The World Is Mine For The Taking

I looked him straight in the eye, unwavering, letting the weight of my gaze settle on his face like a final declaration.

This was it.

The moment I decided I would rather die than live shackled.

I had already resolved to face death the moment I accepted this duel.

There was no turning back. There was no alternate path waiting in the wings.

This wasn't just some display of courage—it was everything.

I would rather perish holding on to the pride of the woman I've always been, than strip that away, become a man, and reduce myself to his puppet—a doll molded by his vision of strength and submission.

That was a future I refused to accept.

I didn't want that twisted mercy. That hollow version of existence.

If I gave in to him, I would only be met with endless suffering.

And somehow, Leon knew.

He must've sensed it—that today was the day I planned to face Father in a duel.

That I had carved my resolve in stone. That I was ready to die if I had to.

And yet... he didn't try to stop me.

I didn't know why. Maybe he believed in me and trusted I'd survive. Or maybe... maybe he understood that nothing he could say would turn me away from this path.

But in the end, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

All that was left now were two possibilities.

It was either I rise victorious, or I fall trying.

"You've really grown a pair of balls," Father muttered with a dry scoff, amusement curling at the corners of his lips. "Do you actually believe I wouldn't kill my own child if he asked for it?"

"Then why did you hesitate earlier?" I shot back, voice steady. "Why stop your blade at my throat, when you could've finished it without blinking?"

His gaze flickered with something—cold and clinical. "Your blood would defile this sacred ground," he said. "A place where so many have trained, shed sweat and tears. That's all. Nothing more. Nothing less."

So that was it.

He was bound by tradition. Obsessed with it.

Right now, I wasn't facing a man.

I was standing against a monster—one shaped by years of discipline, grief, and bitter beliefs.

Whether he was my father or not didn't change that fact.

He let out a long sigh, shoulders rising and falling with something heavy.

Then, with one hand, he raised his palm lazily and curled his fingers—beckoning me forward with a mocking smirk.

"Alright then," he said, voice calm as ever. "Come at me."

I slammed my foot against the stone floor, my entire body surging forward, wind rushing past my ears as I closed the distance in a blur.

I aimed for his blind spot, slipping behind him with every ounce of speed I could muster.

But before I could even swing my blade—he was gone.

"Again," his voice rang out behind me like a whisper of death.

He was already standing there—behind me.

I spun around, breath sharp in my throat, and braced myself once more.

This was turning into something far more one-sided than I had anticipated.

As I feared... he was powerful. Inhumanly so.

A decade of tireless training wouldn't even put me close to his level.

But I couldn't stop now.

I launched forward again, sword raised, slicing the air with a cry.

But again, my blade cut through nothing—

There was no resistance and contact.

Just empty air.

He was fast. So fast, he was leaving afterimages behind—ghostly silhouettes that flickered at the edge of my vision, vanishing before I could even register them.

A blur. A phantom.

A monster.

"Again," he repeated coldly, and once more, I felt the chill of his presence behind me.

I turned again. Faced him. Tightened my grip.

Dashed.

Swung.

Missed.

Again.

Again.

Each time, he ended up behind me. Untouched. Unshaken. His stance never wavered.

His sword—never raised.

That's when I realized what he was doing.

He wasn't trying to beat me with sheer power.

He was breaking me.

Breaking my will. My resolve. My belief that I could reach him.

He wanted me to feel it—my powerlessness. The hopelessness of landing a blow.

He was toying with me.

Crushing me without ever striking once.

I clenched my jaw and forced myself upright again.

"Do you think I'm like Mother?" I asked, voice rising like a challenge.

"What?" he muttered, barely reacting.

"No," I pressed on, locking eyes with him. "More than that... do you think I'm like your sister?"

For the first time in this entire fight—his expression cracked.

His face shifted.

Something behind those eyes... stirred.

And I understood.

I finally understood why he had been so obsessed with burying the idea of a woman ever becoming a sword saint.

Why he denied it so fiercely. Why he wouldn't even entertain the thought.

Because the two most important women in his life... had died.

