The valley was a graveyard of memories, a once-thriving village now reduced to a jagged landscape of rotting timber and sun-bleached stone. Every structure was a skeleton of its former self, save for one pristine house where an old man sat on his balcony, watching the world break apart. The air was thick with the scent of ancient dust and the sharp, electric tang of steel biting into steel.
In the center of the ruins, the air screamed.
Mandevor moved like a shadow caught in a gale. His messy brown hair was damp with sweat, his brown eyes wide and hyper-focused as he wielded his black blade with terrifying precision. He parried a strike that would have cloven a lesser man in two, his simple tunic fluttering as he transitioned into a deceptive feint. With a roar of effort, he pivoted, driving his sword upward in a brutal, rising arc.
Areia didn't just move; she flowed. Clad only in her bra and usual travel pants, her alabaster skin gleamed with a thin sheen of perspiration, her striking white hair whipping around her like a silken storm. She twisted her body mid-air, the black blade missing her by a hair's breadth. She spun into a full, violent arc, her own sword cutting a shimmering blue line through the dusty air.
Mandevor leaped, but he wasn't fast enough. Areia's heavy boots caught him square in the chest while he was airborne. He managed to throw up an arm to dampen the impact, but the raw, kinetic force sent him hurtling backward, his heels digging deep furrows into the debris-strewn earth.
Areia didn't give him a second to breathe. She breached the gap in a blur of motion. Mandevor lunged, his blade tasting the air where her neck should be—but his steel met only dry timber. Areia had substituted herself for a block of wood in a flicker of high-level technique.
A shiver raced down Mandevor's spine. She was behind him.
Panting, he ducked by instinct as a lethal whistle passed over his head. He swept his leg in a wide circle, catching Areia off-balance and immediately pinning his blade toward her throat. But Areia refused to hit the dirt. She planted her hands on the rubble, her body rigid, and spun her legs in a clean, neat circle that forced Mandevor to retreat or lose his shins.
She pressed the advantage, launching herself off her hands into a triple flip, her blade coming down with the weight of a falling star. Mandevor put every ounce of strength into his guard. The pressure was so immense his knee cracked against the stone, cratering the ground beneath him.
To the old man on the balcony, the two fighters suddenly vanished—a trick of sheer speed.
CRACK!
The surrounding ruins began to spontaneously disintegrate. Decayed walls were shredded by invisible slipstreams; roof tiles were reduced to powder as the duo traded blows in a vacuum of violence. Mandevor, desperate to break her rhythm, traced a small, perfect circle in the air with his black steel and thrust forward.
An invisible ripple of force tore through the air.
Purely by instinct, Areia slid sideways, the friction of her boots sending up sparks against the stone. The ripple brushed her ear, the sonic wake tearing a hole through her white hair, sending snowy strands fluttering into the wind.
She saw it? Or was it pure instinct? Mandevor's mind raced.
Areia closed the distance in a single, predatory stride. Their blades locked, the screech of metal on metal drowning out the wind. Mandevor's arms began to tremble under her relentless onslaught. Every strike she dealt was a masterpiece of lethal geometry.
She's a master of the blade, Mandevor realized, his chest heaving as he stared into the calm intensity of her eyes. If this continues... I'm going to lose.
The air in the valley had grown heavy, thick with the smell of pulverized stone and the ozone of clashing energies. The ruins of the village were no longer just rubble; they had been ground into a fine, grey powder that swirled around the combatants' ankles like a ghostly tide.
The two fighters were locked in a rhythmic, violent dance of parries and steel-on-steel screeches. Neither could find an opening until Areia suddenly dipped her center of gravity, her white hair sweeping the dust as she delivered a fluid, serpentine low strike.
Mandevor saw the opening he had been praying for. With a guttural roar, he brought his boot down in a thunderous stomp, pinning Areia's blade against the shattered stone floor. Before she could recoil, he lashed out with a heavy, brutal kick to the flat of her steel. The weapon was ripped from her grasp, spinning through the air and clattering into the debris far behind them.
Mandevor allowed himself a brief, satisfied smirk. A disarmed swordsman was usually a defeated one.
