The World Is Mine For The Taking

It was almost surreal—hard to even comprehend—that Father had ever possessed the kind of twisted resolve needed to hide something as monumental as my gender change from my own mother.

The thought gnawed at me.

If she had known… if she had even suspected the truth, I was certain it would have broken her.

Shattered her heart into pieces.

But she wasn't even granted that chance. She lived her life believing in a lie, and he never flinched.

"Well," he muttered with a low, sardonic breath, "I guess this is karma coming back for me."

His voice wasn't remorseful.

It was distant, almost amused in its resignation.

"But I assure you—I don't regret a single thing. If you think for one second that I'd ever look back and question my decision to make you a boy… then you really don't know me. I'd do it again. A thousand times over, I'd do it all over again without a sliver of hesitation. Because never—not once—has a woman ever risen to become a Sword Saint. And I wasn't about to let that change. Not on my watch."

He turned, fully this time, facing me like a mountain casting its shadow.

His stare cut through the air like a blade.

Even now, with time leaving traces across his skin, there was a suffocating weight behind his presence.

That unyielding pressure—the kind that makes seasoned warriors falter—still clung to him like armor.

His very posture spoke of violence restrained. A beast at rest, but never tamed.

This man was no ordinary swordsman.

He was a living weapon—his mastery honed by years of relentless combat and blood-soaked battlefields.

He had stood in warzones where heroes died screaming, and he'd walked away with nothing but another scar to add to the collection.

He had been called a monster.

And they weren't wrong.

This man—this monster—was my father.

The very same monster whose name alone made people's knees go weak.

And yet… I didn't flinch.

Not this time.

"You cling to tradition like it's sacred scripture," I said, my voice trembling just enough to betray the heat boiling inside me. "But the idea that a Sword Saint can't be a woman? That's not some divine law. It's bullshit you made up because you see women as fragile, disposable things. Decorations. Dolls. Something to shield—not someone who fights."

His eyes narrowed.

"Women have never, and will never, become a Sword Saint," he said coldly, with the tone of a man stating the law of gravity. "You really think this is about tradition? No. This is about truth. Undeniable, absolute truth. And you can't change that with ideals."

Stubborn.

So impossibly, disgustingly stubborn.

His pride wasn't just armor. It was a prison.

And I hated it.

I hated how blindly, how selfishly, he clung to it.

"Then…" I stepped forward, voice low but unwavering, "I'll prove you wrong."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Prove what, exactly?"

"That I can become the Sword Saint," I said, eyes locking with his, "even if I was born a woman."

The words didn't waver. I felt them leave my mouth like arrows fired from a drawn bow.

There was silence.

Then, for a brief moment—a blink and no more—I saw his eyes widen.

Just a flicker.

But it was there.

And just like that… it vanished. His gaze cooled again, like the still surface of a black lake.

"How do you plan on becoming the Sword Saint?" he asked, folding his arms slightly. "You think that title will just be handed to you?"

"No," I answered. "I challenge you to a duel."

A slow exhale escaped him, but his eyes didn't blink.

In the tradition of the Sword Saints, the title wasn't passed down by blood. It was inherited, sure, but it was also taken. Through victory or death, the one who stood above the other would claim the name.

If I defeated him—if I could stand over his body—I would be the Sword Saint.

"That's laughable," he said, scoffing. "You don't have the power."

Still.

Still clinging to the belief that a woman's blade would always be duller, weaker and less.

That belief had been forged into him. Sharpened into certainty.

Then so be it.

"Accept my challenge," I said, stepping closer. "See for yourself whether I have the power or not. If you win, I'll return to being a man. I'll restore your name and erase all disgrace from this duel. But if I win… you'll acknowledge the truth. That you lost. To me. A woman. And you'll give me the title."

He stared.

Then, suddenly, a low, amused chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"For someone who's a woman," he said with a grin, "you've got some serious balls."

His words weren't kind—but they weren't mocking either.

"Very well," he said at last. "I'll gladly accept."

And just like that… our duel was set.

***

The courtyard felt heavier than ever before.

The air, thick with anticipation, seemed to buzz with tension as we stood at the center of the training grounds.

