Jared blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “I appreciate the kindness, sir, but vengeance is all I can see right now, my feet wouldn’t stay in a practice hall.”
Corin stroked his snow-flecked beard, the smile held, but his eyes sharpened. “You fear being dragged into the feud between Sword Sect and Sacred Sword Manor. Yet every cut you make bears our lineage, and I refuse to watch that gift wither unread.”
He stepped aside, clearing the courtyard’s heart. Somewhere along the way, a plain wooden sword had appeared in his hand, its battered grain spoke of years of battles and lessons whispered in splinters. “Come… Just a light spar. Survive a hundred moves or score a single touch, and I’ll never mention recruitment again. The gate will open for you that very moment.”
Jared’s brow knitted, the last thing wanted was to cross blades with the former sect leader, yet Corin‘s stance said the debate was over.
He glanced at Flaxseed, found only helpless resignation in the older man’s eyes, and sighed. “Sir, my strength is meager, I fear it will disappoint.”
“Do your best, nothing more…” Corin flicked his wrist, the wooden tip tracing a lazy arc toward the flagstones. “Begin…”
Jared drew the Dragonslayer Sword; the blade hummed like a caged dragon, spilling rivulets of gold light across the dusk.
No retreat now. Only forward…
He centered his breath, then burst forward in a cascade of footwork. The sword energy flowed like spring water, merging strike after strike into an unbroken river aimed at Corin.
Corin’s eyes brightened high above his calm smile. “Good.”
The old master lifted the wooden sword. The motion seemed unhurried, yet every time Jared’s blade darted in, the timber barrier was already there, filling the gap a heartbeat before impact.
Steel rang against wood in an unending rhythm. No matter how fast the Dragonslayer Sword danced, it never slipped past that living shield.
In Corin’s grip, the weathered stick became many things: now the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, immovable, now a silver serpent lashing out with startling speed.
After dozens of exchanges, sweat beaded on Jared’s brow, and astonishment pounded in his chest like an extra heartbeat. Jared sensed it at once, Corin was holding back.
Every parry from the elder’s plain wooden sword arrived in exactly the right place, dissolving Jared’s momentum without leaving so much as a scratch. The rhythm felt less like combat and more like a master demonstrating where a student’s blade should flow.
“Mr. Corin, if you keep restraining yourself, I may as well admit defeat right here,” Jared said after withdrawing the Dragonslayer Sword and taking a measured step back.
Corin let a quiet smile crease his weather-worn face. “Very well. Allow me to show you the true heart of the Sword Sect technique.”
He blurred forward. The wooden blade rode a tidal swell of power that swallowed the training ground.
The strike looked harmless, almost casual, yet Jared felt the world narrow, there was nowhere to run. He brought the Dragonslayer Sword across his body.
The clash rang out like a cathedral bell. An avalanche of force surged through Jared’s arms, nearly ripping the weapon from his fingers. He staggered backward again and again, blood and breath tumbling inside his chest.
Abruptly, Corin lowered his left hand, now wielding the wooden sword with only his right.
“One hand,” said lightly. “Try again…”
Defiance flashed across Jared’s eyes. He leapt forward, threading every note of Floating Cloud Swordplay with the sword intent had nurtured in lonely hours. Golden light sprayed from his blade like shards of dawn.
Yet even one-handed, Corin’s defense felt like iron walls layered behind bronze gates. Each time Jared struck, found himself slipping into danger created by the elder’s effortless ripostes.
After dozens of exchanges, Corin’s wooden sword flicked upward and tapped the spine of the Dragonslayer Sword with surgical precision.
Jared’s wrist went numb, steel spun from his grip and landed point, first in a patch of vegetable beds with a harsh clang.
Jared stood frozen, staring at his empty hands, a storm of humiliation, awe, and reluctant admiration swirling inside.
Is this what the summit of swordsmanship truly looks like, that I cannot challenge even one of his hands despite burning through my own spirit?
