Daros narrowed his eyes, watching the young man before him with cautious scrutiny.
He was dressed in the kind of elegant black formalwear favored by nobles, his hands covered in spotless white gloves. He looked nothing like someone who'd been traveling through the wilderness—rather, he resembled the aristocrats Daros had seen attending grand balls and banquets in the great cities long ago. A longsword hung not at his waist, as was common for swordsmen, but slung diagonally behind his back—a position that made drawing the blade anything but easy. Most swordsmen wore their blades on their left hip, allowing them to draw quickly with their right hand. But Black's sword was sheathed behind him, and his right hand now rested gently on the pommel that jutted out, his fingers caressing it softly. A posture that seemed designed to hinder a swordsman's ability to strike at a moment's notice.
Before the battle began, Daros would never have given this young upstart a second glance. As a High-Tier Swordsman, he could tell at a glance that the youth had no real combat prowess—his skin was fair, his frame slender and lacking in muscle, the unmistakable mark of someone who rarely trained or fought. But now, Daros was no longer so confident in his judgment. He had already witnessed a Mid-Tier Swordsman wielding Attribute Power and the Lost Sword Arts—a formidable foe indeed. And now, that warrior had stepped back, ceding the fight to this seemingly frail, unimposing young man. There had to be a trap here.
Regardless, battle was inevitable.
Daros raised his longsword, pointing it straight ahead, his expression grave. A brilliant glow flashed along the blade, then wrapped itself around the entire sword. In the next instant, Daros's figure blurred.
This was not the long-lost Accelerated Charge mastered by Judy, but the orthodox Charge technique wielded by all swordsmen of Mid-Tier and above in this era. Yet in the hands of a High-Tier Swordsman, it carried a terrifying aura of menace. To the onlookers, a streak of dazzling white light erupted from Daros's position, streaking toward Black like a bolt of lightning, leaving a silver trail in its wake. Wherever it passed, the ground cracked under the invisible pressure of his soul energy, dust swirling and scattering in the gale of his passage.
An unstoppable force.
Ofalil, huddled behind the spirit warriors, stared in terror, her hands clapped tightly over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Though she was still some distance from the battlefield, the sight of that silver streak hurtling toward Black filled her with an overwhelming sense of dread—as if she were facing not a man, but a raging flood or a crashing wave, a power no mortal could hope to stand against, let alone resist.
And Black still hadn't drawn his sword.
*Got him!*
Whatever the reason for Black's lack of reaction, Daros had no intention of letting this golden opportunity slip away. He watched as the tip of his blade drew within inches of Black's chest—another fraction of a step, and it would pierce his heart, ending the fight once and for all.
Then, a clear, ringing clash echoed through the air.
**Clang!**
There was no surge of brute strength, no deviation in the trajectory of his thrust. Yet Daros suddenly found the forward momentum of his Charge vanishing without a trace. The lightning-fast strike, infused with the full power of his soul energy, ground to a halt as if frozen in place, unable to advance another inch. At that same moment, the corner of Daros's eye caught a faint streak of black light hurtling toward him.
Years of combat experience as a High-Tier Swordsman kicked in instantly. Daros did not waste time wondering why his attack had failed. He snapped his sword back to block his chest and rolled backward in a single fluid motion, narrowly evading the black streak. But the missed strike did not falter. Instead, it paused for a split second in midair, then twisted into a zigzag pattern and continued its advance—swift and relentless as a striking viper, giving Daros no chance to catch his breath.
By the time Daros rolled to a stop and lifted his head, the black streak was already inches from his forehead.
*How can he be this fast!?*
Daros's eyes widened in shock. To this day, he still couldn't fathom the mechanics of that attack. Though it had felt like an eternity, the entire sequence—from his parry to his backward roll—had taken less than two seconds. Yet the young man had seemed to anticipate his every move, launching a seamless follow-up attack that left him with no room to maneuver.
**Hah!**
Sensing mortal danger, Daros let out a roar, leaping to his feet in an instant. The longsword in his hand blazed with brilliant light, weaving into an impenetrable barrier that shielded his body. The full power of a High-Tier Swordsman was on display—gale-force winds and swirling soul energy surged around him, swallowing the faint black streak completely.
With that desperate defense, Daros finally escaped the ghostly attack. He gasped for breath, then lifted his head—and his face paled.
Black was still standing exactly where he'd been a moment ago. The only difference was that the sword behind his back was now halfway out of its sheath.
**Snick!**
No—wait. It was sheathing again. Even as Daros stared at him, Black slid the sword back into its scabbard, as smoothly as if he'd never drawn it at all.
*Did he draw it? Did he actually draw the sword?*
Ofalil stared in stunned disbelief, her eyes wide. The bandits exchanged confused glances. Unlike Daros, who had been in the thick of the fight, what they saw was far more straightforward—and far more bewildering. They watched as Daros charged toward Black like a bolt of lightning, only to stop abruptly for no apparent reason, then roll backward and leap to his feet, conjuring a sword barrier in a panic. The entire skirmish had lasted barely ten seconds. When they shifted their gaze from the panting Daros back to Black, they were astonished to see that his sword had been halfway drawn at some point—only for him to sheath it again moments later, as if the whole thing had been a meaningless gesture.