Disciples—his disciples—gathered around in a ring, their eyes wide with disbelief. Some whispered. Others just stared. Their breaths caught in their throats as they tried to process what was happening.

Their invincible master—the man no one had dared challenge—was about to duel his own child.

The Sword Saint himself, unbeaten and unmatched.

A man whose blade could end fights before they even began.

One swing.

One flash of steel.

That's all it took.

No one had ever lasted long against him.

That's why his pupils never fought him for the title.

He wasn't just their master.

He was their demon.

But me? I wasn't afraid.

Not now.

I would defeat him.

And when I did—I'd tear down the wall he built between tradition and truth.

One of the senior practitioners stepped forward, acting as our umpire.

He stood at the center, eyes darting between us, his voice steady but tight with tension.

He gave us both a long look, making sure we were ready.

My father stood tall, relaxed, his sword hanging lazily in one hand like it weighed nothing.

Like weighing nothing was its most terrifying quality.

I held mine in both hands, my grip tight.

Every nerve in my arms was alive, every breath I took was a silent promise—I wouldn't lose.

Not here.

Not to him.

The umpire spoke, his voice echoing in the silent air.

"Victory shall go to whoever disarms or incapacitates the other. Any form of cheating will result in immediate disqualification."

Then slowly, with all eyes on him… he raised his hand.

Then—

"Start!"

The umpire's voice sliced through the air like a whip, his hand coming down sharply.

And the moment it did—

I didn't even blink.

It was as if time fractured for just a moment. My heart lurched. The world blurred.

Because in the very next breath—he was already in front of me.

Like a phantom emerging from the void, my father had closed the distance instantly.

His movements were so fast, it felt like the air itself bent around him.

And his sword... it was already in mid-swing.

I barely registered the gleam of steel cutting through the light, arcing with terrifying precision toward me.

Normally, you'd hear the loud crash of blades meeting.

Sparks flying.

A clash of wills between two swords.

But there was nothing.

My sword—still gripped tightly in my hands—hadn't moved at all.

Frozen.

Paralyzed.

It sat dormant, useless, while his weapon was already seconds away from slicing clean through me.

But then—

He stopped.

The tip of his blade halted just an inch from my neck, the cold edge humming in the space between life and death.

He never meant to kill me.

I could feel it in the way his presence loomed—not with murderous intent, but with dominance. A test.

No, it wasn't an attempt to end me. It was a scare tactic.

A warning.

To make me back down.

His voice came, cutting through the tense silence like frost.

"A woman couldn't possibly reach a speed like that," he said, tone filled with disdain. "Look at you. You couldn't even lift your damn sword."

He scoffed.

"Enough of this," he snapped, turning his back to me like I wasn't even worth finishing off. "Go back to the Black Witch and—"

But the fight wasn't over. Not even close.

His dismissal lit a fire inside me.

I wasn't going to let it end like that.

With a sharp breath, I raised my sword—burning with defiance—and swung it toward his retreating form with everything I had left in me.

He felt it.

His instincts reacted instantly.

He moved—swift and sharp—dodging my blade as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind.

His body shifted effortlessly out of my range, his sword still hanging loosely at his side, relaxed and unbothered.

His voice came again, laced with a smirk.

"Hm? Didn't you already lose?"

I gritted my teeth. "The rules said the winner is the one who gets disarmed or incapacitated. I've still got my sword. And I'm still standing."

My eyes locked with his.

"So the duel's still on."

He let out a slow, tired sigh, as though this entire thing was a pointless charade dragging out longer than necessary.

"You really think you're being clever, huh?" he muttered, shaking his head. "I could've ended this. Snapped your neck with a flick of my wrist and dropped you like a sack of grain."

He lifted his eyes to me, now sharpened and serious.

"But I gave you a chance. I gave you a moment to catch your breath and stand upright."

And yet, I didn't flinch.

Didn't falter.

His voice lowered into something rougher and darker. "But I see now—you've got no plans to give up."

My grip on the sword tightened.

"I don't," I said. "If you want to defeat me… then you'll have to kill me."