Chapter 45
The air around their training ground carried a thick scent of iron, mixed with the residual heat from thousands of strikes that had carved wounds into the earth, the stones, and Erietta's own body.
At this point, the training was no longer about humans and their limits.
This training was a purification ritual in its most brutal form.
'Separation of flesh from soul, beauty from strength.'
And Theo, standing in the midst of the storm of his own making, recorded everything coldly in the small yellow book against his chest.
'Two thousand and one arms severed.Eight thousand stomach wounds.Ten thousand fallen beauties.Yet her eyes, watching Erietta from afar, reflected something faint.Astonishment mixed with awe.Because every time her body collapsed to the ground, every time her blood flowed in the red circles that traced her steps, there was always a soft light emerging from the wounds—Lu's healing core filling the void and restoring form, even as her face grew expressionless and her gaze crossed far from the human side.'
On the twenty-seventh day, Erietta's journey began with faltering steps, the first few meters feeling like a thousand years.
Yet behind every step left on the ground, there echoed a determination that cleaved through the silence.
Theo continued to deliver his strikes from afar—relentless, merciless—testing limits while ensuring that the "Realm of Darkness" Erietta sought to conquer would not accept a weak soul.
Each arc of his sword caused ripples of air that scraped her skin, lifting strands of her green hair with the whistling heat storm.
But the terrifying thing was not the number of wounds, but the absolute calm on Erietta's face.
No screams, no tears.
She just walked.
One step.
Two steps.
Thousands of steps.
Until the distance that was once two meters became ten thousand—separating student from teacher, human from divine.
On the twenty-eighth day, when morning arrived without color, Erietta completed her final steps with steady movement.
The clothes she wore could no longer be called garments—only torn sheets swaying between blood and dust.
Yet her body remained upright.
Her gaze was empty yet full of awareness, exactly like someone who had transcended the concept of pain.
Behind her, across the ten thousand meters of ground traversed, stretched drying blood trails forming strange patterns resembling ancient ritual circles.
Theo stared at her for a long moment before writing the last entry for the day.
'Erietta Bathee has ceased to recognize pain.She now knows only the steps.'
'Day forty.Her body has become an iron field.Hundreds of swords pierce here and there, through flesh, through calm.Yet Erietta has not fallen.'
Fuuuuh!
'From day twenty-nine until now, she hasn't successfully landed a single strike.Yet somehow, I can see that her steps are more orderly, her swings cleaner, even her silence more meaningful.As if pain has transformed into a new language only she can understand.'
"Theo, may I defeat you by imitating one of your techniques? Even just a little, one swing is enough."
"No."
"Then, may I just copy the movement of your foot?So that I can learn how to strike in the correct direction?"
"No."
Arc One, Episode Eight Beginning.
Day forty marked the start of the long-prepared perfection trial.
The sky appeared dim, as if it had lost the light that once guided the world to balance.
On the wide plain, filled with cracks and remnants of strikes, two figures stood facing each other, separated only by a distance measured in determination.
The trial seemed simple on the surface but was impossible for those who did not understand the true meaning of darkness.
The girl, her body covered in wounds and blood that had dried on her skin, held the only sword she was allowed to bring.
The sword was not hers, but a gift from the one now standing before her.
Across from her, Theo Vkytor stood calmly, letting the air vibrate around his body, his eyes staring straight without hesitation.
He held nothing, carried no weapon, for the Enchanting Technique he mastered made his body both instrument and ultimate weapon.
The technique was not merely a combat dance but a manifestation of a will that forced the world into submission.
Each movement of Theo's body created invisible blades that pierced the space, producing hundreds of swords from pure will that knew no bounds.
The swords appeared silently, dancing in the air with celestial precision before plunging into the ground, cutting through the air, and often penetrating the girl's flesh.
Within this storm of weapons, there was no room for negligence.
Every gust of wind could be a threat, every second lost could sever life from death.
Yet, despite her body being relentlessly struck, her blood dripping and drying repeatedly, the girl remained still.
She stared straight at the figure before her, as if trying to read something beyond the movements that appeared as a dance yet hid cruelty as subtle as the desire to perfect.
Days passed in a rhythm no longer following worldly time.
From day twenty-nine to forty-four, the sky above the arena never turned blue again.
Whenever the sun tried to pierce the dark clouds, its rays were swallowed by a fog of energy created by the clash of two opposing souls.
The ground beneath them became a field of wounds, littered with sword fragments, dust, and blood dried in patterns readable only by those who had walked between life and death.
Theo recorded everything meticulously in the small book always strapped to his chest.
There was no pride in his writing, nor regret.
Only rigid, cold analysis, fully aware that every line of ink might be part of an ending he had constructed himself.
Erietta's body increasingly lost its human form, yet beneath that destruction, something was growing, something beginning to pulse like new awareness.
In Theo's eyes, it was not merely progress but a sign that the girl was approaching the form he required.
Not human, but a reflection of indestructible will.
'Forty-five days.Who would have thought that such a short time could change someone this much.'
Uuuuff!
'Even after thousands of times her body was destroyed, she never stopped walking.And now—'
Yooosshhh!
'—She finally struck me.With her own strike.Through her own honor.Exactly as I indicated yesterday.'
"Stop imitating me, Erietta."
Hhhh!
"You do not need to be my shadow.You are not a reflection of my sword—you are your own sword.Remember that."
Fiiih!
'The Technique of Honor Strike, huh?Its curves flow like a river refusing to be contained.Wild in motion, yet within it lies a clear will.'
Uuuuuhh!
'More than that, she hasn't just mastered the Realm of Darkness, she's also touched the very foundation opposing the Realm of Light?!Damn it, why does every scenario I try to control always play out beyond my plans!'
Day forty-five dawned with silence hanging between two figures who had endured forty-four days full of wounds, stillness, and unbroken discipline.
On the ground that had repeatedly absorbed their blood, sweat, and silence, Erietta stood upright, her breath trembling softly in the morning air.
Before her, Theo Vkytor stared expressionlessly, letting the dim light trace his face, seemingly carved by thousands of hours of patience and self-control.
To be continued…