He was wrong.
Areia didn't even glance at her fallen sword. Her purple eyes remained fixed on his throat, cold and devoid of any panic. She lunged. Mandevor moved with practiced grace, his black blade carving mean, heavy arcs through the air to catch her mid-dash. But Areia became like living silk, her body contorting by mere inches as the dark steel hissed past her skin. She danced through the vacuum of his swings, her feet barely disturbing the dust as she closed the distance.
Mandevor's brow furrowed. Most warriors falter when their steel is gone, he thought. She fights as if the sword was just a hobby.
Suddenly, Areia's hands blurred. Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack! Four lightning-fast jabs landed on his arm, striking the exact pressure points of his joints and forearm. Mandevor's nervous system short-circuited; his arm went limp, and his black sword slipped from his fingers, clattering to the earth. He leaped back in a frantic flash, his heart hammering.
She can block Qi too? The realization hit him like a physical blow. She isn't just a swordmaster—she's a walking encyclopedia of martial arts.
Mandevor made a sharp, internal gesture, forcing his energy through the blockage. With a sickening pop, his arm was restored. But Areia was already in his space.
The transition to hand-to-hand combat was seamless and savage. They traded blows in a vacuum, fists and elbows meeting with the sound of cracking timber. In a moment of desperate aggression, Mandevor reached out and snatched a handful of Areia's white hair, using the grip to yank her forward as he drove a massive fist toward her face. The blow skinned her cheek, drawing a thin line of crimson.
Areia didn't recoil. Using the very leverage of his grip on her hair, she tucked her chin and launched both her feet off the ground, swinging her entire body weight upward like a pendulum of destruction.
BLAMMM!!
Her double-foot kick connected squarely with Mandevor's nose. He stumbled backward, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of white light and searing pain. His vision blurred, his brain rattling against his skull.
Areia became a relentless whirlwind. She struck, kicked, and tore at his defenses, her movements a masterclass in anatomical destruction. Mandevor, momentarily blinded, could only throw up one arm, parrying her onslaught by the sheer memory of her rhythm.
As the fog in his mind cleared, he saw Areia lunging for his throat. He threw a desperate, massive punch. The sheer wind pressure behind the blow rippled through her hair, enough force to shatter a boulder.
Areia's poker face remained frozen. Her purple eyes stared into his soul with a cold, predatory light. She didn't fight the momentum; she followed the curve of his outstretched arm, her body performing a mid-air flip. In a heartbeat, her legs and hands clamped around his arm like a hydraulic vice.
She spun. The torque was so immense that Mandevor was ripped off his feet, his massive frame rotating through the air. He managed to follow the momentum, landing cleanly on his feet and immediately trying to slam the latched-on Areia into the jagged stone. She sensed the kill-shot and retreated, flipping backward into the air.
She's mid-air. She's open! Mandevor thought, his brown eyes narrowing. I win!
He surged forward, his hand outstretching to crush her throat the moment she touched the ground. His fingers closed around her neck—but they met nothing but air.
Areia disintegrated. Her form dissolved into a cold, blinding mist that expanded instantly, swallowing the ruins, the rubble, and Mandevor himself.
Mandevor spun around, his hand moving to his side as he realized both their blades were still lost in the dust. The silence of the village returned, heavy and suffocating.
Is she a Shinobi? he thought, his skin crawling as the mist dampened his hair. Or does she know every martial art under the sun?
The mist was no longer just a tactical screen; it was a living, breathing shroud that tasted of cold cedar and ancient dust. Mandevor stood at the center of the vortex, his messy brown hair plastered to his forehead, his brown eyes darting fruitlessly through the white wall.
I asked for this duel, he thought, a drop of sweat tracing the line of his jaw. But I didn't think I'd be fighting a ghost.
He shut his eyes, abandoning the lie of sight. His world became a symphony of decay: the groan of rotted timber, the whistle of the wind through stone, and then—the slap. A palm hitting wood. Then another.
