Chun's breath stopped in that instant.
She saw it.
It wasn't wishful thinking. It wasn't some desperate illusion born from fear.
She truly saw it—
Wei's blade began to split.
One streak. Two. Three…
The flash of steel layered over itself in the night, wave upon wave, like a sudden tide of silver bursting outward. Ring after ring pressed toward the terrifying enemy. The crushing force that had made it hard to breathe only moments ago was slowly swallowed by that storm of blade-shadows.
This was no longer a set of rigid forms memorized by heart.
It looked more like instinct. Like breathing. Like the wild fury of someone cornered with no way out, striking back because there was nothing left to lose.
Chun's fingertips turned cold, yet her whole body trembled uncontrollably.
Hope, suppressed for too long, slipped free like sunlight breaking through clouds that could no longer hold it back.
Little Butterfly suddenly lifted her head. Her eyes shone with startling brightness, like a spark flaring to life in the dark.
"Sister… did Brother Wei win?"
Her voice was soft, but it trembled with urgency.
Chun's throat tightened. She didn't answer. She simply nodded.
The nod was slight, yet it seemed to drain all her strength.
"Then… can we go home now?"
The question was too innocent.
And far too cruel.
Chun's eyes stung. Her voice almost failed her.
"As long as Wei is still standing… we still have hope."
She spoke slowly.
As if she were telling Little Butterfly.
As if she were telling herself.
As though repeating the words could keep this fragile light from going out.
As long as Wei remained on his feet—
They still had a way to live.
The blade-light exploded.
A dull, tearing sound cracked through the air.
It wasn't sharp, but it made the heart seize.
In the next instant—
Everything changed.
Blood burst from Wei's chest.
It sprayed straight out, like a water-skin ripped open.
His body was hurled into the air by a violent force.
The blade-light shattered.
His figure spun midair.
He looked like a windmill gone mad, carving a cruel arc through the night.
Time seemed to stretch thin.
Chun saw that streak of blood trail behind him in a long, narrow line.
Little Butterfly's smile was still frozen on her face.
The fragile hope before their eyes collapsed without warning.
—
The Black Warrior was absolutely certain his killing strike would end the boy's life.
At such close range,
with no guard—
there was no way he could survive.
But something was wrong.
The boy had been blown away too fast.
Before the Black Warrior could understand it—
Wei was already flipping head over heels.
He landed upside down, one hand braced against the ground, the other gripping his blade.
For a heartbeat, he looked like an iron spike driven into the earth.
"Another dishonorable bastard!"
Wei roared.
Because that strike had not been one of the eight forms.
At the edge of life and death, he moved without thought.
A move born of impulse.
"Chop the Pig's Leg!"
The blade tore through the night at an utterly unreasonable angle—fast, savage, merciless.
There was only one target.
The back of the Black Warrior's knee.
Wei had noticed it long ago. These undead warriors wore armor everywhere—but not on their knees. Perhaps they needed the freedom to move.
The hollow behind the knee—
the weakest point of any fighter.
He didn't need to kill.
He only needed to stop him from moving quickly.
Just a little time.
Just enough to rush past—
to save Chun.
A white arc of steel cut low through the wind.
Wei knew clearly—
this was his only chance.
Little Butterfly's voice trembled again.
"Sister Chun… is Brother Wei hurt?"
Blades twisted and flashed.
Shadows tangled with streaks of blood.
"No…" Chun stared forward, her throat tight."He counterattacked."
"He hit him."
Three short words.
Little Butterfly's eyes lit up at once.
"Really?"
Chun nodded.
"Thank heavens…"
The last words broke, almost like a sob.
-----------------
"Pfft."
The sound of the saber cutting into the back of the knee was not sharp.
Not at all like chopping wood.
It was more like forcing a blade of steel into something tough and wet—something that resisted, then slowly gave way.
For a heartbeat, even the wind seemed to stop.
Wei felt it clearly—
the instant the edge sliced through flesh and severed tendon, the force in front of him—the steady, unyielding pressure that had been bearing down on him all this time—suddenly collapsed at one corner.
The Black Warrior's body jerked.
He staggered back a step, disbelief flashing across his masked face.
A strange sense of imbalance rose from his lower body.
Wei's heart nearly burst with savage joy.
Yes.
That was it.
That feeling.
As the saber tore free, black blood sprayed outward.
Yellow fat curled open. Pale, severed tendons quivered faintly in the night.
The blade had gone deep.
The step the Black Warrior meant to take—
fell empty.
That leg did not bear his weight as it should have.
His body lurched forward.
Like a towering structure that had suddenly lost its foundation—
its center collapsing inward.
"Thud—!"
The crash of armored metal slamming into the ground exploded through the night.
One of the Black Warrior's knees
hit the mud hard.
In that instant—
time was forced to a halt.
He was the first to understand that something was wrong.
Because in all his memories of battle,
this height—
had never belonged to him.
Kneeling.
That posture,
for him,
was a state reserved for after death.
His armored forearm shot down instinctively to brace himself.
Mud split beneath his palm.
He could feel it clearly—
the strength was still there.
The muscle was still there.
Skill, judgment, experience—
all intact.
But the pivot point—
was gone.
He lowered his head.
For the first time,
he saw his own blood
falling to a place lower than himself.
Black droplets sank into the soil,
spreading slowly.
And in that moment,
an absurd—
yet undeniable thought
forced its way into his mind:
"If that blade…
had gone a little deeper?"
He jerked his head up.
His gaze locked forward.
The boy stood before him.
Breathing ragged.
Body trembling faintly.
But the blade in his hand—
was terrifyingly steady.
How many years had it been since he had last been wounded?
The sensation felt almost unreal.
Like a dream.
Yet the pain tearing through his knee was brutally real.
He was a high-ranking warrior.
He had never endured such a humiliating fight—
and his opponent was a boy of thirteen or fourteen.
"Puh—!"
A mouthful of blood burst from the Black Warrior's lips.
It was not from the wound.
It was rage.
Humiliation.
The sheer fury of it forced the blood out of him.
But after that spray of red,
something inside him snapped back into place.
He suddenly realized something.
If that strike just now
had not aimed at the back of his knee—
but instead—
at the side of his neck?
The thought
sent a chill through him for the first time.
For the first time in the midst of battle—
he felt fear.