Eira tripped when her boot hit a sharp stone, throwing off her balance for just a second—but that was enough. Her master’s sword slammed into her ribs with great force, sending her flying backward. The blow knocked the air out of her, and before she could feel the pain, she crashed into the cold water of a nearby lake. The shock of the water didn’t ease the pain in her chest, and as she struggled to stay afloat, she coughed and tasted blood in her mouth. She spat it out, her vision blurry as she fought to keep herself above the water.

  Her master’s worried shout, “Eira!” echoed across the training field. Without missing a beat, he leaped into the air, moving as if the wind was helping him. Leaves on the ground swirled into a bridge under his feet, lifting him effortlessly toward her. His eyes were locked on Eira with a rare intensity, and his face showed more than just concern—it showed fear. Fear that she had pushed herself too far.

  Eira, barely holding on, reached out a shaky hand, her fingers wet with blood and water. He grabbed her hand and pulled her close, but she coughed again, more blood spilling from her mouth. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and a cold sense of dread filled her. Her healing powers weren’t working like they should—this meant her strength was fading, and if she didn’t recover soon, things could get much worse.

  Her master’s frown deepened as he studied her, clearly worried about her weakened state. "Is it just me, or is your aura getting smaller?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying a hint of crack, revealing the exhaustion he was trying to hide. His usual calm was slipping, and despite his best effort to stay composed, the tiredness was visible in his eyes.

  Eira took a moment to catch her breath, feeling the sharp pain in her body and the blood on her lips. But she wouldn’t let her resolve falter. She locked eyes with him, her gaze sharp and full of determination. "No," she said firmly, her voice steady. "I’m not done yet. I’m still standing, so I’m still fighting."

  Her master gave a small, weary smile, and for a brief moment, pride flashed in his eyes. He was proud of her strength, even as her body begged her to stop. He squeezed her hand gently. "Just you, I’m afraid," he said, the smile quickly fading into a sigh. His face softened, and concern replaced his earlier sternness. "We’ve gone far enough. We need to stop before I do more damage. Let’s go home so I can tend to your wounds."

  Eira shook her head, her movement firm and resolute. The fire in her eyes replaced any sign of weakness. "No," she insisted, her voice growing stronger. "This duel isn’t over. Not until I’ve won."

  Her master’s gaze darkened slightly, his concern slipping into his voice. "You’re pushing yourself too hard. We’ve fought enough today."

  But Eira pulled her hand back, her posture shifting as she prepared for another strike. "I said, I’m not finished." Her voice was soft but filled with unwavering resolve. "You taught me to keep fighting, no matter what. So that’s what I’m going to do. Even if it’s against you."

  Her words hung in the air, showing that the battle wasn’t just about winning or losing with swords. It was about her spirit, her unyielding will to never give up. She wasn’t asking for mercy, and she wouldn’t accept defeat—not while there was still breath in her body and fire in her heart.

  Her master watched her closely, his gaze searching hers, seeing the unshakable resolve she carried even as her aura flickered and dimmed. In that moment, he understood—this wasn’t just about victory or defeat. It was about Eira’s need to push beyond her limits, to prove something to herself as much as to him.

  When Eira collapsed to the ground, her body crumpling from the force of her master’s blow, a figure moved swiftly through the trees. Vidar, the young boy who had been quietly watching the duel from the sidelines, rushed to her side, his steps light but full of purpose. His eyes were wide with concern, and despite his frailty, his heart pounded with the instinct to help, to do anything to ease her pain.

  Vidar was no stranger to hardship. An orphan with no family, he had been taken in by Eira's master, not out of obligation, but from a quiet kindness. Though physically weak and unable to fight on equal terms with others, Vidar had never been abandoned. He cherished his place beside the master, and he had learned to value things other than strength. He understood that his worth didn’t lie in power, but in something subtler, something rare.

  Despite his small size and frail body, Vidar had a unique ability—Echoing Steps. This skill, born of finesse rather than force, allowed him to mimic the movements of others in real-time, syncing his body with theirs to replicate their actions with stunning precision. It wasn’t simple copying—it was amplifying, drawing from the kinesthetic memory of those around him.

  Because of this, Vidar was quicker and more agile than his small frame might suggest. While he couldn’t overpower opponents with brute strength, he could predict their every move and mirror them, making him a difficult target. In battle, he became a blur of motion—nearly impossible to strike, always a step ahead of his enemies.

