Chapter 9: The Blade’s Truth

The instructor surveyed the two fighters before him, then nodded.

"Iris, you are an Adept Swordsman."

Iris smiled, seemingly satisfied with the rank.

The instructor then turned his gaze to Lenon, who was still groaning from the crater-sized impact Azar had left him in. With a snap of his fingers, a golden light descended upon Lenon, slowly knitting his broken bones back together.

Lenon shakily sat up, his mind still reeling from the fight.

The instructor looked down at him, unimpressed. "And you… are a Sword Expert. Although, only just."

Lenon clenched his jaw but didn't argue. He knew he had been outclassed.

Then—

As his gaze unintentionally locked with Azar's, something shifted.

The world melted away.

Lenon found himself floating in an infinite black abyss.

No light. No sound. Just nothingness.

His breathing quickened.

"What… the hell?" He turned, trying to find anything—anyone.

Then, out of the darkness, Azar appeared.

Lenon froze.

Azar hovered lazily, his silver-streaked hair swaying in an invisible wind, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Lenon tried to speak, but before he could—

"You're an idiot."

Lenon blinked. "…What?"

Azar was suddenly sitting on his shoulder, as if he had always been there.

"I just wanted to insult you."

Lenon opened his mouth to protest, but—

Flick.

Azar lightly flicked his forehead.

Lenon jerked back, gasping.

He was still in the sparring room. He had never left.

"What the hell was that?!" He muttered under his breath, shaken.

Azar, meanwhile, was happily humming to himself, acting as if nothing had happened.

Lenon clenched his fists, but wisely stepped down from the platform, shaking off the illusionary experience.

Iris followed soon after, and then—

The instructor clapped his hands.

"Azar and Dante. You're up next."

Dante let out a long sigh, then stepped onto the arena.

With a smooth motion, he unsheathed his sword—a crimson blade, faintly humming with latent power.

Azar, however, just looked around.

"Wait. I don’t have a sword…" He tapped his chin. Then, suddenly—his eyes lit up.

"Oh, right!"

He snapped his fingers.

Black vines surged from his fingertips, twisting and coiling like living tendrils. They fused together, forming the shape of a blade.

Within seconds, a gorgeous, glossy black sword took shape in Azar's hands, pulsing with a dark, ominous glow.

Azar grinned. "This works."

Dante exhaled deeply, gripping his sword tighter. "Let's do this."

The instructor dropped his hand.

"Begin!"

Dante exploded forward, his crimson blade flashing.

Azar just smiled.

CLANG!

The moment their blades met, Dante felt it.

Azar’s swordsmanship was on another level.

Dante gritted his teeth and launched into a rapid series of strikes, but Azar effortlessly deflected each one, his movements fluid, precise, and completely relaxed.

Dante pushed himself harder, trying to break through Azar’s defense, but—

SLASH!

Before he could react, Azar’s black sword traced a perfect arc, slicing across Dante’s chest.

Dante barely managed to jump back, skidding across the platform.

His uniform was torn, a shallow cut on his chest.

He stared at Azar.

The gap between them was insurmountable.

Azar tilted his head. "That's it?"

Dante clenched his jaw. "I'm not done yet."

He charged in again, putting everything into his next strike.

But—

Azar’s blade blurred.

THWACK.

Before Dante even realized what had happened, his sword was knocked out of his hands and he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

The fight was already over.

As Dante lay there, panting, he slowly turned his head towards Azar.

"…How are you so strong?"

Azar sat cross-legged on the ground, twirling his sword like a toy.

"It's all about sword intent."

Dante frowned. "Sword intent?"

Azar nodded enthusiastically.

"You have to use a sword for what it was designed for."

He leaned in closer, eyes glowing with unsettling excitement.

"Killing and slaughter."

Dante's stomach twisted.

Azar twirled his blade once more, his expression unreadable.

"I've used a sword to slaughter countless people," he said cheerfully. "But you?"

Azar pointed his blackened blade at Dante's chest.

"You haven't killed a single person, demon, or whatever."

Dante stared at him, unable to respond.

Because Azar was right.

His entire life, he had never taken a life.

The realization hit hard.

The instructor finally spoke, breaking the silence.

"Dante, you are a Sword Expert—on the precipice of a Sword Master."

Dante barely reacted. He was still lost in thought.

The instructor then turned to Azar.

"And Azar… I can't tell if you're a Sword Master or a Sword Grandmaster."

The class murmured among themselves.

Even the instructor looked genuinely conflicted.

After a long pause, he sighed heavily.

"I'll write you down as a Sword Master."

Azar’s eyes sparkled.

"Woohoo!"

He sprang to his feet, immediately grabbing Dante’s hand and pulling him up.

Dante, still deep in thought, barely reacted.

Iris, meanwhile, clapped her hands together. "Congrats, you two."

Azar gave her a cheerful grin, while Dante remained silent.

As the class moved on, Dante's grip tightened around his sword.

For the first time in his life—

He truly understood the gap between himself and a real killer.