The sound of the impact cut through the air like thunder.

The two swords collided with enough force to create a small crater in the ground. Damon pushed with all his might, muscles tensed, gaze fixed—and, for the first time, it was Caerth who recoiled.

The veteran slid a few meters back on the beaten earth, his boots leaving deep tracks. He looked up and saw Damon before him—firm, upright, his body vibrating with energy.

The scrawny boy from months ago had disappeared.

What stood before him now was a warrior.

Broad chest, right arm covered in fine scars, and his gaze—cold, focused, sharp as a blade. Damon breathed slowly, vapor escaping from his lips in white clouds. The air around him trembled with the cold mana emanating from his body.

Caerth raised his sword, spinning it between his fingers. A slight, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face.

"Hmm…" he murmured, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. "It seems you've finally understood what it means to use your entire body in a strike."

Damon responded only with a small nod.

"You made me understand."

Caerth raised an eyebrow. "Good. Then show me how much you've understood."

And then he came.

The veteran advanced with a speed impossible for a man of his age. The air crackled around him, the dry sound of the sword tearing through the wind. Damon reacted instantly—his body moved on its own, ice sprouting from the ground in an arc, deflecting the blow.

Caerth's metal scraped against the ice, sparking. He spun, kicked, and Damon blocked with his mana-covered forearm. The impact was brutal, but the blond man maintained his balance and responded with a diagonal cut.

Caerth blocked—and the sound of steel echoed through the courtyard.

The training had begun.

The pace was insane. The swords clashed relentlessly, each blow heavier than the last. Damon's coldness and the warmth of Caerth's life force mingled, creating a thick mist around them.

Each step kicked up frozen dust.

Each impact made the air vibrate.

"Your strike is still a little slow," Caerth grunted, dodging by a hair's breadth.

"You talk too much," Damon replied, spinning his body and striking from below.

The ice followed the movement, rising like a bluish wave. Caerth jumped back, the tip of his cloak torn by the attack.

"Hah! Now it's starting to look like something," He smiled, his eyes gleaming like those of a predator. "Again!"

They advanced.

The following sequence was a blur. The sound of the blades was constant, like heavy rain. Damon used the sword as an extension of his body, and the cold mana reacted to each impulse, creating layers of ice that dissolved and reformed in rhythm with the blows.

Caerth noticed everything—the control, the flow, the instinct.

But he didn't back down.

He increased the pace, pushing the blond man to the limit.

A side blow.

Damon defended, shifting his weight.

Caerth rotated his wrist and attempted a vertical counterattack.

Damon took a step to the side, took advantage of the movement, and struck him with the pommel of the sword on the forearm.

The veteran recoiled, laughing softly. "Good. That would have knocked my sword out of my hand if I were an apprentice."

"So, you still have something to teach me?" Damon taunted, taking a deep breath.

"I do," Caerth replied, with a glint in his eyes. "To teach you how not to die."

He advanced again.

This time, there was no room for defense. Caerth used a sequence of short, fast, continuous cuts—a sword style so fluid it seemed like a dance. Damon blocked three, deflected the fourth, and the fifth whizzed past his neck.

Ice instinctively sprouted from the ground, forming a barrier.

The impact shattered the wall into hundreds of fragments, the sound echoing across the field.

Caerth passed through the shards as if they were smoke. Damon spun his sword, channeling mana to its limit, and a blue streak cut through the air in a straight line.

The veteran blocked at the last instant.

The impact made the two blades vibrate, and the ground beneath their feet cracked in concentric circles.

Then Caerth pushed, breaking the contact, and Damon took two steps back, panting.

The veteran looked up—and the smile was gone.

"You... forced me to use the center," he said, his voice hoarse.

Damon blinked, not understanding. "What?"

Caerth lowered his sword slightly, the tip digging into the earth. "The center of the body. The base of the blow. The origin of the force."

He took a deep breath, and the pressure in the air shifted.

It was as if the very ground responded to his command.

Damon felt the danger instantly.

Caerth raised his sword—and, in a single blow, unleashed a vertical arc.

The impact kicked up dust, debris, and an invisible wave of energy. Damon raised his blade in a cross, blocking.

The ground beneath his feet gave way.

The ice cracked, the air exploded in a flash. Damon was pushed back, skidding, but didn't fall. His arms trembled, his muscles burning, but he maintained his guard.

Caerth looked at him and nodded. "Good. Six months ago, you would have died from that blow."

"And now?" Damon asked, with a half-smile.

"Now..." Caerth raised his sword again. "Now, you have a chance."

The sound of the wind increased. Leaves swirled around them.

Damon took a deep breath, the ice covering the ground in a spiral.

The final clash began.

This time, there was no pause.

The swords clashed without respite, their bodies moving like war machines.

Damon now fought like a veteran—firm, technical, adaptable.

Caerth, in turn, moved like a demon. Every step was perfect, every blow calculated, and yet there was passion in his eyes.

A master and a student, facing each other as equals. The sounds of steel and ice echoed through the morning, reverberating among the trees.

The training ground had been transformed into ruins—the ground covered in cracks and shards of ice, the air heavy with energy.

