The World Is Mine For The Taking

I watched as my sword flew from my grasp, spinning violently through the air like a silver streak cutting across the sky.

It glinted once in the light, flipping end over end, before starting its descent—

Falling toward the hard stone floor of the platform below.

My heart dropped with it.

No—this couldn't be how it ended.

I clenched my teeth and threw my body forward, every nerve in me igniting like fire.

My legs burned as I exploded into a full sprint, the air whipping harshly past my face.

I used every ounce of my speed—every scrap of willpower—to close the distance.

My lungs screamed, and the soles of my feet slammed against the platform with deafening force.

I had to make it..

Being disarmed meant defeat.

It didn't matter how skilled you were, how close you were to turning the tables.

The moment your weapon touched the ground, the battle was over.

The one who disarmed the other would be named the victor, no exceptions.

But there was a sliver of hope—a razor-thin margin for survival.

The rule only came into play if the sword actually hit the ground.

Which meant…

If I caught it before it landed—if I snatched it back from the jaws of failure mid-air—then I was still in this.

My fingers closed around the hilt just before it could clatter against the cold floor.

The moment I grabbed it, I whipped my body back upright and let my instincts take over.

I entered my battle stance in one fluid motion, my breath ragged but steadying as adrenaline took hold.

My father's face remained unreadable, cold and composed as always.

But I saw it—

A flicker in his eyes. It was subtle. But it was there.

Slight approval.

"Impressive," he said, his tone calm and measured. "I wouldn't have expected you to go as far as doing something that outrageous—catching your sword mid-air like that."

He let out a small exhale, eyes fixed on me.

"Well… I suppose that's fine. As long as your sword never touched the ground, you're still part of this duel. But tell me—haven't you noticed something? You're clearly at a disadvantage."

I already knew that. I didn't need to be told.

My arms ached, my lungs burned, and sweat dripped down my back in steady trails.

But I didn't let his words rattle me.

I tightened my grip on the sword, raised my chin, and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Don't worry," I said firmly, my voice unwavering. "I'm not afraid."

"Oh?"

His eyes narrowed, and a grin threatened the corner of his lips.

Now, he looked genuinely intrigued.

At that moment, I didn't feel like I was standing in front of my father anymore.

No.

He was still my father… but something about him had shifted.

The usual disapproval, the rigid harshness was all gone.

In its place was something else.

Recognition?

I wasn't sure.

But I wasn't going to waste the moment.

I charged in again—this time not with form, not with technique, but with everything I had.

Every last drop of power and speed surged through me. My body was screaming, but I shut out the pain.

My blade swung wildly, without style or precision.

I no longer cared about the elegance of form—I struck when I felt like it, whenever an opening appeared. It was messy and chaotic.

But it was fast.

Faster than I had ever moved.

And somehow… I was keeping up.

Our swords blurred together, moving so rapidly that the human eye couldn't track them anymore.

The sound of metal clashing vanished completely—it was too fast to even make noise.

The world around us melted away.

Time… stopped.

In that space, there was nothing else but him and me.

Two blades.

One heartbeat.

One rhythm.

We were locked in a dance that had no music, no audience, no meaning beyond the clash itself.

I gave it everything—my speed, my strength, my soul.

He, on the other hand, remained perfectly composed.

Every block, every parry was effortless.

He barely even moved.

While I flung myself at him with desperate force, he reacted like it was a casual spar.

It was maddening.

I could feel it—my muscles starting to tear, my bones aching under the pressure.

Each movement felt like it would be my last.

I was nearing my limit.

My arms trembled, my shoulders burned, and my legs threatened to give out at any moment.

But I held on.

Not because I thought I could win.

But because I refused to quit.

My willpower kept me going when my body was already done.

Or maybe it was just plain stubbornness.

I didn't care if my limbs shattered—I wasn't going down easy.

But…

It still wasn't enough.

I didn't have the years of experience.

The honed instincts.

The unshakable control.

Compared to him, I was still just a flickering candle trying to outshine a raging sun.

He was on another level.

And I… I wasn't even close.

He hadn't even used his full strength.

Then, it happened.

My legs gave out beneath me like broken supports.

I dropped to my knees—and my sword slipped from my grasp.

The weight of it was gone.

The warmth of the hilt vanished from my fingers.

"This duel is over! The victor is Sir Sword Saint!"

"Ugh…"

A groan tore from my throat.

I felt like I had been hurled into a pit of darkness.

My head hung low, sweat dripping from my face onto the ground below.

My lungs heaved. My vision blurred.

I looked up at my father.

His expression hadn't changed.

Still that same cold, unreadable gaze.

But this time, something was different.

There was a glimmer in his eyes.

Interest.

Without a word, he sheathed his sword in one smooth motion—

And then extended his hand toward me.

I stared at it in disbelief.

What… was this?

What did it mean?

I blinked, unable to process it.

Was he… helping me?

"What are you waiting for?" he said flatly. "Do you hate me so much that you can't even stand the idea of being pulled up by my hand?"

My eyes widened.

He… was offering to help me up?

Still stunned, I reached out and grabbed his hand. It felt strong. And I could feel the years of training in it.

It was strange. Surreal, even.

I had never imagined that he would do something like this.