High above, Areia was a phantom in motion. She was navigating the skeleton of the village like a primal spirit, her white hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail. She moved with an unnatural, simian fluidity—swinging from exposed rafters like monkey bars, sprinting across precarious, rotten beams with the balance of a tightrope walker, and flipping through the air with a grace that defied gravity. Each movement was a calculated vibration, designed to mask her true position.
She's coming, Mandevor braced himself. A clone first. It has to be.
A blur erupted from the fog behind him. He spun, his muscles coiling. The world slowed to a crawl. He saw Areia—or a perfect facsimile—her fist cocked back for a strike meant to shatter bone.
Clone, he decided, his instincts screaming.
At that exact microsecond, another Areia burst from the mist on his flank, closing the gap in a heartbeat. The real one! he pivoted with the speed of a snapping trap. The "fast" Areia from behind passed through him like a gust of cold air, confirming his suspicion. He engaged the solid one, his movements a blur of defensive mastery. He caught her with a sharp, jarring punch to the neck, a rib-cracking kick to the waist, and a thunderous finisher to the head.
But there was no impact of bone on bone. The "solid" girl didn't bleed; she splintered. With a hollow thud, the girl he had just dismantled turned into a weathered wooden plank.
A primal chill washed over Mandevor. They were both decoys.
He looked up.
Looming in the upper reaches of the mist, Areia appeared like a vengeful deity. Her purple eyes had taken on an ethereal, predatory glow, twin beacons of cold light cutting through the haze. Her white hair blended so perfectly into the fog that she seemed to be made of the atmosphere itself. She hung in the air for a fraction of a second, her gaze heavy with a terrifying, silent intensity that made Mandevor's heart stutter.
He tried to shift his weight, to bring up a guard, but he was a heartbeat too late.
Areia descended like a ballistic round.
BOOM!!
She slammed into the earth exactly where Mandevor had been standing. The impact was cataclysmic; the stone pavement shattered into a thousand jagged shards, a shockwave of dust and debris erupting in a vertical geyser. Mandevor barely managed to tumble clear, his body skidding across the grit as he scrambled to his feet, gasping for air.
He'd had enough of the games.
Drawing a massive breath, Mandevor channeled his Qi into his lungs and blew with the force of a hurricane. The golden sunlight pierced through the dissipating white, cutting through his brown hair as the mist was violently cleared from the valley.
The stage was set. The village was a leveled ruin, bathed in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. Mandevor stood in the clearing, his eyes darting frantically across the broken buildings, trying to lock onto the white-haired shadow that was still dancing through the graveyard of homes.
The sunlight hit the valley like a spotlight, but even the midday glare couldn't help Mandevor track the ghost in the ruins. Areia was no longer just running; she was a blur of stark white hair and predatory intent, dancing through the skeletal corpses of the buildings. Every time his eyes tried to lock onto her, she was already gone, leaving only a vibration in the air.
She's fast, Mandevor thought, his head spinning. Faster than Magnia. Faster than anything I've ever had to hunt.
A dizzying sensation washed over him, but he forced his feet to root into the cracked earth. He didn't need to see her; he needed to feel the shift in the wind. Suddenly, his instincts flared. He twisted his hip with violent torque, channeling every ounce of his Qi into a massive, blind haymaker directed straight behind him.
The air shrieked as his fist loomed over a descending Areia. But the moment his knuckles connected, her body didn't break—it disintegrated into a flurry of green grass. The force of his punch continued unabated, slamming into the ground with a sound that made the very sky roar, cratering the earth into a jagged bowl of dust.
Then, the onslaught began.
Another Areia erupted from his left—he struck, and she burst into a spray of cold water. Another came from the right, then another from above, a relentless cycle of elemental decoys designed to bleed his focus dry.
CRACK!
Among the chaos of the clones, the real Areia finally manifested. Her heavy boot connected squarely with the side of Mandevor's jaw with the force of a falling mountain. The world tilted. Mandevor stumbled back, his vision swimming with stars, but before he could recover, Areia's hand clamped around his leg like a cold iron shackle.
With a primal display of raw strength, she swung his massive frame in a wide arc and launched him toward the lake at the edge of the ruins.