Caerth spun his body, executing a double thrust. Damon blocked, stopping the movement with his elbow and counter-attacking. The veteran deflected with a minimal movement of his wrist—but Damon's blade tore a part of his clothing, leaving a superficial cut on his shoulder.

Blood trickled down in a thin line.

Caerth looked at the wound and let out a low laugh. "You finally hit me."

"You're getting old," Damon replied, breathless, but with a glint of pride in his eyes.

"No," said the veteran, raising his sword again. "You're the one who's getting dangerous."

The next blow was the fastest of all.

Damon barely saw it. He only felt the wind.

Pure reflex.

He spun his body and raised his sword—the impact resonated like thunder, the ice exploding into blue fragments that floated in the air.

The two stopped again, one blade pressing against the other.

Their eyes met—master and disciple.

And then, slowly, Caerth relaxed his grip.

The swords separated. The sound ceased.

Damon was still in a defensive stance, breathing deeply.

Caerth, however, simply watched—his gaze serene, almost proud.

"Enough," he said, finally. "I've seen what I needed to see."

Damon frowned, lowering his sword. "What do you mean?"

Caerth rotated his wrist, sheathing the blade with a soft sound. "That it's over."

"Over?" Damon took a step forward. "I can still improve!"

Caerth cut him off with a firm look. "No. I've already taught you everything I could."

Silence fell.

Damon didn't know what to say.

The veteran took a few steps, stopping beside him.

"I taught you posture, technique, flow, center, and intention. The rest…" he looked at Damon's sword, still dripping ice. "The rest is all yours."

Damon took a deep breath, his gaze softening. "And what do I do now?"

Caerth smiled, weary. "Now, you live. Or die trying."

He turned, walking towards the gate of the training ground.

The wind carried his voice:

"When the day comes that you defeat me… don't come to tell me. Just know, boy, that on that day…" he paused for a moment, his gaze distant. "…you will have become a true warrior."

Damon remained there, motionless, watching Caerth's back recede until it disappeared into the diffused light of the morning. The sound of the wind and the leaves was all that remained—and, for the first time in a long time, the silence did not come as a relief.

He looked at his own sword. The ice slowly dissolved from the blade, dripping onto the ground in transparent drops. The reflection he saw in the metal was of someone he didn't quite recognize—a hardened gaze, a face marked by training, a body full of fine scars and recent memories.

For six months, every dawn had been the same: blood, sweat, and pain.

Now, with a single sentence, Caerth had ended it all.

Damon sighed, resting his sword on his shoulder.

The air still vibrated with the echoes of the duel, and yet, he felt the weight of emptiness.

The absence of his master was almost physical.

"Now, you live. Or you die trying…" he murmured, repeating the words as if searching for some deeper meaning in them.

He turned towards the hill, climbing the stone path that led to the main house. The ground still trembled slightly beneath his steps—the fissures opened by their blows remained there, like scars etched into the earth.

At the top, the mansion seemed quieter than ever.

Ester was waiting for him on the veranda.

She was as always: erect, arms crossed, her gaze cold and firm. The wind stirred her dark hair and the white cloak that fell to her ankles.

When she saw him approach, she raised an eyebrow.

"Is it over?"

"Yes," he replied, with a slight weariness in his voice. "He said there's nothing more for him to teach me."

Ester observed him for a few seconds, assessing him. Damon was covered in dust, with small cuts on his arms and a bruise darkening his shoulder. Still, his movements were firm, and his gaze—serene.

"So you survived him for six months." She turned her face slightly. "That's more than I expected."

Damon let out a short, dry laugh. "I wouldn't have bet much on myself either, if I could go back in time."

She looked at him in silence, as if analyzing him not with her eyes, but with her mind.

"He destroyed you to rebuild you. I see it in the way you move."

"He destroyed me several times." Damon leaned against the stone railing, looking at the horizon. "But I learned to get up faster." Ester didn't answer immediately. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, she said:

"So what are you going to do now?"

He looked at her, serious. "I don't know. He left me a phrase… too vague."

"'Live or die trying'?" she asked, already guessing.

Damon nodded. "That's it."

She looked away at the cloudy sky. "It's a romantic way of saying 'figure it out'."

He chuckled softly. "Yeah, sounds like him."

Silence returned. For a few moments, the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the wind. Damon observed the field below—the same field that had witnessed his transformation. Every crack, every piece of melted ice was a vivid memory.

Ester finally broke the silence:

"I heard that the old man is leaving."

"Caerth?" Damon straightened up. "Where to?"

She shrugged. "He only said he had 'unfinished business in the north'. He's leaving tomorrow at dawn."

Damon was silent for a few seconds. Then he murmured:

"So it's really over."

Ester glanced at him. "You seem… disappointed."

He hesitated before answering:

"When someone teaches you something that changes everything… it's strange to just let them go."

She crossed her arms. "Masters come and go. What matters is what you do with what you've learned."

"Cold words, as always," he said, smiling slightly.

Ester responded with a neutral look. "Warmth doesn't win wars."

He chuckled softly and looked at the sky. "Maybe not… but sometimes it keeps us from freezing."

She looked away. "Hm. Cheap philosophy."

"I learned from the best," he retorted.

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