  When Vidar observed a fighter’s movements—whether it was a strike, a dodge, or a feint—he instinctively synced with the rhythm and flow of those actions. This allowed him to counter or evade attacks with surprising speed and precision. The longer he watched, the more detailed his mimicry became, enabling him to adjust and adapt in real time as the fight unfolded. His ability to align with his opponent’s motions made him a fluid and unpredictable presence in battle, as if he were always one step ahead.

  But when Eira collapsed, everything seemed to freeze for a moment. He knew she was more than capable of handling herself, yet seeing her so vulnerable hit him hard. Kneeling beside her, his hands trembled slightly as he reached out to help her sit up. His heart pounded—not from fear for his own safety, but from the deep care he felt for her.

  "Eira...?" Vidar whispered, his voice small but filled with urgency. "Are you okay?"

  Eira’s eyes fluttered open, her vision blurry. She struggled to focus on the boy kneeling beside her. Though his face was filled with concern, Vidar’s presence brought her a quiet sense of reassurance. The way he looked at her wasn’t with pity, but with reverence—a deep devotion born from shared struggles, a bond only those who had fought the same battles could understand.

  "Vidar... I’m fine," she said softly, though her voice was weak. The pain in her chest and the blood trickling from her lips were undeniable, but there was no time to rest. She couldn’t allow herself to slow down—not now.

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  Her master sighed, a sound that was both resigned and impressed. He nodded slowly, his eyes softening. "Very well," he said quietly. "But you’ll have to keep your promise. After this, you rest. No arguments."

  Eira offered the faintest smile, the spark of victory already in her eyes. "I promise."

  Her master studied her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a long exhale, he raised his weapon once again. "Then show me. But understand this: victory comes at a cost, and I won’t hold back."

  Eira’s breath was ragged, but her resolve remained unshaken. With a swift motion, she pushed herself to her feet, wiping the blood from her mouth, her eyes burning with fierce determination. She gripped her sword tightly, the weight of it a grounding presence in her hand. Without hesitation, she launched herself at her master, her strikes fast and precise, each one an embodiment of her unyielding spirit. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whistle as she aimed for him, her movements sharp and calculated, despite the blood still dripping from her lips.

  Her master, ever vigilant, danced away from her attacks with the fluidity of years of experience. He dodged effortlessly, his eyes scanning the rising tension in the air between them. As always, he was prepared to face her, his posture poised, his blade steady. Yet something was different this time—this wasn’t just another training session. This felt like something more.

  Vidar, who had been watching anxiously from the sidelines, opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—to ease the tension. But before he could speak, Eira’s voice cut through the air, sharp with irritation.

  "Don’t worry about me," she snapped, frustration edging her words, as though concern for her well-being was a distraction she didn’t have time for. "I'm only focused on winning."

  Vidar fell silent, his gaze shifting to the growing crowd of onlookers who had begun to gather, their murmurs buzzing in the air. Eira didn’t seem to notice them at all, her focus laser-sharp on her master as she continued the assault, her sword flashing in the sunlight. Her anger was palpable, but beneath it, there was something deeper—a hunger to prove herself, not just to her master, but to herself.

  Vidar nodded slowly, understanding the fire burning in her eyes, even if it worried him. He took a cautious step backward, his heart racing in his chest. "Okay," he said quietly, his voice steady. "But if you’re hurt badly, I will be there to protect you."

  Eira didn’t respond immediately, her eyes locked on her master as she launched into another series of rapid strikes. But for a fleeting moment, there was a subtle shift in her expression—something that softened the intensity of her focus, even if only for an instant.

  The exchange between them was brief, but it held a depth that spoke volumes. Eira was as stubborn as her master in many ways. She wasn’t going to be coddled, not now, not when she had pushed herself this far.

  Her eyes burned with the fire of her determination, and for a split second, Vidar saw something beyond the fierce fighter standing before him. He saw the girl who had trained relentlessly, who had pushed herself beyond every limit, driven by one singular goal: to be worthy. Worthy of her master’s teachings, worthy of standing beside him as an equal one day.

