The corridor leading to the changing rooms was quiet—blessedly so.
Astron stepped through the mana-scanned threshold, the door sealing behind him with a soft hiss. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance at the other lockers, most of which were unoccupied. His fingers moved automatically—cloak undone, gear stored in dimensional space, tunic peeled off with clinical efficiency. One by one, the layers came away until only the low hum of cooling enchantments filled the space.
But his mind wasn’t here.
It was still on the platform.
On the fight.
On her.
Julia Middleton.
He exhaled slowly, the faint warmth of exertion still clinging to his skin.
She’s gotten better.
The illusion work had surprised him—not because of the concept itself, but because of the execution. It wasn’t cast like traditional illusion spells. It wasn’t projected with mana tags or visual refraction techniques.
It was built directly into her swordplay.
Woven.
A phantom edge layered into her movements—not artificial, but natural. Learned. Crafted.
That kind of adaptation didn’t come from tutors or drills. It came from desire. From trial. From frustration.
Astron folded the inner layer of his tunic, eyes narrowing slightly.
She’s evolving.
And not just physically.
To be frank, her swordsmanship had always leaned on brute dominance. Speed, power, bloodline-enhanced ferocity. The [White Tiger] style thrived on pressure—outpacing, outmuscling, outlasting. It wasn’t built for subtlety. It didn’t need it.
But today?
Today, her rhythm changed. Her body slowed. Her instincts remained.
And that was what impressed him.
To fight like that—without her usual advantage—and still push that far…
That’s the mark of a main cast.
He sat down on the bench near the far end of the room, running a towel across his arms, then the back of his neck.
Yes, he could have won.
If he’d revealed more, forced the tempo, used the deeper rhythms he’d crafted in silence and solitude…
The probability of victory was around 60 percent.
Not overwhelming. Not certain. But in his favor.
Still, he didn’t.
Because this wasn’t that kind of fight.
It wasn’t about winning.
It was about seeing.
How far she’s come. How far she can go.
And the answer was clear.
She has that factor.
The same intangible quality Ethan carried—the irrationality that defied statistics. The raw spike of breakthrough potential that came not from calculation, but from instinct, pressure, desperation.
A sudden leap.
A moment of evolution.
The kind of moment that renders predictions meaningless.
That’s what made them protagonists.
Not power.
But possibility.
Astron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the towel draped loosely between his hands.
And Julia… she was dangerous not because she was stronger than him.
But because she could become stronger in the middle of the fight.
Of course, that itself wasn’t a bad thing.
Astron’s gaze lowered, hands tightening slightly around the towel.
Growth like Julia’s… isn’t dangerous to me. Not yet. Not in the way that matters.
But still—
There are others.
His thoughts drifted—unbidden, but inevitable.
Lucas.
A different kind of threat. Subtle, intelligent, built not on physical power but mental precision and rhythmic deception. His blade was not fast—it was clever. His strength came from the structure of his intent, the design behind every illusion he wove into motion.
And then… there’s that person.
Astron didn’t linger on the name. He didn’t need to. Just the silhouette—distant, cold, wrapped in too many secrets—was enough to send a familiar chill down his spine.
I can’t reveal too much.
Not now. Not yet.
The time for my efforts to bear fruit is approaching. Every move must be measured.
He exhaled, leaning back against the cool metal wall. Silence enveloped the changing room—sharp in its contrast to the echo of clashing steel still playing in his thoughts.
But just because he hadn’t fought with everything—
Didn’t mean he had gained nothing.
On the contrary.
I’ve learned a lot.
More than he expected.
He had never fought a swordsman like Julia before—not at that level. The others he had faced were either too raw or too predictable, relying on either brute strength or textbook technique. But Julia’s fighting style?
It moved.
Her sword wasn’t just a weapon—it was an extension of her rhythm. Aggressive. Flexible. Disruptive.
It pushed him.
And it made me see the cracks in my own dagger form.
