Ashtoria still stood tall. The training blade in her hand was lowered, but her voice remained sharp and clear, like the edge of a knife.

“In general,” she said quietly, “there are four fundamental styles in the art of swordsmanship.”

Riven, still half-bent with his hands on his knees, lifted his head slowly, listening.

“First, the straight and precise sword. This style focuses on accuracy. Every strike aims for a weak point. The movements are minimal, but deadly.”

Ashtoria stepped lightly, her gestures tracing the motion through the air. “It’s usually favored by calm, calculating swordsmen.”

“Then there’s the heavy and powerful sword,” she continued without pause. “It relies on strength, momentum, and direct impact. The movements are slower, but a single blow can shatter an opponent’s blade. This… is not a style suited for you.” Her eyes ran over Riven’s lean frame from head to toe.

Riven didn’t take offense. He knew Ashtoria spoke without mockery.

“The third is the fast and agile sword. It’s more like a dance. Attacks come from unpredictable angles, filled with feints and shifting tempos. Difficult to master, but lethal in the right hands.”

Ashtoria stopped in front of him, then sat gracefully on a flat stone nearby. Her blood-red eyes softened, turning more personal.

“And the last… the soft and flowing sword. This style is like water. It doesn’t resist force directly but redirects it, flowing with it, and striking through the smallest openings. It suits those who are patient and sensitive to the rhythm of battle.”

Riven listened in silence, letting each word settle.

Ashtoria’s gaze deepened. “Before you can create your own style, you must first master one… or two of the foundations that best suit you.”

Riven nodded slowly. “So you think I fit the fast and agile style?”

Ashtoria shrugged lightly, unwilling to impose her opinion. “It’s only my guess. I know you, but I’m not you. The one who knows your body, your instincts, and your mind best… is yourself.”

Silence stretched between them. The wind carried the scent of dusk and dust from the training grounds.

Riven lowered his gaze, holding Riftmaker across his lap. His fingers traced along the wooden blade, as if trying to draw out an answer from within himself.

He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling each description she had given:

A strike that is straight and sharp…

A blow that is strong and heavy…

Movements swift as shadows…

And flow, soft as water…

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to rush it.

For the first time, it felt like he was stepping toward something real—something that might define not only how he fought, but how he lived.

Ashtoria then stepped into the middle of the yard. The fading sunlight framed her silhouette, casting a copper-red sheen across her tied-up hair. In her hand, the training sword looked ordinary, but when she held it, it became an extension of herself.

“Watch closely,” she said softly, her eyes burning with strange composure. “The four fundamental sword styles.”

She drew a slow breath and sank into her stance. Her steps grew heavy, her breath steady, then—

With one powerful downward swing, the ground in front of her cracked slightly. Dust burst upward from the impact. The strike wasn’t fast, but it was fierce. Riven could see how her shoulder rotated, how her back muscles tightened to channel all her power into the motion.

“This is the heavy and powerful sword. Weight, force, destruction. But if you miss, your opening is enormous.” Her voice remained calm, yet the strength behind her strike could have sent a grown man flying.

She straightened, shifting into another stance. Her body became fluid. Each step seemed to glide above the ground. Her sword no longer struck—it flowed, circling, weaving, moving with elegance toward fatal points. She spun, evaded, then countered from impossible angles.

“The soft and flowing sword. Moving like water, striking when the enemy falters. It’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm and direction. You let the opponent attack first, then guide them toward their own downfall.”

Riven watched intently. The motion looked unreal—light, almost beautiful, yet filled with a lurking danger. But he knew his body could never move that way.

Then Ashtoria shifted again. Her posture sharpened. Lower stance, light on her feet, her body leaning forward.

ZRAK!

In an instant, she moved. One horizontal slash, followed by an upward thrust, then a quick retreat and a strike from below. Her speed made it almost impossible for the eye to follow.

“The fast and agile sword. You move before the enemy can react. End the fight in one breath, and by the time they realize what happened, you’re already behind them.”

Riven froze. That style felt natural. As if his body could understand it simply by watching. A style built on reflex, momentum, and decisions made in a heartbeat.

But Ashtoria wasn’t done.

With one last transition, she took the simplest stance of all—upright, sword aimed forward, one hand behind her back for balance. Every motion measured. When she slashed, it was precise, clean, almost effortless. Each cut—stab or slice—was executed with absolute efficiency, no wasted movement.

“The straight and precise sword. Direct, sharp, focused on a single point. Every movement is designed to kill in one precise moment.” Her eyes met his briefly. “This style requires calmness and absolute conviction in your intent.”

Ashtoria lowered her sword. The evening sun hung low in the sky, painting the air with fading orange that deepened toward blood-red. She watched Riven quietly.

“Before you can create your own form, you must understand the foundation of all forms. Four main styles. Each with its own strength and weakness. Learn them. Feel them. Then choose which will become your foundation.”

Riven didn’t reply immediately. He nodded slightly, his expression serious. The four styles turned over in his mind. The heavy one felt too slow. The flowing one too flexible for his rigid frame. But the fast style… and the precise one?

He thought back to how his body moved in battle—how his instincts always pushed him to seek openings, to strike quickly, from unexpected angles.

And how, even without realizing it, he had always tried to make every strike exact.

Ashtoria watched him silently. She seemed to know what he was thinking. To know that the answer was close.

.

.

.

Night descended slowly over the Rathsture Residence, like mist slipping quietly through the cracks of time.

In the distance, the sound of carriage wheels echoed faintly, rolling against the damp cobblestones left slick by afternoon rain. There was nothing unusual about that sound at first, just another carriage passing by. But in the silence of night, it felt heavier, more deliberate… more significant.

The courtyard lamps were still faintly lit when a carriage stopped before the main gate.

It wasn’t large, but its craftsmanship was clearly expensive: polished black wood, light iron rims, and thick glass windows veiled by dark velvet curtains. The small crest engraved on its side did not belong to House Rathsture, but to someone who once had the right to speak as an equal.

Two men stepped out.

The first was tall, lean, and imperious. His long dark-blue coat was trimmed with gold embroidery at the sleeves, the high collar nearly covering his neck. His black hair, streaked faintly with white, was combed neatly back. He held a polished black cane capped with bronze, not for support, but as a mark of rank, or perhaps a warning to anyone in his path. His gaze was calm, yet faintly disdainful, as if the very air offended him.

The second was younger, wilder in presence, yet unmistakably noble. His black hair hung loose down his back, and his gray eyes gleamed with sharp judgment. He wore an elegant training outfit, not meant for battle, but for someone who wanted others to know he could fight if he wished.

One of the guards at the gate straightened as the two approached. The night air seemed to cool, listening.

The taller man with the cane stopped a few steps from the gate. His expression stayed calm, yet carried the authority of someone accustomed to giving orders rather than asking favors.

“Inform Lord Rathsture,” he said in a low, clear voice, “that his guests have arrived and wish to speak with him… tonight.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep