The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

Harven took a step back, and the metallic sound of blades echoed in the arena. Damon and Morgana remained motionless for a moment, studying each other with the attention of predators. The wind blew, carrying dust and loose ribbons from the Academy's banners.

Her golden eyes never wavered. Morgana didn't seem nervous—but she wasn't relaxed either. Her posture was precise, as if every muscle were waiting for the exact moment.

Damon, on the other hand, seemed too calm. He held his sword with only one hand, the blade low, almost touching the ground. A provocative, undefined position—the kind of guard that dared the opponent to make the first move.

Harven raised his hand.

"Begin!"

Morgana advanced first.

One step, then another—and then she was on top of him, swift. The blow came diagonally, high and clean. Damon dodged with minimal movement, steel grazing against steel in a sharp crack. The force of the impact reverberated through his arm, but he maintained his guard, retreating only half a step.

"Quick," he murmured.

Morgana spun her fist, bringing the blade back in a short, precise arc. Damon stopped the blow with a sideways touch, swung his sword, and counterattacked in a fluid movement, aiming for her flank. The young knight ducked instinctively, the cut passing close to her ear.

Sparks flew as the swords clashed again.

The spectators were no longer speaking. The entire field watched, fascinated.

Morgana slid back, her eyes alert. Damon didn't pressure her immediately—he let her breathe, measure, try. Every step she took, every subtle mistake, he silently noted. And then, with a restrained smile, he advanced.

The sound of blades cutting through the air echoed across the courtyard. Damon attacked with an almost unnatural fluidity, his blows seeming to dance between strength and lightness. Morgana defended with precision, but felt the pressure increase with each attack. He wasn't seeking to wound—he was seeking to test.

The final clash of swords rang out louder, and they separated.

"You're not a beginner," she said, breathless. "Not even close."

"Neither are you," he replied. "But you're still measuring your steps too much."

Her eyes gleamed. "And you trust your instincts too much."

A slight smile appeared at the corner of Damon's mouth. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I've just learned to listen to what my instincts scream."

'I'll adapt some techniques using the Sword of Lust…'

He twirled the sword, the metal reflecting the sun, and then murmured: "Sword of Lust—first movement."

A subtle heat coursed through the blade, an almost imperceptible vibration. It wasn't magic in the ordinary sense—it was technique. Control. He channeled the energy and rhythm of his body into the blade, making each movement more precise, more pulsating, as if the sword were a living extension of his will.

Morgana noticed. Her eyes narrowed.

When Damon advanced, the sound changed. The air seemed to bend around the blows—cuts that moved with an almost hypnotic speed, without pause, without interval between attack and defense. Morgana found herself recoiling, stopping each blow at the limit. Sparks flew. The ground marked the path of her feet, as if dancing on an invisible chessboard.

"This technique…" she murmured, blocking another blow. "I've never seen anything like it."

"You shouldn't," he replied, his voice firm. "Few survive long enough to see it twice."

She spun her body, dodging a cut and counterattacking in a perfect movement. The tip of the blade grazed his shoulder, cutting a thread of his cloak. Damon recoiled and smiled—not provocatively, but in recognition.

"Good reflexes."

"Thank you," she replied, panting. "But I'm not finished yet."

She twisted her fist, raising the blade in a high guard. The glint in her golden eyes intensified, and the air seemed to tremble. Damon felt the shift—the way her instinct took over. Harven watched from the side, arms crossed, satisfied. This was no longer a simple duel. It was an exchange of ideals.

The metallic sound returned, even more ferocious.

Time seemed to slow down.

Each blow was a story. Morgana attacked with discipline—firm, methodical, each thrust laden with purpose. Damon responded fluidly, as if reading the flow before it happened. The Sword of Lust vibrated in his hand, alive, guided by an inner pulse that followed the rhythm of the fight. He dodged a thrust, spun his body, and brought the blade up from below. Morgana leaped to the side, the wind from the blow kicking up dust. The audience held their breath. She had barely landed when he was already there again—too fast.

"Do you read my movements?" she asked, twirling the blade to block.

"I read your heart," he replied.

