A loud clang of clashing blades rang out, followed by a piercing screech of sliding metal. The boy met the commander's swing, holding the sword at an angle, but not straight, but with a deliberate tilt. He wasn't trying to fully absorb the force of the blow—only to soften its consequences.
His hands trembled: the commander's power far surpassed his own. The boy recoiled, trying to catch his breath, but as soon as he inhaled, his opponent lunged forward, delivering a side blow.
Before he could gather himself, he instinctively brought up his blade, but the force of the attack was too great—the blow sent him flying several meters back.
"What a shame, and I was just warming up," a malicious grin peeked through the helmet, and the voice sounded filled with contempt and mockery.
Meanwhile, the boy tried to regain control of his body. His hands trembled, his legs buckled, depriving him of stability. The commander had no intention of giving him a break—he was already approaching, preparing another side blow.
Sensing the enemy's approach, the youth raised his sword again for a block. This time, the blow was slightly easier for him, but before he could recover, the metal sole of the commander's boot slammed into his chest—right into his solar plexus.
The boy flew back, dropping his sword, and clutched the spot of impact with his left hand. The air seemed to disappear—he couldn't breathe, as if the very possibility of breathing had been taken from him in an instant.
This shock completely threw him off balance. He clutched his chest with his left hand, his eyes widened to their limit, revealing the whites. His mouth convulsively gasped for air, but his body refused to obey, leaving only futile attempts.
"For such riff-raff, we came with a whole detachment? Even any mongrel could handle this!" the commander's rage knew no bounds. "It's a shame to even kill you... But to torture you..." he drew out the last word, making it clear what awaited the boy in the coming moments.
Approaching his emaciated figure, he saw him gasping for air, like a fish thrown ashore. The man kicked his hands, forcing him to roll onto his stomach.
Thoughts swirled in panic, his body desperately trying to resume breathing. His consciousness retreated inward, clinging to fragments of memories, as if searching for instructions on how to breathe again.
"Get up!" the female voice sounded in the boy's head, imperious and alluring, but painfully familiar.
"What?" flashed through his thoughts, and at the same moment, his lungs filled with air, and his consciousness cleared.
The sword lay a step away from him, but a little further than it should have been. The commander was already raising his blade, preparing to pierce him.
At that moment, the boy remembered the truth he had held onto all these months. Survival was the main rule of his path. No matter the cost. The main thing was to survive.
Sensing mortal danger, he lunged his hands forward, not trying to stop the blow—only to change its trajectory. The chains of the shackles struck the blade with all their might, deflecting it to the side.
The blade plunged into the stone a few centimeters from his body. The commander froze for a moment, stunned by the miss, and that moment was enough.
The boy pushed himself off the ground and lunged for his sword. Grabbing it, he plunged the blade into the opponent's chest.
But the armor's metal deflected the blow, and the blade merely slid to the side.
"Ah, you vile creature!" the commander roared, trying to pull his sword out of the stone.
But before he could do so, the boy's blade pierced the helmet's slit.
"How?... Did I really lose?" the commander's voice echoed in his consciousness. But in the next moment, it fell silent, and the boy, sharply pulling out the sword, recoiled.
"Congratulations. That was impressive."
A female voice, full of satisfaction, sounded right in front of him. "How?! When did she get so close?" A shiver ran down his spine. The thought of attacking immediately faded—he saw what she was capable of. All that remained was to obey. He slowly raised his head.
"And you are clever, human child," she added, as if reading his thoughts.
"Human child?... But she's speaking my language... Is she not human?" Questions swarmed in his head, but the woman continued:
"You are the one who passed the trial... Amazing." There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. "My brothers and sisters prepared for years, but none succeeded. And you... With such skills... You should have died at the entrance."
The boy stared at her mask, unable to utter a word. So many questions—and not a single answer.
"I came for you. The Elder is convinced that we need you. But first... What is your name?" her voice sounded firm.
"I can't speak... And I don't have a name... Or... do I?" a mental scream mixed with realization. "I know it! I remember!"
"Finn... My... name... is... Finn..." each word was difficult, as if he were speaking them aloud for the first time.
"I will remember this name, Finn," the woman replied calmly. "But we must go. We rarely act so openly, but your detention forced us to make sacrifices. Others will come here soon, and we don't need any more trouble."
One of her servants picked up Finn and slung him over his shoulder. The entire group quickly disappeared into the distance, leaving behind only dust and silence.
And from the alley, a snow-white cat with equally snow-white, bottomless eyes emerged and sat at the exit. Next to her appeared a cat, her complete opposite, like yin and yang descended from paintings, and both fixed their gaze in the direction where the boy had disappeared. They watched him until the very horizon, then slowly dissolved like smoke.