Unholy Player

"Come," Lucen said calmly as he slid his longsword from his back and held it at his side. Its sheath was still on, and he showed no intention of drawing it—instead, he simply stood there, loose and balanced, waiting for Adyr to move first.

"Let’s see what your future holds for a sword," his voice even, carrying a quiet assurance that felt like an unspoken challenge.

Adyr didn’t sense even a trace of arrogance in him.

So this is what they call a genius, he thought as he studied his posture.

Lucen stood there as if a breeze could come and go without disturbing him. Wind tugged gently at his long hair and white robe, yet his feet stayed rooted as though carved into the ground. He was shorter than Adyr and showed no obvious strength, but looking at him felt like staring up at a mountain.

Every detail of his stance was measured and natural. Nothing was forced. Nothing was wasted. Even with [Sense] pushed to its limit, Adyr couldn’t pick out a single obvious opening. It was like facing a high-walled fortress built to last forever.

A sharp smile tugged at Adyr’s lips—a rare, eager spark stirring inside him. It had been a long time since his eyes felt this blind.

He tightened his grip on the wooden handles of his training swords. Flipping the one in his right hand into a reverse grip and angling it across his chest, he held the left blade low, edge outward toward Lucen. Lowering his knees, he sank into a deeper stance so that his eyes stayed level with Lucen’s.

"You have a cautious stance," Lucen remarked evenly, his gaze tracing every small adjustment. There was no approval or mockery in his tone—just a calm, matter-of-fact observation that weighed him without the slightest shift in expression.