?"

"That's none of your business, old man!" He's gasping for air, not from exhaustion, but because my words hit their mark.

Parry, Sliding, parry, circle, dodge.

"At fourteen, when you realized it, and everyone around you did too, or later?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"You. Know. Nothing. About me!!!"

His attacks have grown more frayed, spasmodic, and haphazard, which indicates I'm on the right track.

"You were trained."

"Yes!"

"Well trained."

"Yes!"

"As an heir?"

"A-ah-ah-ah!! Bastard!! I will kill you!"

I hit the nail on the head. No, this is unacceptable. This is crossing a line. You can't afford to lose control to this extent. "Purity" traces a brilliant white arc, penetrating directly under the visor. I sap a third of the headstrong raig's prana.

That explains his peculiar movements. They instructed him and imprinted the technique but neglected to develop his physique — because the abilities of shapeshifters outstrip human capabilities in many aspects. Years elapsed, and the Blood didn't assert itself — Crixus remained human. When the deadline lapsed, it became apparent to all: his Blood was weak, and he would never become a shapeshifter.

"You're talented," I start, applying pressure through words.

His reply is silence and a fresh volley of attacks. My onslaught seems to have dulled his vigor.

"I'm serious. You could be the best."

He rallies once more, forcing me into a silent defense.

"Not instantly, not in a month. It may take years."

I'm exhausted. "Word" is drawn from its scabbard.

Sliding. Carranza Pendulum. The Gross Messer is deflected, and the sword penetrates the shoulder of his projection. Another fifth of the energy from the third-level Break Knight is lost.

"I can. Make. You. The best."

A falling parry interrupts his attempted assault, and "Purity" smacks the visor with the hilt. I could've used the blade, but I need him conscious.

"You?!"

"Me!" My fresh assault lands another blow on the helmet, this time with the guard.

"Old man?"

"Your swordplay is flawed, akin to street breakdance."

"I..."

"Subpar breakdance," I clarify, puncturing his knee with "Word." Crixus can only take one more hit.

"Prove it!"

He splits! I'm suddenly attacked by two projections!

Golden Skill?

Intriguing!

Which is the duplicate, and which the original?

I adopt a defensive stance. I dance. I maintain distance. I observe.

There are no discernable differences.

It's a pity; I don't want to knock him out.

Ten seconds elapse, and one of the projections vanishes with a soft pop. Has he exhausted his energy? Yes, it appears only an emergency reserve remained — one-tenth.

"Word" retreats into its sheath, and "Purity" is stashed behind my belt.

Crixus assumes a defensive posture.

If he's that obstinate, I'll step aside; I won't coerce him. Even the wakizashi is indifferent.

"You!" I address the Padawans. "What are you waiting for? Head to the roof and practice!"

"Yes, master!" They respond with curt bows before dashing off.

"What's this?" Crixus hisses.

"What's it to you?" I respond indifferently.

The Gross Messer quivers in his grip.

"Who are they to you?"

"Students," I reply, adding, "Temporary ones."

Two projections deftly descend from the roof. I sneak a glance at the clock, ensuring no one witnesses the motion.

"Great! Almost a third better than before!" I praise the Padawans. "New round. Go!"

"Why aren't you with BKDW?"

"Why do you ask?"

The guy is talented, far more than I ever was. He could prove to be a formidable ally in any Breakthrough. But am I willing to pay that price, considering his temperament?

My question puzzles him.

"Those first-tiers are weak. Inept," he squints at the students elegantly hurdling over chaotically strewn obstacles.

"Everyone starts from scratch," I shrug.

After sending the Padawans for another round, I turn to Crixus.

"You sought me, why?"

"To fight!"

"So? You found me, you fought, what now?"

"I don't know." The Gross Messer retracts to his back, settling into a dorsal grip.

"Then I won't keep you. And don't disturb my students. I'm generally patient, but I will kill for them." Surprisingly, my jest wasn't a joke at all, as "Word" silently affirms my declaration.

"I'll find you... Later..." His voice is devoid of the prior venom.

I motion for the Padawans to keep their distance.

"Before you seek me again..." My hand traces a semicircle. "Apologize to all the raigs in the city you've managed to irk. Personally!"

"And if I don't?"

"We'll have no further discussion." There's no need for me to touch the hilt; the message is clear.

"I'll think about it, old... Master..." He forces out the title with evident struggle.

With a brief bow, Crixus Slides away. In mere seconds, he reaches the roof and vanishes from sight.

"Trainer?" Dobrynya pipes up.

"It's over. All questions can wait. New round. Go!.."

I return home with a whirlwind of emotions. On one hand, I'm heartened by the evident progress of the students. I could probably teach them the sword dance in a few more weeks. On the other hand, life's hurdles — studies, university, urgent matters — will invariably crop up. However, all these are surmountable. We can convene twice a week, and I can provide them with a foundation they can hone independently.

Then, there's Crixus... I'm unsure. I would love to have him as a student — his talent is exceptional. Simultaneously, I'm at a loss on how to tackle his disposition and psychological scars. He could either be an exceptional ally or an absolute monster. Should I attempt to rectify the situation, swaying it in my favor while assuming such responsibility?

The morning always brings wisdom. I'll contemplate it tomorrow, with a fresh mindset.

After a shower, a change of clothes, and grabbing pencils with blank sheets, I head out for a walk. Despite my inability to sketch or create a cogent storyboard, the process offers a strange mental switch. It displaces other thoughts, allowing me to reassess old problems from a fresh perspective.

Post-park, I have a light lunch in a quaint, quiet family cafe. Then, a visit to the comic book store where I pick up a few new issues.

I keep myself busy throughout the evening, clearing my mind. Thoughts of Crixus can wait until tomorrow. I've got a preliminary decision: stay out of it and observe his behavior post this new defeat. He's not entirely hopeless if he can overcome his ego, humble himself, and apologize to the Knights of Wilflaes. Conversely, if he resorts to further escalation, that's his choice. Even "Purity" wouldn't mind if I deliver a proper thrashing.

Oddly, this thought provided comfort as I retired for the night.

The alarm signals the arrival of a new day.

After washing up, warming up, and a half-hour workout, I prepare breakfast. Sitting with my plate at the computer, I browse the news...

"Terrorist attack in the heart of Wilflaes!.."

"The BKDW organization's building targeted with chemical warfare agents!.."

"The initial casualty count stands at eighteen..."

"Four Break Knights have been confirmed deceased..."

"We, the Grand Clan Eshin, claim responsibility for the night attack on BKDW. We dismiss claims of terrorism. This is merely an act of reprisal, the sacred right to vengeance bestowed upon us by the Blood! A month and a half ago, the Break Knights in Wilflaes obliterated an entire clan of our vassals. Men, women, the elderly, children, even infants were killed! We demanded the extradition of the murderers. However, we were met with silence and deceit! We acknowledge that the Break Knights are the barrier that shields our world from the Breakthroughs. But this does not grant them carte blanche to act as they please! We do not desire war. Our revenge is exacted..."

"With the consent of their families, we disclose the photos and names of the deceased..."

My gaze skims down the screen:

Photograph - Max Kraas.

Photograph - Thomas Sivorsky.

Photograph - a stranger. A determined face, bright green eyes, an eighteen-year-old lad. Andre Torrina. Red Poppy.

Photograph - a familiar female face...

My palms tighten into fists. Nails dig into my skin. My heart skips a beat.

Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!