Asher, unconcerned about Finch and William, who were still bickering back and forth like restless children while maintaining a calm expression and the composed etiquette expected of someone of noble upbringing. Without sparing them a second glance, he stepped forward with silent assurance, for it was now his turn to spar with the trainees.

The moment his foot touched the open space of the training field, a male trainee stepped confidently out of the line. He gripped a katana in his right hand, immediately shifting into a prepared stance, his posture steady and disciplined. Instructor Clinton did not bother reiterating the rules to Asher. He already knew them intimately, and Clinton understood there was no need to waste breath on obvious reminders.

"Do you want to spar like the others," Asher asked, his tone flat and calm, "or would you prefer to receive a lesson from me?"

The boy tilted his head, momentarily confused by the question, but the realization struck almost instantly. To him, this wasn't simply a spar. This was an opportunity, an opportunity to learn from the Tenth Sun himself.

"I would like a lesson from you," the boy said, his voice firm, overflowing with determination.

Asher nodded once. "Then attack me with everything you have for the next two minutes. After that, I will attack you for two minutes."

The boy nodded, steel glinting in his eyes. Even before Instructor Clinton could give the signal, the boy exploded forward, erasing the distance between himself and Asher in the span of a heartbeat. His katana thrust through the air, streaking toward Asher's chest in a seamless motion.

'He is fast,' Asher noted quietly to himself.

He watched the blade approach him as though each moment were unfolding in slow motion, each frame drifting leisurely through his senses. Just as the tip of the katana was about to reach his chest, Asher shifted his center of gravity. His shoulders and legs moved with impeccable timing, and he sidestepped with effortless grace. The katana carved through the space he had occupied a split second earlier.

But the boy wasn't done. His katana twisted in his grasp, recalibrating mid-thrust. The attack transformed into a horizontal slash, slicing toward Asher's chest. His initial thrust had been a feint, one he had devised after hearing William's earlier explanation.

Unfortunately for him, his opponent was Asher. A monster in human form. A monster who had seen through his feint the moment the boy had tightened his grip. Asher moved once more, his motions fluid and unhurried. He stepped back with graceful ease, the katana's edge passing mere inches from his chest.

The boy frowned. Twice he had come close, painfully close, only for the Tenth Sun to slip away effortlessly. Yet he felt something dangerous stirring within his chest: hope. He believed, foolishly, that he was pushing Asher. Forcing him to dodge at the last moment. The watching trainees believed the same thing.

If only they knew how wrong they were.

Only Instructor Clinton, William, and Finch understood the truth. Asher was dodging at the exact instant of contact, not because he was pressured, but because he chose to. There was no wasted movement in his body. Every step was precise. Every shift of weight intentional.

The boy and Asher blurred across the platform, their figures dissolving into streaks of motion. The boy attacked with agility, strength, and lethal precision. Asher, on the other hand, dodged every strike with absolute ease, his expression calm, placid, serene. Not once did he draw his rapier. Not once did his composure shift.

'I only have ten seconds left,' the boy thought, counting down the dwindling seconds in his head. But neither desperation nor determination could change the inevitable outcome.

Two minutes came to an end.

Both fighters halted simultaneously, standing two meters apart. The boy breathed heavily, sweat trickling down his back. Asher, in contrast, looked as composed as when he had first stepped forward.

"My turn," Asher said.

Throughout the entire first phase, he had not drawn his weapon. Now, his hand shifted to the hilt of his rapier. The boy, seeing the movement, panicked. He tore backward instantly, creating distance between them.

But Asher didn't draw the blade.

Instead, he removed the rapier and its scabbard together from the sword belt. Holding the sheathed rapier loosely in his hand, he took a single step forward. That one step erased the distance between them as though it had never existed.

The boy's eyes widened in shock. Asher had vanished from his sight, only to reappear directly before him. Instinct and adrenaline surged through the trainee's body. He raised his katana above his head in a defensive stance, preparing for a powerful downward strike.

But the impact never came.

'A feint,' he realized, too late.

Asher had used the boy's own opening technique and used it against him. Before the trainee could react, the sheathed rapier dropped sharply, striking the boy's right knee with precise, controlled force. Pain erupted through his leg, a sharp sting, not enough to cause real damage, but enough to shatter his stance.

The boy stumbled back, trying to retreat and regain balance. But Asher mirrored his movement perfectly. Before the trainee could complete the step, Asher struck again. The scabbard blurred and collapsed against the boy's left knee. His speed plummeted instantly. His agility dropped by more than half. The pain shot through both legs, weakening his stance, his ability to dodge, his confidence.

Asher raised the scabbard again. His two minutes had not yet expired, and he did not hesitate. He swung once more toward the boy's knees. This time, the trainee expected it. He reacted quickly, his katana flashing downward to intercept the attack.

But his blade struck nothing but empty air.

The realization hit him an instant too late: he had been baited by the previous two strikes. Before he could correct himself, a sharp jolt of pain burst through his right elbow as the blunt scabbard slammed against it with calculated force and ease. His entire arm and fingers went numb. The katana flew from his grip, clattering loudly against the earth.

He looked up, breath hitching and saw only the silhouette of Asher above him. The scabbard descended like divine judgment. He braced himself, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut, expecting a brutal strike to the neck. But the blow never came, slowly, hesitantly, he opened his eyes.

The scabbard hovered merely an inch from his head, motionless, calm. Then he noticed Asher's hand, steady and controlled, holding the weapon back with calm restraint.

The boy exhaled shakily, realizing only then how precise, how terrifyingly calculated, Asher's movements had been. He had never been in danger, not truly. Every strike, every feint, every impact had been delivered with complete control.

Asher stepped back, lowering the scabbard. His expression remained calm, almost indifferent, as though the exchange had been little more than a gentle demonstration.

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