It was true that memories from long ago sometimes showed up in dreams. That was what was happening right now. It was a bitter memory that Zen would have rather not revisited, from before he was twenty years old.
His whole body felt hot, like it was burning. It was from the countless sword wounds he’d received. Unable to handle the series of slash attacks, unable to fully evade them, he was being minced up moment by moment. He was somehow getting by with only minor wounds, but how long would he last?
His enemy hadn’t even shown his full power yet. Would that happen or would Zen lose his concentration first?
“Is that all you got, little brother of Sharla Leadon?” The man laughed wickedly. He played with his sword, lightly bouncing the flat of the blade against his own right shoulder. He hadn’t properly readied himself even once since the battle had started. Despite that, Zen couldn’t detect any openings.
His stance was adaptable. Or it was always perfect. Something that could be considered one of the ultimate swordsmanship techniques out there.
“I have a name, you know! It’s Zen Leadon!” Zen shouted back at him. It was a bluff. Unlike the man, he was holding his sword in front of him in a conventional way, but his shoulders and elbows were stiff. He looked just like a cat with its fur standing on end.
“If you still have the ability to shout that much, then that’s more than enough.” The corners of the man’s lips twisted up even higher as he casually rushed in.
The sword he wielded wasn’t impressive at all. It was a crude one that could easily be bought anywhere. However, in this man’s hands, it turned into a demonic blade.
Zen saw through the man’s technique, how he raised the sword above his head and was about to bring it down diagonally, and tried to receive it. However, he failed. The man’s trajectory warped, and the tip of his demonic blade cut Zen’s forehead.
Zen couldn’t understand what had happened. He couldn’t understand in what way you could move your body to manage such an attack. It was normal enough for an attacker to miss, but was it possible for the person ready to meet the blow to cut through the air instead?
He really is trouncing me, though, so I have to accept that it is possible. The blood ran from the wound on his forehead and trickled down his nose. He resisted screwing up his face with displeasure.