Small details—timing on his reverse grip parry, the slight hesitation in transition from block to disengage, how his footwork tilted out of alignment when responding to high feints layered with illusions.
That slide cost me tempo.
That pivot gave her an angle.
They were things he would’ve missed in a standard match.
But against someone like her? Someone evolving mid-fight?
He couldn’t afford to.
It’s experience I needed.
Real experience.
He mostly trained his form in silence. Honed the [Lethal Arsenal Ascendancy] through repetition, dissection, and focused isolation. But today?
He felt it shift.
Subtle, but present.
That class—it didn’t just grow through victory. It grew through adaptation. And adaptation meant testing every weapon, every stance, every rhythm… against something alive.
Understanding swords is a critical layer for improving [Weapon Master].
His class wasn’t just a title. It was a philosophy. A demand. To know not just how to wield weapons—but how to understand them. Where they sang. Where they cracked.
And Julia’s blade had spoken loudly.
He’d fought back with daggers, yes—but in that clash, he saw what a proper blade could do when layered with illusion, instinct, and ferocity.
Which led to the next realization.
The illusion technique she used…
Astron’s fingers traced lightly over his forearm—where one of her ghost strikes had brushed. No damage. But he remembered the shape of it. The rhythm.
It was good.
Not flawless. Not deep enough to fool advanced sensory types. But good.
He’d trained under Reina. One of the best. His [Eyes] had been honed specifically to dismantle visual deception, mana irregularity, and suggestion patterns.
So yes—he saw through them.
Clearly.
But even so—
He could judge their level.
Julia’s illusions weren’t cast—they were integrated. That’s what made them special.
She was touching on the same foundation Lucas had mastered. But her approach was rawer. Wilder. Less structured.
Which made it harder to predict.
Chaos layered in discipline.
Astron closed his eyes briefly, filing the sensation away. The blur of her phantom cuts. The delay in her breathing when shifting from illusioned stance to real attack. The slight recoil when he let an illusion pass through him.
It was all usable data.
He stood slowly, letting the towel fall onto the bench.
No damage.
No wounds.
But the fight had left its mark.
Not on his body.
On his path.
His understanding of his class, his weapon rhythm, and even illusion dynamics had all moved forward—just a little.
And that?
That was worth more than any win.
And of course, there was one more thing.
The way Julia had fought.
Not just the illusion layering, not just the pressure—but the core of it. The raw, pulsing essence of the Middleton Sword Style.
It wasn’t just a set of techniques.
It was a language.
Heavy steps. Forward aggression. Relentless tempo. It didn’t give space—it devoured it. It wasn’t elegant, not in the traditional sense. But there was a clarity to it. A rhythm that came not from calculation, but from instinct honed through tradition. Through inheritance. Through bloodline.
Being subjected to it firsthand…
That was a new experience entirely.
He had studied the style in theory. Watched recorded duels. Broken down footage of Julia’s matches, even sparring sessions from her older cousins, the ones already graduated. But feeling it—responding to it in real-time, measuring his daggers against its weight—
That was different.
That was invaluable.
Of course, he couldn’t just learn it now. Not instantly. Not like he’d mastered other simpler forms. The Middleton sword wasn’t a style you replicated—it was something that came from within.
But…
There were some pointers.
A few anchor points of structure. Muscle tensing patterns. Frame pivots. The way she used the diagonal weight transfer when chaining the Stripes.
Small, clean data.
Enough to build something from. Eventually.
‘In the future, if I have the chance…’
He pulled on the last layer of his uniform, buttoned it quietly.
‘I wouldn’t mind sparring with her again.’
Not for a mission. Not for evaluation.
Just to see what came of it. What he could learn. What he could offer in return.
That would be quite nice.
Because just like Julia—
He wasn’t satisfied either.
Not with that fight. Not with the result. Not with what he’d shown, or what he’d seen.
There was more. For both of them.
Astron stepped toward the exit, boots echoing softly against the polished floor.
And in the back of his mind—
The possibility lingered.
Next time.
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