“Hah—… haah…”

Breath broke into uneven, ragged pulls—each inhale hitching, each exhale sharp, as his body struggled to keep pace with the damage it refused to acknowledge.

Blade refused to fall… refused to loosen his grip on his ancient jian. Even as his vision blurred at the edges, he did not take his eyes off the painfully familiar, snow-white silhouette before him. She moved with precision, expertly wielding a blade that gleamed with a cold, moonlit sheen—its edge seeming as though it had been carved from the very ice she commanded.

By all appearances, there could be no mistaking her.

Jingliu, the former Sword Champion of the Luofu.

And yet… it wasn’t her.

It was something else. Something made.

A near-perfect replica, forged through means far beyond Blade’s understanding. From the measured cadence of her steps to the merciless execution of her sword techniques, the imitation was flawless—too flawless.

The cursed man had Silver Wolf and Elio to thank for that. Through their combined efforts, Blade had been granted a 'training room.'

This 'training room' did not resemble a room in any conventional sense; it was an expanse, a void shaped into something barely contained. Its spaciousness stretched outward to a point where the eye could no longer distinguish distance from illusion. There were no corners to anchor perception, no walls to press against—only the unsettling impression that it continued endlessly, as though space itself had been hollowed out and handed form.

Everything within it was stark white.

The floor, the air, and the distant horizon bled into a single seamless plane, erasing depth and shadow alike. Movement felt exposed here, stripped bare against the emptiness, every step echoing too clearly before being swallowed whole.

Yet the stillness was deceptive.

Beneath that pristine surface thrummed an intricate network of unseen machinery—an intelligence that watched, recorded, and remembered. The room was not passive. It learned.

Every clash of Blade’s sword, every wound endured, every opponent faced; each fragment of combat had been preserved as data, dissected and reconstructed with chilling precision. Through this system, the room could summon them back—not as mere illusions, but as replicas refined to mirror the originals in both form and function.

Foes long buried in memory could be called forth at will.

Their movements, their techniques, even the rhythm of their breathing—painstakingly recreated from the remnants of past battles. Not echoes, but near-perfect resurrections forged from cold calculation rather than flesh.

It was not a place meant for rest.

It was a crucible.

A white, endless stage where the past could be forced to repeat itself without mercy; whenever he wasn't on a mission under Elio's orders...this is exactly where he would condemn and hone himself to become the ultimate weapon.

“…Hah…”

Another ragged breath escaped. Steam spilling visibly into the frigid air, each exhale was dragged out and heavy. The heat of his body—feverish, relentless, sustained by sheer will alone—collided against the unnatural chill, the two forces warring in brutal silence.

And then—

The replica moved.

There was no warning beyond the faint shift of pressure in the air, no dramatic flourish to announce the restart of violence. One moment, the figure stood at a measured distance, sword angled low and poised in silent judgment; the next, she was already advancing, her footfall light enough to seem like drifting snow. The icy blade in her hand flashed once beneath the blinding white of the room, and then she was upon him, striking with the same merciless precision Blade remembered all too well.

Even so, he had nearly lost his life to that very strike many times.

She was simply too fast.

At the height of her speed, her movements fractured into afterimages—fleeting clones that converged at once, each capable of delivering a killing blow. It had pressed him relentlessly, cutting him down again and again before he could even comprehend the pattern of her attacks.

And that had been by design; with Silver Wolf’s assistance, Blade had ensured that this place would never hold back. Not in speed. Not in precision. Not in lethality.

Not against him.

In the early days of using this room, Blade barely used to get moments to breathe when faced with this unrestrained replica. Not to mention—it aggravated the mara within him. There had been times when the madness surged too violently, clawing its way to the surface, forcing Kafka herself to intervene before he lost what little restraint he had left.

Given how deeply Jingliu was tied to Blade's trauma, it was inevitable.

Months had passed since he first stepped into this endless white crucible. There were improvements—undeniable ones. His reactions had sharpened, his endurance had hardened, and his body was better conditioned to withstand the relentless assault.

However, it still wasn’t enough.

— Back to the current time.

As Jingliu came upon him again with another strike, Blade's jaw tightened, dragging his blade up through the white haze and driving into the exchange once more.

CLANG!

Metal met ice.

A violent shudder rippled outward as Blade caught the strike with great precision. His sword groaned under the impact, the cold seeping into it instantly, frost spiderwebbing across the dark steel.

For a fraction of a second, they held.

Then, Blade twisted, forcing her weapon aside, and countered—not with elegance, but brutality. This time, however, he didn't allow recklessness to guide his blade...unlike the last time he fought the real deal. His strike came wide, fueled by raw force AND precision.

But...Jingliu had vanished yet again.

She stepped through his attack as if slipping between moments, her form blurring into drifting frost. His blade carved only the afterimage she left behind.

A mistake.

But it's a mistake that his reflexes can revise.

Cold intensified behind him, an indication of where the emotionless replica was about to emerge and strike from next. Thus, Blade reacted with utmost immediacy; his eyes sharpened, his body shifting in a brutal instant of instinct and experience. He sharply twisted his torso—just enough. Then his ebony blade rose to meet the strike, and when the weapons collided, the impact rang out.

CLANG!

The force of it hammered through his arms, forcing his boots to grind back across the ground, but Blade did not yield. Frost burst from the point of contact, crawling up his sword in a furious bloom of white, yet he held firm, his teeth bared, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that was almost a grin.