To him, women were fragile.

Breakable.

Things meant to be protected, never sharpened into blades of their own.

My mother died slowly and painfully with her body eaten away by a sickness he couldn't stop.

He was powerless to protect her.

And his sister?

She died trying to become the sword saint.

The path to that title wasn't noble or glamorous. It was brutal.

It demanded everything. Discipline, suffering, as well as sacrifice. A mind that could withstand fire and a body that wouldn't break under it.

His sister was the firstborn. The one meant to inherit the title. She should have become the first sword saint.

But she pushed too far. Trained too hard.

And it killed her.

That was the truth.

That's why he couldn't accept the idea of a woman following that same path.

Because both of them—his wife as well as his sister—were consumed by things beyond his control.

"I'm not like late Aunt," I said firmly. "I will become the sword saint."

"You fool," he snapped, his voice tight with something like pain. His teeth grit together. "You don't understand a damn thing."

"I do," I answered, calm and sure. "You've trapped yourself in the idea that women can't do anything. That we're weak and fragile."

I took a breath. Raised my sword again.

"But that's where you're wrong. You don't have to worry, Father."

I locked eyes with him.

"I'll free you from that curse."

I lunged forward with everything I had.

My feet pounded against the stone floor, the sound echoing like distant thunder in my ears.

The tension crackled in the air, thick as smoke.

My eyes locked onto his. And for the briefest second—I caught it.

There.

A flicker.

A moment of hesitation in his gaze.

I didn't waste that chance.

I funneled all the strength in my body into that single dash, every muscle screaming, every nerve on fire.

My breath caught in my throat. My vision tunneled. The world narrowed to him—just him.

And I broke past his front once more.

Just like before, I found myself at his blind spot, my sword raised and ready to strike.

But his figure disappeared again.

Gone—like a mirage melting under the sun.

He was behind me.

But this time…

I was already one step ahead.

I didn't stop my momentum.

I let my body twist mid-air, the force of my previous swing carrying me through a full rotation.

Wind howled in my ears as I spun—

And as I completed the spin—

Clang!

The moment our blades collided, a thunderous shockwave ripped through the courtyard.

Sparks exploded from the point of impact, scattering like fireflies in every direction.

The vibration jolted up my arm, rattling my bones.

Gasps erupted from the onlookers.

Mouths hung open. E

yes widened with disbelief, as though they'd all forgotten how to breathe.

The sword saint—my father—was known for ending every battle with a single, precise strike.

No one had ever heard the sound of a clash.

Not once.

And yet, in this duel… that sound had been born.

Because for the very first time—

He blocked.

I twisted my body mid-reaction, slipping away just before his foot could connect with my side.

My boots scraped across the stone as I retreated, kicking up dust in my wake.

I exhaled sharply, my heart thundering in my chest like a war drum.

When I glanced up again, he was staring at his sword.

And then he turned his gaze to me—those sharp, calculating eyes now shining with something unfamiliar.

Interest.

"Interesting…" he murmured, a grin slowly curling across his lips.

There was no condescension in that grin this time.

It was genuine.

He looked... amused.

"Come at me again," he said, his tone deeper now.

I didn't hesitate.

I surged forward once more, my body moving purely on instinct now.

My blade trembled in my hands with the force I poured into every swing and every step.

My blood felt like it was boiling in my veins.

And he—he no longer held back either.

His grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles whitening around the hilt.

The tension in his stance spoke volumes.

He was finally taking this seriously.

The clash of our swords rang out again, like lightning splitting the sky.

Then again.

And again.

Each strike was like an explosion.

Each movement a blur.

I gave it my all—every drop of strength and every thread of will.

My heart raced, my arms ached, my lungs burned—but I didn't let up.

I couldn't.

For one fleeting moment, I thought I was catching up.

Matching him, step for step.

But no.

Every time I thought I was there—he accelerated.

His blade became a blur, faster than thought, faster than light. He was pushing beyond, pulling ahead.

I couldn't keep up.

And then, before I could even blink—

My sword slipped from my hands.