The Age of Martial Enlightenment.

Chapter Ten – Organ vs Marrow

The verdant northern lands of Sylvestris breathed with ancient life—twisting roots, whispering leaves, and a darkness that never seemed to break. Here, among the moss-covered trunks and labyrinthine paths, Merzhin ran for his life.

Not in fear, but in calculation.

Three days.

Three nights.

One hunter.

His body, tempered by sixty years of Organ Refinement cultivation, moved with disciplined exhaustion. Every joint screamed. His liver was bruised, one lung partially collapsed. He'd slowed. He knew it.

But he was still alive.

Behind him, an assassin in simple black robes walked with silence unnatural to the forest. In his right hand, he held a Black Willow Leaf Saber—slender, curved, and elegant. A lightweight weapon built not for brute force, but for elegance, speed, and precision.

Its wielder didn't run.

He didn't need to.

Every step placed him precisely in line with Merzhin's.

Every slash of his saber adjusted mid-air to Merzhin's dodges as though the weapon anticipated the movement before Merzhin himself did.

Yet… he made mistakes.

Subtle ones.

Merzhin knew weapons. He had practiced the 8 Blades for over two centuries. A martial art born of survival and war, it emphasized not only weapons—sticks, knives, blades—but the entire body: fists, elbows, knees, and shins. Clinching, sweeping, grappling—it was all part of the flow.

He had tested blades against the Assassin in their first encounter.

He was punished for it.

Every time he held a single-edged weapon, the assassin fought with a kind of cruel ease—as if Merzhin were offering his death willingly.

So he adapted.

Blunt weapons only. No edge. No pattern he can read.

Let him swing that saber through empty air until his muscles burn.

Merzhin now wielded a pair of dense ironwood batons, shorter than a staff but longer than a club. Lightweight enough to strike, dense enough to break bone.

The Assassin struck again, his saber arcing in a crescent slash so fast it hummed. Merzhin twisted aside and deflected with a parry of his left baton. Sparks flew.

The assassin had only been in the 7th Pillar for ten years. That meant his Marrow, while empowered, was still unstable. Refinement was not just strength—it was integration. The body had to learn its new rhythm. And the soul had to catch up.

Merzhin swept low, attempting a knee strike, but the Assassin stepped back with unnatural grace. A backhand slash followed—too wide. Sloppy. Merzhin ducked it and retaliated by stepping into the Assassins guard with an elbow to the ribs.

A sharp grunt escaped the assassin's lips.

The Assassin leapt back, expression still unreadable. But his left rib now moved with stiffness. A crack, perhaps. Maybe more.

Merzhin did not celebrate. He couldn't afford to.

He leaned against a tree briefly, catching his breath as sweat poured from every pore. His organs were failing, one by one. He had done all he could to push the limits of the 6th Pillar.

And still… it wasn't enough.

Not against Marrow.

Sixty years of refinement… and I'm still prey to someone ten years into the next Pillar.

The thought angered him. Not in despair—but in defiance.

"You've lasted longer than expected," the Assassin said at last, voice low and even.

He raised his saber and pointed it toward Merzhin's heart.

"But we both know how this ends."

Merzhin coughed blood into his hand and straightened.

"I've known since the first swing," he said, "but I wanted to see something."

The Assassin tilted his head. "What?"

"If you were worthy of the weapon you carry."

A flicker of something—pride? irritation?—crossed the assassin's expression.

Merzhin smiled.

"You aren't."

With a roar, Merzhin charged again—