*What in the world was that?*
The onlookers stared, baffled. Daros, however, was as pale as a ghost, his eyes fixed on Black's right hand, his jaw clenched so tight it threatened to crack.
*Sheath Flash?*
Daros knew this technique well. Unlike the Accelerated Charge—a Lost Sword Art that hadn't been seen in centuries—Sheath Flash was still widely practiced across the continent. It was a defensive skill born from a swordsman's instinctive response to danger, honed to its absolute limit. A swordsman could be ambushed at any time, but circumstances rarely allowed them to keep their weapon in hand at all times. In this regard, mages had a distinct advantage—many of their defensive spells activated automatically upon sensing an attack, giving them precious time to react. Swordsmen had no such luxury. Faced with a sudden assault, they had to rely solely on their own reflexes. Sheath Flash was the pinnacle of that reflexive defense—it compressed the time between detecting a threat and counterattacking to the bare minimum, allowing a swordsman to transition into a combat stance instantly, drawing their blade and striking in the same fluid motion. A flash of steel, a blade born from its sheath—that was why it was named Sheath Flash.
Mastering Sheath Flash required far more than just raw strength or intimate familiarity with one's weapon. In fact, it was one of the most advanced techniques even among High-Tier Swordsmen. It defied spatial constraints—no matter the environment, no matter how awkward the position of the sword, the moment Sheath Flash was activated, the blade would be in the swordsman's hand, a result as inevitable as day following night.
As such, Sheath Flash was a skill many High-Tier Swordsmen aspired to master—but few ever achieved. It demanded not just strength, but also natural talent, intuition, and inborn aptitude. Countless High-Tier Swordsmen spent their entire lives chasing this skill, only to fall short. Daros himself had once attempted to learn it, but had ultimately abandoned the effort in frustration.
Everything suddenly clicked into place. When Daros had charged at Black and launched his thrust, Black had used Sheath Flash to block the attack. Daros didn't know how he'd done it—but he had clearly succeeded. Then, Black had followed up with two consecutive counterattacks using the residual momentum of the Sheath Flash, before sheathing his sword again. Daros knew this well—it was the signature counterattack sequence of Sheath Flash.
*What is going on here?*
Daros found himself staring up at the sky, as if half-expecting it to have turned a different color. A Mid-Tier Swordsman wielding Lost Sword Arts… a young noble mastering a top-tier High-Tier technique. For a split second, Daros wondered if he'd woken up in the Age of Luminous Moons, somehow transported back to that era of crimson skies, blood and death, where powerful archmages and Holy Knights roamed the land. Only then would such terrifying warriors and armies make sense. But now… where had these people even come from?
The sky was still blue.
*Somehow, I think it would be better if it were red.*
"Young man… who *are* you?"
Daros swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. Though they hadn't engaged in a full, formal battle yet, that single exchange had been enough to tell him that Black was at least a High-Tier Swordsman—his equal in power, or so Daros desperately hoped. He also knew that Sheath Flash alone shouldn't have been able to block his Charged Thrust. This meant the young man was hiding far more than he'd revealed. Daros had his own secrets and hidden powers, but he was already past his prime. The youth before him was still in the bloom of his life—and that was the root of Daros's hesitation. A High-Tier Swordsman who could master Sheath Flash at such a young age was a force to be reckoned with, someone who demanded the utmost caution. And Daros couldn't help but wonder—could it be that the young man was…? He shook his head violently, dismissing the absurd thought as quickly as it had arisen.
But in response to Daros's question, Black merely raised his left index finger and shook it gently, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You don't need to know that, Mr. Daros. As for my intentions… I thought I made them quite clear in the letter, didn't I? So there's really nothing left for us to discuss."
Black's voice was soft and calm. As he spoke, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver pocket watch. He held it up to the sun, adjusting the hands slightly, then narrowed his eyes and slipped it back into his pocket.
"We're running out of time. I need to leave some leeway for any… unexpected developments. So let's cut the pleasantries short."
With that, Black's right hand caressed the pommel of his sword behind his back—slowly, tenderly, as if touching the body of a lover. In the blink of an eye, the pitch-black longsword, covered in intricate, mysterious patterns, appeared in his hand as if it had materialized out of thin air.
"A strength-type High-Tier Swordsman… exactly what I need. Thank the Holy Light—I really am in luck."
The lazy, relaxed smile vanished from Black's face. He raised the longsword slowly, but instead of assuming an aggressive stance, he gripped the hilt with both hands, holding the blade vertically before his chest. Then, he opened his eyes wide and pointed the sword straight at Daros.
A declaration. And a beginning.
At the sight of this seemingly meaningless gesture, Daros's face turned ashen. It was a simple stance—yet combined with the power Black had already displayed, it took on a new, terrifying significance.
"Knight Swordsmanship…"
The words escaped Daros's lips, a whimper of despair, a cry of terror. For the first time in his life, he felt the icy grip of absolute, unyielding hopelessness closing around his heart.