Chương 60: Dance of the Elf

The Elf crashed into the Swordsman at full speed. A ringing clash of crossed blades rang out, the metallic clang echoing through the white void, bouncing off the invisible walls, and the Elf was thrown back a couple of meters — but the Swordsman didn't so much as flinch, still standing in that same relaxed posture, as if the blow had struck empty air rather than steel.

The failure didn't seem to discourage the Elf in the slightest — he kept throwing himself back into the attack again and again from every direction, left, right, from above, shifting his trajectory in midair with an almost inhuman flexibility, as though gravity were nothing more than a suggestion to him. At times he moved so fast that Lloyd could only make out a blurred green flash of his sword, slicing through the white void in short bursts of light that left ghostly emerald afterimages on the eye.

With every new strike the air filled with a faint hum, as if the blade were singing its own otherworldly song, and each of the Elf's landings was so soft that barely any sound of footsteps remained.

The Swordsman, meanwhile, still barely moved from his spot, shifting half a step here and there, as though the whole fight were nothing more than a light warm-up before breakfast — the only thing that had changed was that he was now actually using his sword, though it remained sheathed, parrying each strike with a lazy, almost bored precision, as if swatting away an annoying fly, meeting the Elf's blade at exactly the right point every single time, never a second too early or too late.

The crowd gasped and murmured by turns, following the unfolding spectacle hungrily, whispering to each other and leaning forward every time the blades met with another ringing clang. Some clicked their tongues in admiration, others frowned, trying to follow the logic of the fight, and a few simply stood frozen with their mouths hanging open, unable to track such blistering movement with their eyes.

Lloyd, meanwhile, kept half an ear on the conversations around him while watching the fight, trying to study every movement, every feint, every barely perceptible shift in his opponents' stances, as if trying to absorb even a drop of that mastery. Suddenly he caught a rather interesting conversation between two Players. — An Elf using a sword, would you look at that. The second Player was clearly just as bewildered as Lloyd himself. — What's the big deal? — Elves are a pretty unique race.

They're born with massive reserves of phantasm. That's why they usually end up as Mages or Support, and sometimes Archers, thanks to their incredible eyesight and hearing. An Elf on their own is rare enough to run into, but an Elf Swordsman... The Player exhaled slowly and crossed his arms, shaking his head. — Honestly, I don't know if I'll ever see an Elf Swordsman again in my life. Lloyd's face showed the same astonishment as the other Player's, but what troubled him was something else entirely.

"Phantasm? What are they even talking about? Have I really fallen that far behind." But Lloyd had no time to dwell on it — the battle was in full swing, and getting distracted meant missing something important. The light from the blades kept dancing across the white walls of the void, painting everything alternately in cold blue and warm emerald hues, and the gusts of wind from every clash reached even the back rows, making people squint and clutch at their hair. This book's true home is on another platform.

Check it out there for the real experience. The Elf kept up his fierce, yet perfectly controlled assault, but it was obvious their swordsmanship existed on entirely different levels — as if the Elf were fighting against time itself rather than a living opponent.

Every strike was technically flawless, honed over years, maybe even centuries of training, blistering, eye-blurring movements flowing into smooth, almost dance-like lunges, and yet the Swordsman parried them all with such ease it seemed he could read his opponent's intentions before the Elf himself had even fully formed them, as if he already knew exactly where the next strike would land.

Suddenly, in the middle of another flurry of attacks, the Elf leapt back and drove his sword straight into the invisible floor, sending a faint ripple across the white void, like a stone dropped into still water, spreading outward in circles from the point of impact.

The Swordsman's eyebrow rose slightly — for the first time in the entire fight, something like genuine interest flickered across his face, a shadow of curiosity breaking through his usual boredom, as if he'd finally seen something worth getting up off his chair for.

The runes on the blade blazed brighter, an emerald glow spreading across the steel like something alive, pulsing in rhythm with some invisible heartbeat, creeping further down along the hilt, winding around the Elf's fingers in thin glowing threads, like tendrils of ivy. Lloyd narrowed his eyes, watching intently, feeling a chill of anticipation crawl across his skin.

"Relics are banned in the Exam... could this be the power of an Artifact?" He rubbed his eyes, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Or is this one of his..." Lloyd never got to finish the thought — the Elf's sword blazed entirely green, tiny sparks breaking off from the blade, scattering around it like fireflies, drifting through the air in smooth, hypnotic patterns, and the very air around the blade seemed to thicken, charged with crackling energy.

Before Lloyd could get a proper look at those sparks, a gust of wind so powerful erupted that everyone standing near the duel was hurled back several meters, and even Lloyd, standing much farther away than the rest, still couldn't keep his footing and stumbled, clawing at the invisible floor with splayed fingers, feeling the wind whip at his black hoodie and sting his face, his red sneakers barely keeping him rooted in place.

The Swordsman's ponytail whipped upward from the gust, and the flaps of his puffer jacket snapped like sails caught in a storm, but he himself didn't move so much as a millimeter — with the same expression as if this were nothing more than another light breeze, not worth a second of his attention.

Suddenly the Elf yanked his sword free from the floor and rushed at the Swordsman again with incredible speed, leaving behind a glowing green trail streaking through the air like a comet, the sound of his movement resembling a low, building hum. But the Swordsman seemed to have anticipated even this — with one light motion of his still-sheathed sword, he deflected the Elf's strike, sending him flying back a couple of meters, tumbling through the air before regaining his balance.

The Elf managed to land on his feet — smoothly, without a single misstep — and slowly rose, piercing the Swordsman with his blue eyes, full of cold, focused resolve, in which there was now something more than just anger — something closer to the thrill of a true hunter who had finally found worthy prey. Then he slid the sword back into its sheath, and the emerald glow on the blade slowly faded, dissolving into the air, leaving behind only a faint, dwindling shimmer.

"Did he give up?" But then the Elf settled into a stance, still keeping the sword close at hand, ready to draw it again in an instant, the muscles of his body coiled tight like a drawn bowstring, and the white void around him seemed to hold the very weight of anticipation, thick and almost tangible. And that was when Lloyd finally understood. This wasn't a sign of surrender at all. It meant he was preparing for his final attack.