  As she stood there, sword in hand, her heart pounded with excitement. But it wasn’t the fight that thrilled her—it was the realization that this was her chance to prove herself. This was her moment to show she was more than just the student, more than the apprentice who followed orders. She could do this. She could become the warrior she had always dreamed of being.

  Though it would take years—maybe even decades—before she could match her master’s skill, the hope burning within her now gave her strength. 'If I have hope,' she thought to herself, 'then I can overcome anything. That’s enough. That’s all I need.' With that, she struck her opponent again with her sword, launching a flurry of attacks.

  A loud clang echoed through the air as their weapons collided, sending a cloud of dust swirling around them. The impact of their swords sent shocks of magic coursing through both of them, forcing them back several steps. A few stray leaves were sent flying, scattering across the ground. Eira winced slightly as the leaves hit the earth, breaking into tiny pieces and leaving behind faint marks where they touched the ground. She stood tall again, facing her master, her breath coming in heavy gasps. The effort of the duel was already showing on her skin, slick with sweat from the relentless training and exertion.

  Vidar wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, watching her closely. He almost rushed to her side, instinctively wanting to catch her before she fell again. His arms steadied her as he noticed a small cut along the bridge of her nose. His concern deepened as he frowned at the wound.

  "You have a small scratch here," he said, his voice filled with worry. "It looks painful. I’ll need to disinfect it. You’ll feel better afterward."

  "I don’t care." Her eyes blazed with renewed confidence as she prepared for another attack, her determination burning through the pain. "We’re going to finish this duel! Don’t worry."

  Vidar stared at her for a moment, his worry still evident in his gaze. "Alright then…" he muttered to himself, stepping back but still watching her closely.

  The clash of their swords echoed through the air, but this time, the sound felt muted—like even the world was holding its breath. The lake beside them remained still, perfectly mirroring the sky above, untouched by ripples except for the occasional stir from the wind. The sun, now dipping low in the sky, cast a golden glow across the clearing, catching on the beads of sweat glistening on Eira’s brow and lighting the fierce resolve in her eyes.

  She fought with everything she had left. Every strike came at a cost, her body aching, muscles burning with fatigue, but she didn’t slow. Her sword moved with sharp precision, driven by a single purpose: to prove herself. Not just to her master—but to herself. With every clash of steel, her exhaustion deepened, but so did her will. She was close. She could feel it—that razor’s edge where victory teetered just within reach.

  Her master remained composed, every movement controlled, every parry smooth and measured. Yet behind the calm exterior, his eyes betrayed a rising concern. They had been locked in this duel since dawn. What had begun as training had shifted into something far more personal—an unspoken test of who she had become. A battle not of skill alone, but of endurance, of heart.

  They knew each other too well. Each strike was anticipated, each step countered. It was less a fight, more a dance—one built on years of training, discipline, and silent understanding. But the endless rhythm had begun to wear on them both.

  Eira’s breathing grew heavier, her shoulders rising and falling as exhaustion crept in. Her movements, once precise and fluid, began to falter. Her sword arm trembled slightly, her steps growing just a beat slower. Still, she pressed on.

  Her master stepped back, studying her with sharp eyes. The signs were clear now. Her body was nearing its limit. “Eira,” he said, voice low but laced with tension, “you’re pushing too far. Your system’s beginning to shut down.” He watched her grip falter ever so slightly, saw the fatigue clouding her sharp focus. “You need to stop—before you break something that can’t be fixed.”

  His voice held an edge of something rarely heard from him: worry. The kind of worry only a mentor, a guardian, could feel—but he kept it wrapped in control, as he always did.

  Eira didn’t budge. Her hands tightened around her sword until her knuckles turned white, her jaw set with stubborn defiance. The fire in her eyes flared brighter, burning through every ache, every doubt. She had come too far to back down now.

  “I’m fine,” she hissed through ragged breaths. Her voice was frayed at the edges, but unwavering. “I can keep going.” Even as her body screamed for mercy, her spirit burned hotter. “I won’t stop… not until I’ve proven myself.”

  He shook his head slowly, a mix of disappointment and concern shadowing his features. “You’re not proving anything by pushing yourself to the edge like this, Eira,” he said quietly, but with growing intensity. “You’ve gone too far already. Just admit it.”

  He stepped forward, his presence grounding, steady. “Your energy’s almost gone. If you keep going like this, you’ll collapse before you even get the chance to finish what you’ve started.”