Gritting his teeth, Finn forced himself to raise his head again and meet her gaze. Eva's eyes were full of serene calm. No fear, no hope, no impatience... Nothing. Her eyes, those bottomless green lakes, reflected absolutely nothing, as if she were not a living being, but part of the surrounding stone. While in Finn's eyes, he felt it, anyone could read a whole storm—blind fear, uncertainty, and a desperate attempt to gather his will into a fist.
Finn once again assessed the weapon in his hand, feeling its weight and balance. And then, unable to bear the oppressive silence and that piercing gaze any longer, he broke from his stance. It was a frontal attack, born of desperation and instinct, not calculation.
He rushed forward, gaining speed with short, quick steps. The katana in his hand was lowered, its blade almost touching the moss. His entire posture, his hunched shoulders, and his low-hanging head spoke of one thing—he intended to use the inertia of his run to, upon getting close, forcefully bring the blade up from below, into his belly or chest, hoping to break through the defense with brute force.
The distance closed instantly. The sword, gaining speed from the swing, had almost reached Eva's body. And at that moment, she seemed to move only slightly. Not a step, not a jump—just a barely perceptible shift of her torso, smooth and effortless. Her own katana hadn't even left its scabbard. Instead, she delivered a short, sharp blow with the scabbard to his blade.
A dry, wooden click sounded. Finn's hands responded with fiery pain, as if he had struck not wood, but a stone block. His blade, meeting an insurmountable obstacle, flew aside with a loud clang, almost slipping from his weakened fingers.
"What...?" Finn gasped, stepping back and looking at his numb hands.
"You rely too much on brute force," Eva replied calmly, finally drawing her katana from its scabbard in one smooth motion. The steel, cold and polished to a mirror shine, emerged silently. "If it can help against monsters, it won't against people."
She raised the blade over her head, preparing to bring it down on Finn. Instinct took over again. The boy, forgetting the pain in his hands, instinctively placed his blade in a horizontal defense above his head, ready to receive the crushing blow. His muscles tensed to the limit, his eyelids closed in anticipation of the inevitable collision.
But the expected blow did not come. There was no deafening clang of steel, no pressure on his block. Instead, Eva's palm pressed against his chest, slightly below his solar plexus. The blow was not strong, but it was precise and irresistible. Finn felt the air knocked out of his lungs, and his legs buckled. He collapsed onto the soft moss, helpless and ridiculous, dropping the katana from his hands.
When he looked up, coughing, he saw that Eva was still holding her blade above her head, in the same pose, as if he hadn't moved. But now he noticed the details: her free left hand, the very one that had just pushed him, was extended forward and frozen in its final movement... a pushing movement. Her fingers were closed, her palm turned, her wrist perfectly straight.
"Get up."
Eva said it curtly and indifferently, lowering her blade. Finn, still trying to catch his breath, sharply rose from the moss, picking up the dropped katana from the ground. He brushed his palms on the rough fabric of his trousers, swept the sweat-soaked hair from his face, and again assumed a fighting stance, albeit uncertain, but full of stubborn desire.
Without further ado, Eva began to advance. Her movements were like a quiet whirlwind—unhurried, but inevitable. She delivered light, almost weightless chopping blows. The katana in her hand described elegant, economical arcs in the air; there was not a single wasted movement, not a gram of wasted strength. Each blow was precise and directed at his blade, his forearm, his shoulder—not to wound, but to test, to teach, to break his defense.
Finn defended himself desperately, clumsily. His blade met her steel with a loud clang, bounced off, and rose again. He retreated, stumbled over the unevenness of the moss, his hands trembling from the strain. A blow—he barely managed to block it, and the force of the collision sent a jolt of pain through his wrist. Another blow—he tried to parry, but her blade slid along his, changed trajectory, and gently touched his shoulder, indicating a fatal vulnerability. He fell. Either from loss of balance, or from a feigned, but absolutely precise, blow to the leg. Each time, barely touching the ground, he would immediately, with a hoarse exhale, get up, clenching his teeth, and resume his stance, meeting her serene gaze. His clothes were streaked green from the moss, his palms scratched, his breathing broken into a ragged, wheezing rhythm.
Eva, seeing this futile struggle, this heap of muscular effort without a drop of understanding, finally ceased her attacks. She stepped back, and her blade smoothly disappeared into its scabbard with a quiet rustle.
Finn collapsed, exhausted, onto the soft moss, his chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath. Covered in sweat, with clinging blades of grass and dirt, he lay staring at the glowing cave ceiling. Eva, on the other hand, stood motionless, her kimono immaculate, not a hint of fatigue on her face, her breathing rhythm unchanged by a single iota. She continued to look at her defeated opponent with the same serenity.
"You are too weak, Finn," her voice was as cold as the steel of her blade. "You hold the sword so tightly, as if your life is in that blade. The blade is an extension of your body. There is no need to fear letting it go. That's enough for today. Adam will take over from here."
Finn, still trying to catch his breath, whispered softly:
"Sorry."
But Eva, turning her head slightly and casting a brief glance at him, replied dryly:
"Don't apologize for your weakness. Change it."
With these words, she turned and, as silently as she had appeared, left the training field, leaving him alone in the deathly silence.
Finn sat for a long time, hunched over, examining his hands. They trembled from overexertion, and fresh calluses reddened his palms. He felt a deep fatigue spreading through his body, and he wanted to just fall asleep there, on the moss. Suddenly, he felt a slight vibration in the ground beneath him. Looking around, he saw that a large wooden mug, full of the familiar clear nectar, had risen directly from the roots that intertwined the floor. Without hesitation, Finn took it and greedily emptied it in one gulp. The life-giving moisture immediately began its work, washing away fatigue and restoring clarity to his thoughts.
"I see the Great Tree has taken a liking to you, Finn," a calm voice said.
Finn looked up and saw Adam standing at the edge of the field. The long-eared elf walked towards him, a slight smile illuminating his marble face.