Strictly speaking, the Wind Stance that Nocturne had adopted was incomplete. Not of any fault of her own, but for the elementary reason that it required a Wind Aura Master’s abilities to truly flourish.

Nocturne’s quick movements were heralded by the sound of her footfall rebounding off the magic imbued tiles that seamlessly covered the training room’s floor.

On the other end of their makeshift duel arena, Altair had committed himself to a more measured stride. His movements were attuned to a different wavelength, calmer yet carrying with them a precision that the silver haired girl charging towards him lacked.

Thus it came as no surprise to both Feran and Vorina when the thirteen year old Nocturne managed to outpace her brother, committing to a swift, arcing slash that would send many in their grade fumbling to get their guard up in time.

Altair, though, maintained a cool expression on his face as he shifted his weight to his right, lunging sideways into a graceful, seemingly effortless roll that stretched the imagination of what an ordinary thirteen year old teenager should have been capable of. But the white-haired boy was already long removed from the realm of ordinary, as his physical body reached the limits of what it could latently draw from the atmosphere.

And even among his fellow peers, Altair knew the enhancements to his own body were no less than extraordinary.

As a swordsman, Feran exceeded him in raw skill. Vorina had no intention of becoming an Aura Master, but even then her own reflexes and battle instincts were nothing to scoff at.

It had been over a year since Altair had been bested by either of them and by extension, the rest of their class.

The reason?

The maneuver he had just executed; halting his momentum by tilting his body a little to the back, pivoting on his feet and then lunging into a smooth roll— came to him naturally, like most such pirouettes did.

He was simply faster. Reacted quicker. Saw openings in an opponent’s thrust not because he had seen iterations of similar strikes hundreds of times before but… because in Altair’s eyes, his opponent wasn’t just moving fast enough.

Nocturne though… she had offered him no such leeway. Not as Altair pivoted on his foot just in time to see a sword arc cutting down at an angle.

He hadn’t seen his sister’s approach, but Altair had heard enough.

Both feet planted into the ground, Altair bent his knees a little further and held his sword defensively before him.

The Earth Stance was the one he had adopted, but unlike Nocturne, he was not faithful to any one style.

Four of the last six years, he had studied the art of swordplay diligently. He had learnt the sword forms, memorized their movements by heart and rigorously practiced them until he was satisfied that there was nothing more to learn from the basic style.

The next two years, he had broken down everything he had learnt until he had devised something more suitable to his own combat style.

As Nocturne’s wooden sword clashed against his own, their strength more or less evenly matched. Altair didn’t hesitate to respond with the only immediate counter he saw, kicking out with enough strength to knock his sister off balance without dealing anything but a light bruise, if even.

He wasn’t surprised when Nocturne disengaged and easily dodged his sneaky leg kick, but that was what he had been gunning for. His right leg, that was still hovering mid-air, stomped forward and Altair drew his blade inward.

Flame Stance- Incineration.

The thrust that followed chased the silhouette of the retreating Nocturne, a merciless strike that would punch through the abdomen of an opponent in real combat with the bulk of his body weight propelling the strike.

This time, Altair was surprised— if only a little.

Nocturne dodged, her fluttering white hair obscuring his view for a few moments.

But she hadn’t only just dodged, no— she had sidestepped his strike and was now moving parallel to his blade, a small smile dancing on her lips.

“Shit,” Altair cursed as he threw himself to the side seconds before another arcing slash cut at, this time, his shoulder blade.

He knew though, what the consequences of his hurried retreat would be.

He’d blown the one chance, the one opening within reach.

And now, as he once again pivoted, he knew that he had lost the initiative too.

Nocturne wouldn’t give him the opening to try the same trick twice.

That was the difference between them.

Altair didn’t want to give up on swordsmanship. No, he was quite passionate about it. Well, among the dozen other pursuits he split his attention among. He generally knew and understood that his passions were more inclined towards the path of the mage, yet he also found himself deeply chagrined upon thinking of the possibility, of a future where he didn’t know how to defend himself in close-ranged combat.

Plus, if he was to ever defeat an Aura Master, he needed to understand how they thought and how they trained.

Nocturne though…

She was different.

Altair knew that he didn’t have the same hunger she held for swordsmanship. A girl who, in her past life, would struggle to even walk without assistance could now fly. Her body, once a prison, now showed a potential for growth that Altair had tried, failed and tried again to logically, biologically, physiologically explain, only to conclude that magic and science were parallel studies intertwined in ways that he had yet to grasp.

Nocturne was hungry.

When she discovered that she grew faster and nimbler with every passing year, she trained harder. There was no one left in the class that could provide her with a real challenge in their spars, but that didn’t stop her from toiling after hours. Hacking away at straw targets with a vengeance, cycling through the sword forms to hone the basic techniques into decidedly lethal ones and somehow, enjoying the process.

So he wasn’t entirely surprised when the sword in his hand went flying away after parrying a series of furious slashes. He had parried around ten in quick succession, sent a step back in intervals of two strikes without being given any time to think beyond the barest of defensive instincts, let alone counter.

So focused he had been on surviving the onslaught, that he hadn’t even noticed the toll parrying the consecutive strikes had been taking on his wrists, each clash loosening his grip a little further.

The eleventh strike had come and taken along with it, his blade.

Altair Isadora Braveheart had lost their final duel, putting the final record at-

“And we have our winner,” Vorina’s voice cut through the disarmed Altair’s musings. “Nocturne Isadora Braveheart’s four hundred and seventieth victory out of a total of seven hundred and twenty eight duels!”