Raphel's eyes narrowed, fixed on the floor as if measuring their worth by the dust. "It's an energy that evolves inside your heart," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "We awaken it and use it for the greater good. The Prisckon Stone is a medium between your soulforce and the input wire. All you need to know is that you must burn your heart to absorb soulforce. But you are vessels for now. You need training, meditation, and communion with nature—a level of training where a normal mortal would die." His voice hardened at the last words, like iron striking stone.
Without hesitation, Mikayle's hand shot up. "What kind of training?"
Raphel's gaze shifted toward Mira. "Swordplay will be an excellent start."
Mikayle's grin was flat, almost teasing. "We know sword fighting. Teach us how to do that—glowing eyes, forged blades, all of it."
Raphel's eyes locked onto Mikayle's, cold and unwavering. "If any of you defeat Mira in a duel, I will teach you the soulforce-absorbing process. Whether you break her in a day, a week, a month, or…" He turned slowly toward the three of them. "A year—it is up to you."
Mikayle's mischievous smile widened. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
No one spoke. Only Mira's voice broke the silence, flat and calm: "No."
Mikayle blinked. What did she just say?
Ivan pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Yuhan, as usual, was completely absorbed in his notebook, writing furiously but hidden from view.
Mikayle stepped into the center of the hall, the wooden sword heavy in his hands, every movement amplified in the eerie silence. Dust hung in the shafts of light slicing through the high windows, each particle caught mid-air, almost floating like sparks in slow motion. His heartbeat thudded audibly in his ears, the sound pounding over the hollow echoes of the hall. Across from him, Mira stood perfectly still, her dark eyes glinting like obsidian, calm and untouchable, as if she were a shadow stitched to the air itself.
"I challenge you to a duel," he said, voice trembling but sharp, slicing through the tension. He raised his sword in a defensive stance, muscles coiled tight as spring steel.
Mira tilted her head slightly, and a faint smirk appeared on her lips. "I don't even need a sword," she said lightly, voice silk over steel. The words barely left her mouth before the world seemed to shift.
Rage surged through Mikayle. The world slowed. Every second stretched into eternity as he lunged, swinging the sword with every ounce of his strength aimed at her midsection. The air hissed violently around the wooden blade, slicing like a blade through the suspended silence. But Mira wasn't there. The spot he aimed at had emptied as if reality itself had bent around her.
And then—impact.
A flash of motion, lightning in slow motion. Her heel arced through the air, striking the center of his back with surgical precision. Pain detonated along his spine. Mikayle's vision splintered into shards of white and red, lungs searing, and gravity betrayed him. He toppled forward in a perfect, tragic arc, chest slamming into the dirt floor with a sickening, cinematic crunch. The wooden sword skidded away, spinning and twirling before coming to rest at Mira's feet.
Mira landed lightly, barely bending her knees, the movement fluid as water over stone. Dust swirled around her feet, a halo in the muted morning light. She picked up the sword with a single, elegant hand, letting it rest effortlessly against her hip, as though it were an extension of her own body.
Mikayle coughed, chest heaving, tasting dust and blood in his mouth. He tried to rise, but each movement burned, every muscle rebelling. Mira circled him like a predator around prey, slow, deliberate, hypnotic. Each step she took was measured, precise, her shadow stretching and folding across the hall like liquid darkness.
"You're too predictable," she said softly, almost mockingly, voice echoing slightly, reverberating through his bones. "Strength alone isn't enough. Timing, control… anticipation. These are what win battles."
Mikayle rolled to one side, desperate, swinging the sword wildly in a flurry of motion. The world slowed unnaturally—dust motes frozen in mid-air, the sword leaving a luminous streak behind it, every muscle screaming, every heartbeat amplified. Mira danced around his flailing strikes effortlessly, slipping through every arc as though he weren't even there.
Then, sudden, blinding motion. Mira was in front of him, faster than thought, sword pressed mere inches from his chest. The metallic weight of inevitability bore down on him. His eyes widened. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to move, to strike—but she held him frozen in the moment, gaze locking onto his like steel clamps on fragile wood.
"You need to predict, not react," she whispered, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, her shadow swallowing him. "Flow with the battle… become one with it, or it will destroy you."
Time snapped back. Mikayle gasped, muscles trembling, pain lancing from every joint. Mira stepped back, letting him catch the sword as he sank to one knee, chest heaving, sweat and dust coating him. Every inhale was a fight; every exhale, a surrender to her supremacy.
For a heartbeat, the hall seemed suspended in perfect silence, dust falling in glittering arcs, sunlight catching every moted fragment like a thousand tiny sparks. Mikayle looked at her, awe and frustration clashing violently in his chest. She wasn't just faster. She wasn't just stronger. She was untouchable, an elegant storm contained in human form.
Mira's faint smile lingered, gentle yet untouchable, before she turned and stepped back, leaving Mikayle kneeling in the dust-streaked sunlight. The hall seemed to exhale with him, the echo of his failure hanging like a curtain in the air.
The sword felt impossibly heavy in his hands. He sank fully to the ground, sweat and dust mingling, chest burning, mind racing with every motion she had executed—every feint, every shift, every calculated step.
The duel was over, yet in the haze of pain and embarrassment, a spark ignited. Deep, stubborn, insistent—the kind of fire that would not die until he met her again, fully ready, and perhaps, one day, leveled.
And somewhere, in the stillness of the hall, the faintest whisper of her presence lingered, a silent promise that the battle had only just begun.
Ivan's eyes widened. She's on a whole other level. He realized none of them could truly measure up to her yet.
Raphel broke the silence, voice heavy with both admonition and admiration. "That was not just defeat… it was humiliation. Mira has honed her movements for years. If you watched closely, you would see she didn't just jump—she let the wind guide her. Total concentration is required to match her. I suggest the three of you take her at once if you wish to do it quickly."
He clapped, signaling the end of the session. Mikayle stomped out of the hall, Yuhan and Ivan following after finishing their notes.