Ignoring the impact, she proceeded to drive her sword into him again.

And he had answered it 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

CLANG!

Their swords collided again and again—

CLANG!—SHING!—CRACK.

Each impact birthed shards of ice and sparks of dying light. Frost climbed Blade’s weapon with every exchange, creeping closer to his hands, threatening to freeze even his grip.

Yet he pushed forward relentlessly.

Another strike came. And he caught it. A third—he turned it aside. A fourth—he stepped into it, forcing her balance to shift ever so slightly.

Blade’s lips curved — the replica is beginning to appear...

“...You're growing slower, ” he remarked.

Or was he...faster?

He surged again, his movements growing wilder with every heartbeat. Every wound, every sting of frost, every surge of pain only seemed to sharpen his appetite for the next exchange.

And then another blinding strike came clean.

A little too clean...

“ —!? ”

Blade saw it, but this time, he didn't react fast enough to avert it—too late to fully evade either. The world seemed to narrow to a single, gleaming line as Jingliu’s blade descended, its edge shimmering with that deathly, moonlit frost. For a heartbeat, there was silence....and then—

Shhk—

The blade pierced through him.

Straight through his chest.

Right through his heart.

Cold flooded in first. Not pain—cold. A suffocating, invasive chill that spread from the wound outward, locking muscle and breath alike as the tip of her sword drove deep, anchoring him in place. His body jerked at the force, boots grinding harshly against the white floor as the impact forced him back half a step.

“…Hah—”

A broken breath spilled from his lips.

Blood followed as it steamed faintly, meeting the unnatural frost that clung to the weapon buried inside him. Jingliu’s replica did not hesitate. Her expression remained as empty as the void around them, her grip steady as she pushed the blade in just a fraction deeper — precise, merciless, final.

A killing blow.

However, this was Blade.

For a moment, Blade’s head hung forward, dark strands of hair veiling his face. His body stilled, trembling faintly as though caught between collapse and resistance.

And then he laughed.

“ …Heh—hahaha… ”

His shoulders shook — not from weakness, but from laughter.

The laughter twisted into something manic—raw, unrestrained, wrong. It echoed unnaturally in the endless white, clashing against the stillness like a blade dragged across bone.

“ HAHAHA! IT'S ALL FUTILE! ”

He was thrilled, as he felt 𝘪𝘵.

That fragile, intoxicating margin where recklessness stopped being a flaw—

and became power.

𝘈𝘩...𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝘏𝘦𝘩...𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘵?

𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥—𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨—

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵.

...𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵?

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦?

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳—𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳—𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦?

𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬.

𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬.

𝘈𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶—

𝘈𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳...𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦—

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵...𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵.

His head lifted, a full grin splitting across his face ―― wide, bloodstained, unhinged. His eyes burned with something feverish, something that did not belong to a man who had just been run through.

His hand shot out with terrifying speed, fingers closing around the arm of Jingliu’s replica with iron force before she could fully withdraw the blade. The grip was vicious, unrelenting, his strength surging through the pain like a storm trapped beneath cracked ice. His eyes, wild and burning, locked onto the replica’s with a look that was equal parts hatred and ecstatic satisfaction.

Then Blade returned the favor.

Ebony blade screamed through the air as Blade swung his own sword upward in a violent arc, severing Jingliu’s dominant arm clean off. The detached limb fell away with chilling finality, and her blade remained lodged in his chest as he staggered back, still laughing beneath ragged breaths.

For a moment, the replica remained still; her severed arm falling soundlessly into the endless white.

Then, as if some unseen threshold had been crossed, her form faltered.

A faint fracture traced along her body—not of flesh, but something unreal. The edges of her silhouette began to blur, her form losing cohesion as the system registered the damage as fatal. The arm that had been cleanly severed did not bleed; it disintegrated, breaking apart into fine, glimmering particles of frost before it could even touch the ground.

Her entire figure followed after.

From the point of separation outward, Jingliu’s replica unraveled into a quiet storm of snow-like fragments. The blade lodged in Blade’s chest dissolved along with her, its icy form scattering into the air in a silent cascade. Within seconds, the once-lethal presence before him was reduced to drifting particles.

Then—

Nothing.

The room fell still.

No opponent. No pressure. No killing intent.

Only silence.

Soon Blade's own body began trembling faintly as the last traces of adrenaline burned through his veins. The manic edge in his grin lingered—but it was already fading, eroded by the absence of battle. Without the constant demand to fight, the pain surged back all at once, overwhelmingly. Every wound now screamed for attention, every muscle protested the abuse it had been forced to endure.

“ ....Aghh—!”

His grip slackened.

The sword slipped from his hand, clattering faintly against the floor before the empty expanse swallowed the sound.

His knees buckled soon after, and Blade collapsed.

The fall was unceremonious—heavy, final. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, limbs giving out beneath him as he lay sprawled against the cold, white surface. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath dragging against the weight of exhaustion that now consumed him.

But before giving himself over to somnolence, he remembered what Elio had planned for him next.

Planarcadia.

His next destination.

𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝑚𝑒 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘥?

The thought came unhurriedly, with a strange, weary certainty that made the corners of his mouth twitch faintly even as his vision faded. Perhaps it was foolish to wonder. Perhaps it was not. Still, as his eyes slowly gave way to darkness, Blade held onto that single question until even it was swallowed whole.

And then, at last, he passed out.