[Third Person's PoV]
Arthur raised his sword in front of him, standing face to face with a shadowy figure that also held a blade in its grasp.
Both stood in identical stances, their swords held upright, both hands firmly wrapped around the hilt. Their gazes locked as Arthur carefully studied his opponent's stance, searching for any weaknesses. Yet, he found none.
His opponent, however, saw multiple openings—he was simply deciding which to exploit.
Suddenly, the Shadow stepped forward and swung its sword in a wide arc. Arthur, caught off guard, barely managed to react. He countered by slashing back, their blades clashing with a ringing echo.
Arthur grimaced under the force of the attack. Before he could formulate a counter, another strike came at him, forcing him into a defensive stance.
Their swords continued to clash, ringing out with every exchange as they struck and countered in rapid succession. The Shadow moved with fluid precision, forcing Arthur to match his rhythm.
After months of fighting this opponent, Arthur had come to recognize a pattern—every sparring match was a lesson. The Shadow was always pushing him, ensuring that Arthur was never at too great a disadvantage but was constantly being challenged to grow.
'I guess today's lesson is footwork,' Arthur thought as he focused on mirroring the figure's movements.
Then, without warning, the Shadow struck downward. Arthur raised his sword flat above him, blocking just in time. His arms and legs trembled from the impact.
"Alright! Alright! I'm sorry for getting distracted!" Arthur gritted his teeth as he pushed the Shadow's sword away before lunging forward with a thrust.
But the Shadow ducked low and swept Arthur's legs out from under him.
Arthur crashed to the ground with a thud but rolled just in time to dodge the follow-up stab.
Springing to his feet, he blocked another slash aimed at his neck, gripping his sword tightly with both hands to push his opponent back. Yet, before he could counter, the Shadow was already upon him again.
Silver streaks cut through the air as they exchanged blow after blow. Sparks flew with each clash, their swords dancing in an elegant and deadly rhythm. Their movements mirrored each other like a well-coordinated dance, the ringing of metal their only music.
The Shadow, seeing Arthur had kept up with its footwork, increased its speed.
That was when Arthur lost the upper hand.
His reactions faltered—he struggled to block and dodge as the Shadow's assault became relentless. Cuts began appearing on his clothes and skin. Even though this was the dream realm, he still felt the exhaustion creeping in, his muscles aching with every movement.
His breathing grew heavier, but this was a familiar challenge. After months of training, Arthur had learned to regulate his breath, keeping fatigue at bay just long enough to continue fighting.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to keep swinging, meeting the Shadow's blade even as his arms screamed in protest.
But now, his eyes couldn't keep up. The Shadow's sword moved too fast—more slashes carved into his body.
Blood dripped from his wounds, and though the pain seared against his skin, his expression remained stoic.
'If I can't follow its blade with my eyes…' Arthur thought, closing his eyes in determination. 'Then I'll follow it with my instincts!'
It was a gamble. But in this fight, he had nothing to lose—not even his life.
Cuts appeared across Arthur's cheeks, arms, thighs, torso, and legs. He tried to block, but his sword missed entirely, allowing fresh wounds to form. Each failed attempt at defense brought him closer and closer to defeat—until a silver streak flashed across his chest, twisted mid-motion, and aimed directly for his neck.
Clink!
Arthur's blade met the Shadow's just in time, deflecting the attack away from his throat.
Though the Shadow had no face, its posture spoke volumes—surprise.
It readjusted its stance and struck toward his neck once more.
Clink!
Another block. Sweat trickled down Arthur's face, mixing with the open cuts across his body, making them burn even fiercer. But his expression remained stoic.
A slash toward his torso—he failed to block. Another strike—this time, a successful deflection.
Miss. Block. Miss. Block.
Slowly, Arthur's misses became less frequent, until the Shadow suddenly stopped attacking altogether.
Arthur furrowed his brows before opening his eyes, glaring at his opponent. His chest heaved with exhaustion. "Why aren't you attacking? Let's continue!"
The Shadow stared at Arthur as if looking upon a man sentenced to death by a thousand cuts. Then, with nothing but two fingers, it pushed him back.
Arthur instinctively stepped backward but felt his legs give out beneath him. He collapsed onto one knee, using his sword for support.
His grip tightened around the hilt with both hands, barely keeping himself from falling completely. His breathing was hoarse—he had pushed himself to his absolute limit. Sweat and blood soaked his body as he gasped for air. His limbs trembled, his muscles screamed in protest, and exhaustion clouded his vision.
But still, he refused to surrender.
Arthur bit down on his lip until blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He looked up at the Shadow, his gaze unwavering.
"So what's your point?" he growled. "I'm still breathing, aren't I? I'm not done until I say I'm done. So pick up your sword and keep swinging—because the only way I'll stop is if my head is cut from my body."
With sheer willpower, Arthur pushed himself to his feet, shaking with every movement. His muscles rebelled against him, but he ignored them. His sword scraped against the ground as he stared into the Shadow's formless visage, unyielding.
Shakily, he raised his arms, gripping his blade with both hands. His sword trembled in his grasp, but he took a deep breath and steadied himself. Adjusting his footing, he lifted his weapon into the same upright stance as when their duel had begun.
The Shadow remained expressionless, yet its posture spoke for it. Respect.
Arthur took a step forward—
A silver streak flashed.
His sword shattered.
His head flew from his small, battered corpse.
This was the Shadow's final act of courtesy—for the conviction Arthur had shown.
—
"UGHHHHH!!!"
Arthur awoke with a yell, startling Cosmo beside him.
His hands shot to his neck as he gasped for air. His bedsheets were drenched with blood and sweat, and many of his wounds had carried over from the dream realm into reality.
"Damn it!" he hissed, slamming his fist into the mattress. "Even though I've improved by leaps and bounds, I'm still no closer to defeating him than when I first started!"
Despite his words sounding like a complaint, a grin stretched across his face.
"Just how strong is he, really? It's going to be that much sweeter when I finally manage to defeat him!"
He looked down at his trembling hands, his grin widening.
"Who knew having such a strong opponent would be this exciting…?"
Shaking his head, Arthur jumped out of bed.
"Ah, right—today's the day I meet Dumbledore. I better get ready."
Falling into his usual morning routine, Arthur exercised at dawn before preparing for the day—though not without Merlin stopping him first to heal his wounds.
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