Parallel Memory

Without waiting any longer, Misha moved like a gust of wind freed from its bounds. Her blade swept outward, shimmering with condensed mana that danced like pale green flames, revealing her trump card for the first time—her Level 7 Art: Wind of Nature.

The two S-rankers reacted instantly, their weapons flashing as they intercepted the strike. Vance, still shocked from Misha’s exhibition of strength and almost regretting having her agree to fight, surged forward from the side, his sword aiming for her flank. But Misha’s expression didn’t waver—she pivoted on the ball of her foot, her movements as fluid as flowing water yet sharp as steel.

The air around her shifted, becoming heavier yet impossibly swift, like the pressure before a storm. Every step she took was powered by a level of control only possible through mastery of a mana base—not simply fueling her techniques but weaving mana into every motion, every strike, every breath. She wasn’t just releasing energy; she was shaping it.

The audience quickly realized she was no ordinary person. The wind around her became her weapon and shield, flowing along the path of her blade, forming barriers that softened blows and gusts that drove her opponents back. Even when Vance’s blade descended, heavy with force, it was met with a swirling current that deflected his attack without losing speed.

Her Dual Art combinations began to emerge—merging the Wind of Nature with condensed bursts of her Shattering Flower Style. When one of the S-rankers tried to overwhelm her with a rapid thrust sequence, she met him with a layered defense: a crescent of wind shielding her front, and a sharp mana pulse bursting outward at the precise moment to stagger him.

Every exchange was precise. Every movement spoke of someone who had drilled beyond exhaustion until instinct and technique were one. The spectators—soldiers, guild members, and mercenaries alike—were leaning forward in their seats, expressions torn between awe and disbelief. An A-rank was standing toe-to-toe with two S-ranks and a sub-rank-higher opponent without being pushed back.

Minutes turned into dozens. What would have drained most fighters’ mana reserves in mere minutes stretched into nearly an hour. Misha’s mana base allowed her to regulate the flow of energy, never letting it spill wastefully, pulling in ambient mana from the air to sustain her output. Her stamina was stretched thin, yes, but her power never faltered.

The S-rankers were no pushovers either. They defended with skill, counterattacked with relentless precision, and used their rank advantage to test every gap in her guard. But each time they pressed, Vance—supposedly their ally—would falter. A step too slow. A mistimed strike. A poorly aimed lunge that forced them to cover for him. Their expressions grew strained, not because they were losing to Misha, but because they were forced to fight while dragging along dead weight.

And yet, even without Vance, they wouldn’t have gained much ground. She read their movements like wind sensing the shape of the land, adapting with seamless fluidity. The match was no longer just a test of strength; it was a war of endurance.

When the hour mark passed, the atmosphere was suffocating. The audience—now on the edge of their seats—had begun whispering predictions. Some swore Misha would win. Others reminded them that two S-ranks, no matter how hindered, were still S-ranks. But what no one could deny was that this duel had shattered their expectations of what the so-called Golden Generation could be.

Finally, the first sign of strain showed. Misha’s breath came a fraction faster, her shoulders dipping slightly between strikes. Hiro, watching from the sidelines, narrowed his eyes. He knew her well enough to see the subtle signs—the faint tremor in her wrist after deflecting a heavy blow, the half-second longer it took for her wind to reform into a shield.