Mandevor soared through the air, the wind whistling past his ears. He looked up, his brown eyes widening as he saw her. Areia had leapt after him in a flash, her silhouette cutting through the sun, her cascading white hair flowing behind her like a banner of war.
She's strong, Mandevor thought, a strange, breathless wonder filling his chest as he plummeted toward the water. Areia, the Knight of Dan Shula... you fascinate me beyond bounds.
In that moment, suspended between the sky and the lake, the violence of the duel seemed to fade. He watched her—the cold, purple intensity of her gaze, the lethal grace of her form against the grey clouds.
Beautiful, he thought, right before the surface of the lake rose up to claim him.
Areia stood motionless on the pebbled shore, her vivid purple eyes tracking the dying ripples on the lake's surface where Mandevor had plunged. The water was a dark, biting cold, and she had no intention of following him into the depths. She simply waited, her stark white hair catching the pale light of the valley.
Suddenly, the atmosphere thickened with a sickly emerald hue. A layer of translucent green light erupted from the earth, snaking up her legs and torso like a living vine. It was a binding spell of immense density, paralyzing her nerves instantly. She froze—a statue of ivory and muscle amidst the ruins.
The surface of the lake broke without a sound. Mandevor stepped onto the sandy soil, his messy brown hair and simple tunic as bone-dry as if he had never touched the water. His boots crunched rhythmically against the grit as he approached her, a bittersweet smirk on his face.
"Sorry I had to use magic, doll," he said, his brown eyes glinting with a mix of respect and mischief. Areia remained locked in place, staring blankly at the horizon, unable to even blink against the magical pressure. Mandevor drew back his arm, his fist tightening until his knuckles turned white.
"This is gonna hurt."
BOOM!!
The impact was cataclysmic. He rammed his fist into Areia's face with the force of a falling star. A sharp, jagged splurt of blood sprayed from her nose. Behind her, the lake didn't just ripple—it screamed. The sheer displacement of air created a massive, torpedo-like geyser that erupted from the water's surface, while the ground beneath them shattered into a spiderweb of deep fissures. Miles away, the old man on his balcony felt the shockwave rattle his teeth, forcing him to grip the railing to keep his balance as the very air groaned under the pressure.
As the suffocating wall of smoke and dust finally settled, Mandevor's eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
Areia was still there. She hadn't been launched through the treeline; she hadn't even buckled. She stood rooted to the spot, her nose bleeding a steady crimson, but her stance remained unbreakable. Mandevor looked at his own hand—his fist was battered, the skin torn and bleeding from the sheer density of her jaw.
She's a monster, he thought, a cold sweat breaking out. She took that point-blank and didn't move.
"Hey, Areia, I think we should—" Mandevor started, intending to call off the match before things turned lethal.
His words were cut short by a thunderous thwack.
Despite the green layer of paralysis still shimmering around her, Areia's arm blurred. She delivered a mouthful of iron in the form of a fist. The world turned sideways for Mandevor; he skidded across the surface of the lake like a flat stone, skipping twice before smashing into the far shore. The impact obliterated a hillside, snapping ancient trees like dry twigs and leaving a smoking crater in the earth.
Mandevor groaned, pulling himself from the wreckage. He staggered to his feet, clutching his shattered, crooked nose. "Damn... I yield!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
He looked up, and his blood ran cold.
Areia was already there. She had crossed the entire span of the lake in a heartbeat, moving through the paralysis with sheer, terrifying willpower. She loomed over him, the afternoon sun striking her white hair and creating a brilliant, blinding halo that cast a deep, predatory shadow over her face. Her purple eyes were no longer calm; they were vibrating violently, glowing like supercharged orbs of violet lightning. Her fist was cocked, inches from his face, ready to finish what he had started.
She moved like that while suppressed by my magic? Mandevor pondered, his heart hammering against his ribs. If we fought with everything we had... a victory would be a miracle.
"For someone so reluctant to fight," Mandevor grinned through the blood, rubbing his ruined nose, "you sure put me through hell."
