I twisted my body at the last possible second.

  The kunai sliced past my cheek so close I felt the cold kiss of sharpened steel brush the air beside my skin. I heard it before I fully saw it—a shrill metallic whistle followed by a violent crunch.

  I looked back and, my lord, was it sharp. The kunai had pierced straight through a steel armor stand as if it were made of damp paper. It punched clean through the breastplate, continued without slowing, and tore through the thick canvas of the tent behind it before vanishing into the open air outside.

  For a moment, I simply stared at the clean hole left in the armor. There was no jagged tear or bent metal, just a perfect, brutal puncture.

  I swallowed.

  That got me thinking for just a slight second.

  The answer formed quietly inside me.

  I tightened my grip on the branch. The wood felt warm in my hand, humming faintly with enchantment. It had already endured his blade once, blocking a strike that should have cleaved me in half. It would endure again.

  I glanced at the Elf Giant beside me. He was still pulling himself fully from the earth, massive armored shoulders rising and bamboo remnants still embedded through his skull from his previous death. Dirt cascaded down his body as he straightened, towering within the ruined tent like a resurrected monument of violence. His hollow eyes locked onto the boss.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The boss did not flinch. He assessed, measured, and adjusted.

  I dashed toward him with no more hesitation and no more waiting for him to dictate the rhythm of this fight. My boots crushed splintered wood beneath them as I closed the distance, raising the branch high.

  I would use everything: the third attack passive, the leaf ability—all of it.

  But today, I just needed to kill him.

  The boss lifted his long sword smoothly. He did not rush or retreat; he simply began walking toward me, each step deliberate and controlled, as if he were stepping into a duel he fully expected to win.

  Then— [Gale’s Sweeping Edge]

  The skill activated instantly. A thin layer of compressed air wrapped around his blade. The air shimmered along the length of the sword like a translucent current, bending the light around it slightly. The weapon did not grow in size, but its presence multiplied. The edge looked sharper, hungrier, and deadlier.

  He swung. I swung. Our weapons collided.

  The impact rang out with a piercing metallic crack that shook the broken tent poles. Wind exploded outward from the point of contact, whipping my wet, half-burned shirt against my skin. The moment steel met enchanted wood, I felt it—that same mysterious pressure from before, but this time it was focused and concentrated only along the arm holding the branch.

  It felt like invisible fingers squeezing my muscles, compressing bone and sinew together, trying to force my grip open. My forearm screamed in protest, and my shoulder trembled. Pain flared—not unbearable, but enough to make me grit my teeth.

  My knees bent under the force, boots sliding back inches across the debris-covered ground. But I did not let go. I did not retreat. Instead, I leaned forward, pushed through it, and smiled.

  His eyes flickered for the briefest moment. That was the opening. I still didn’t give up, and I surprised my enemy.