For a moment, their gazes locked, and the world seemed to cease. The sound of the wind, the noise of the field, everything dissolved. Only the glint of the swords moved—light against light.

Morgana spun and attacked again. Damon blocked, pushed, and then used the momentum to create space. Their breaths were synchronized, their movements mirrored. Neither yielded.

Then, he changed the rhythm.

"Second movement," he murmured. "Crimson rhythm."

The blade vibrated with a different, almost invisible frequency. Each blow seemed to come from two angles at once, forcing Morgana to react by pure instinct. She managed to block the first three—the fourth, she narrowly dodged. The fifth, however, he stopped halfway, the tip of the sword landing gently against the metal collar around her neck.

An absolute silence filled the field.

The touch didn't cut, but it was enough. The cold tip against the metal said it all.

Morgana kept her gaze fixed on his, breathing deeply. Neither of them moved. The sound of the wind returned, carrying dry leaves across the ground.

Damon lowered his sword slowly.

"You're good," he said, his voice calm. "But you still fight trying to prove something. And when you fight to prove something… you lose focus on what you're really seeking."

She took a step back, her eyes flashing. "And what do you think I'm seeking?"

Damon inclined his head, almost in a gesture of respect. "Freedom."

Morgana narrowed her eyes, surprised. Harven cleared his throat behind them, breaking the tension.

"That was enough. No serious injuries. And I think you've learned enough about each other for today."

The murmur of the students returned, now in a tone of admiration. Damon gave Harven a slight nod and, without saying anything more, turned to leave. But before he could take his first step, he heard her voice behind him:

"Wait."

He stopped.

"This technique…" she said, her tone firm but not arrogant. "What's its name?"

Damon kept his gaze on her for a moment—Morgana's golden eyes still fixed on him, curious, determined.

There was something in that gaze that resembled a contained flame, about to consume the air around it.

"It doesn't have a name," he repeated, in a serene, almost enigmatic tone. "It's mine."

Morgana raised an eyebrow, slightly intrigued. "Yours?"

'It would be problematic to say it's the sword of lust…'

"Each swordsman has a unique way of fighting," Damon explained, twirling the blade and resting it against his shoulder. "Some follow schools, others imitate masters. I learned the hard way: bleeding until I understood the rhythm of my own will. When the sword finally responded… I realized it didn't need a name. Only purpose."

For a moment, Morgana was silent. The wind blew once more, ruffling the silver strands of her hair.

The gleam of the setting sun reflected on her blade, tinging the metal with shades of gold and scarlet.

"Purpose, huh?" she murmured, sheathing the sword with a firm movement. "Nice to say. But purposes change, Damon of Mirath. When yours changes… will your sword obey?"

Damon looked away, a smile returning to the corner of his lips. "If that happens, it means she's still alive."

Morgana was silent for a moment, watching him walk away.

There was something about that man—not just strength, but the calmness that came with it.

A type of confidence that didn't come from titles, but from experiences that left scars.

When he disappeared among the stone corridors, Harven approached her.

"You did well," said the instructor, crossing his arms. "Few could last more than two minutes against him."

"It wasn't luck," Morgana replied dryly. "He let me fight."

Harven chuckled briefly. "You noticed, you're improving. But don't focus too much on that… that guy… it's the first time he's used that kind of fencing. I don't even want to imagine why he revealed it now, with a novice who trains in secret."

She didn't answer—she just looked at the spot where the final blow had landed, remembering the cold sensation of the steel against the collar.

That touch hadn't been humiliating, but precise. Deliberate. She touched her own chest, blushing slightly… 'What a strange feeling…'

[Asmodeus' Touch was used on all sword strikes]

[Ability "Sword of Lust" evolved into "Sovereign Sword of Lust"]

[You obtained the Title: Technique Creator]

[Technique Creator: You temporarily overcame the system's technique creation capabilities, forcing it to create a new technique.]

[Status: When equipping the title, your techniques have 60% more effectiveness.]

[Asmodeus' Touch is at Maximum Level]

[Update the System to obtain the next Asmodeus technique]

Damon read that with a smile and joked, 'See, you just had to obey me, system.'

[…]

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