Areia let out a long, weary sigh and rolled her eyes, the lethal intensity vanishing instantly. She tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear and placed a hand on her hip.
"You ate my share of the fish soup the old man made," she said, her voice flat and unimpressed. "You had it coming."
She didn't give him a second glance. With a sudden burst of kinetic speed that left a vacuum in the air, she vanished—not through teleportation, but through sheer physical velocity that the human eye couldn't track.
She reappeared miles away, standing calmly before the old man on his balcony. The dust of the valley was still settling behind her as she looked at him, her expression turning back to that of a hungry traveler.
The air on the balcony grew heavy, the temperature dropping as the old man adjusted his spectacles, his weathered face etched with concern. He reached out a trembling hand toward her. "You're bleeding," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the crimson trail still seeping from her nose.
"I'm fine," Areia snapped, her voice cutting through the wind like a shard of ice. She didn't even bother to wipe the blood away, her focus entirely elsewhere. "Now tell me if there's some secret stash of food I don't know about." Her impatience was a physical weight, her white hair still crackling with the static of the battle.
A sudden, light-hearted laugh echoed from the edge of the balcony. Mandevor hauled himself up, his brown hair matted with dirt and his tunic torn, but that irritatingly sweet smile was back on his face despite his shattered nose.
"Don't even bother," he chuckled, leaning against the railing with a winced groan. "I made sure to eat them all."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then, the world turned violet.
Areia didn't move a muscle, but her magical power flared with a violent, primal intensity. To the old man, it was just a sudden chill, but to Mandevor, the world transformed. Large ultraviolet rays erupted from her body, jagged ribbons of ethereal light that hissed and spat against the stone of the balcony.
Under the shroud of this demonic aura, Areia's face became a silhouette of deep shadow, leaving only her glowing purple eyes to burn through the haze like twin stars. The sheer pressure of her mana was enough to make the floorboards groan, her silhouette looking less like a girl and more like a deity of wrath.
Mandevor stood frozen. He should have been terrified—any sane man would have been—but as he stared at the ultraviolet storm and those piercing, lethal eyes, he felt his heart skip for an entirely different reason. He felt captivated, drawn into the beautiful, terrifying vortex of her power.
"Sorry," he whispered, his grin widening even as his knees shook slightly. "I was hungry."
The ultraviolet storm subsided, the jagged rays of light retreating into Areia's skin like cooling embers. Mandevor watched the spectacle with a dazed, almost reverent expression, his brown eyes still tracing the faint shimmer in the air.
"I knew she sparred with me without using a trace of magical enhancement or any of that crap," Mandevor muttered under his breath, his voice thick with wonder. "But who'd knew she had that much magical energy? One would expect someone like her—who does everything with just pure strength—would be magicless. But nah... she just keeps fascinating me even more." He paused, his gaze softening into something bittersweet. "I feel jealous of Dan."
Areia didn't hear the comment. She reached up with a steady hand, tapping the white Camelia tucked into her hair to ensure it hadn't been singed by her own aura. "You're infuriating," she said, her voice a cold, sharp blade.
Without a second glance, she turned and walked off the balcony. The old man and Mandevor watched in silence as she reached the edge of the rubble, bent down to retrieve her fallen sword from the dust, and continued walking until her silhouette disappeared into the jagged horizon of the valley.
The old man turned his gaze toward Mandevor, who was still staring at the empty space where she had been.
"I know she's extremely pretty and all, with all the nice traits," the old man began, his voice gravelly and wise. "But she already has her heart set on someone. Wouldn't it be wise to give up now before you fall even deeper?"
Mandevor let out a long, heavy sigh, his messy brown hair shadowed by the setting sun. "I can't help it, old man," he admitted, a small, lopsided smile touching his lips despite the blood on his face. "Of all the girls I've ever met, she's the only one who has managed to pique my interest like this. I'll keep trying to woo her over. Who knows? Maybe one day she'll change her mind."
The old man shrugged, leaning back into his chair as the wind whistled through the ruins. "I don't think she even knows you like her in the first place. It's obvious to me, but to her? I don't think so."