❈.❈.❈

Edmund accepted the practice rapier, its weight familiar. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as he moved to the center. Keith mirrored him, falling into a relaxed but ready stance, a playful glint still in his eyes.

“Don’t hold back, Edmund. The lady wants a show.”

“I would not dream of it, Lord Keith.” Edmund’s voice took on a formal, focused tone. The air around him shimmered faintly. Physical Enhancement: Full-Body Enhancement. His posture straightened, muscles coiling with suppressed power. He was no longer a butler; he was a combatant.

Keith’s smirk didn’t fade, but his eyes sharpened. A concentrated glow enveloped his arms and blade. Physical Enhancement: Focused Striking. A swordsman’s approach—precision and speed over raw power.

They moved at the same instant.

Edmund was a blur, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His enhanced strength fueled explosive footwork. He didn’t slash; he thrust, the practice sword a piston driven by immense force. “Piston Drive!” The attack was simple, direct, incredibly fast.

Keith didn’t block head-on. His enhanced speed let him pivot, deflecting the thrust with a sharp crack of wood. He used the momentum, his blade whipping around in a tight, elegant arc. “Rippling Counter!”

Crack. Thwack. Crack.

The sounds echoed. Edmund was relentless advance, each step kicking up sand, each thrust a potential fight-ender. Keith was fluid evasion, his movements economical, his parries precise, turning defense into instant offense.

G6 watched, utterly still. But internally, her mind was a whirlwind.

<<Analysis Commencing.>>
Subject: Edmund. Style: Overwhelming Force. Relies on Kinetic Augmentation for speed/power. Leaves recovery windows. Weakness: predictability.
Subject: Keith. Style: Duelist's Finesse. Uses Enhancement for precision/reaction. Wastes movement on flourishes. Weakness: cannot withstand overpowering strike.
<<Analysis Complete. Patterns logged. Weaknesses cataloged.>>

It wasn’t enough to watch. She needed to feel it.

<<Activating: Perfect Assassin Form.>>

No grand light show. No roar of energy. A silent, internal shift. One moment she was G6 in Reise’s weak body. The next, every muscle fiber, every nerve, every synapse was perfectly aligned under her absolute control. The lingering ache vanished. The world became calculable data. She saw the micro-tremors in Keith’s wrist before a feint, the slight shift in Edmund’s weight before a lunge. This was her true self.

The match ended a moment later. Keith slipped past Edmund’s guard, his practice rapier tapping the butler’s ribs. “A fine match, Edmund!” Keith said, breathing heavily but grinning.

“Indeed. Your skill is as sharp as ever,” Edmund replied, conceding with a slight bow.

They turned, expecting to see G6 on the bench.

Instead, she was standing, holding a practice rapier of her own. Not with noble grace, but with the cold, efficient grip of someone who knew how to make a tool lethal.

“My turn.” Her voice was flat, devoid of casualness. A command.

Keith and Edmund exchanged a worried glance. “Reise, these can still bruise—” Keith started.

“I am aware of their function.” She didn’t move. “Edmund. You first.”

“My lady, I must protest—” Horror on his face.

“Your protest is noted. Now, attack me. Use your Piston Drive.”

The fact that she knew the name of his technique froze him for a second. Swallowing his hesitation, he nodded. He would make it slow, controlled—

<<Initiating: Eclipse-Step.>>

The moment he lunged, G6 moved. She didn’t retreat. She flowed inside the thrust, her body a shadow passing through the space his attack occupied. Her blade didn’t parry; it tapped his wrist with pinpoint accuracy, right on the nerve cluster.

Thud.

Edmund’s practice sword dropped into the sand. He stared at his numb hand, then at her, dumbfounded. Disarmed in a blink.

“Keith.” She turned her head. Her grey eyes were chips of ice. “Your Rippling Counter. Now.”

Keith, now completely serious, didn’t hesitate. He knew a predator. He lunged, blade moving in that fluid, deceptive arc.

<<Initiating: Eyes of Chronos.>>

To G6, his attack might as well have been moving through syrup. She saw every adjustment. She didn’t block or counter. She leaned back, letting the tip pass millimeters from her nose. As the force of his swing carried him forward, off-balance, she took a single, precise step and pressed her practice sword tip against his throat.

He froze, eyes wide. The entire exchange: less than two seconds.

G6 lowered the blade and stepped back. The intense focus faded, replaced by analytical satisfaction.

<<Deactivating: Perfect Assassin Form.>>

A wave of fatigue washed over her, but she locked her knees, refusing to show it.

“I see,” she said, as if to herself. She looked at the practice sword, then dropped it onto the sand. “The principles are transferable.”

She looked at the two stunned men. “Thank you for the demonstration. That will be all for today.”

❈.❈.❈

G6’s heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the alarming void spreading through her limbs. The power was gone. In its wake: a body screaming in protest. Every muscle felt shredded, every bone turned to lead.

Shit. It doesn’t drain mana; it burns through the host’s fuel. This vessel is junk. Can’t handle the software.

She couldn’t let them see. Weakness was a vulnerability she could not afford. Without a word, without looking back, she turned and strode for the exit, her pace deceptively steady.

But with every step, the world tilted. The grand arches swayed. Her vision tunneled, edges blurring into fuzzy grey static. She focused on the doorway—her extraction point.

Just get to the stairs. Get to the office.

She pushed through the main hall, ignoring the stares, her expression a mask of cold indifference hiding the system failure within. She reached the bottom of the stone staircase. It looked like a mountain.

Gripping the cold railing, she forced one foot in front of the other. Halfway up, a wave of dizziness washed over her so violently her knees buckled. Her grip slipped.

This is so uncomfortable. Her last clear thought—a distant memory of childhood training fatigue.

Before she could crash onto the steps, a pair of strong hands caught her, stopping her fall effortlessly. The scent of sandalwood and old books filled her senses. Through the blurring haze, she registered the fine black fabric of a sleeve.

Her head spun, too heavy to lift. The last of her strength evaporated. The mask shattered. Her body went utterly limp, consciousness fleeing as if a switch had been flipped, leaving her a dead weight in the stranger’s arms.

 (2/2)

—To Be Continued…—