As the soldier struck his sword against Shawn, he sliced down an empty area where Shawn was kneeling. All three soldiers looked around searching for Shawn, only to notice the sight of Makara standing resolute beside the fallen Shawn, a few feet away from them. They recognised the danger he posed as all three soldiers didn’t sense him; moreover, he saved Shawn from their grasp. Yet their confidence didn’t waver, knowing they still outnumbered their opponents. Makara glanced down at Shawn, who was struggling to rise, and then back at the soldiers who were encircling them like predators. Assessing the situation quickly, Makara knew that their best chance of survival was to fight together—two against three had better odds than one against three.

  "Shawn, get up!" Makara commanded, his voice steady but urgent. Shawn looked up at him, his face etched with pain and doubt. “I... I couldn’t even stop them. They’re too strong.” Makara’s gaze hardened as he met the eyes of each soldier in turn, sizing them up. “They didn’t beat you with strength alone,”

  Makara continued, his tone now a mix of encouragement and revelation. "They overpowered you with their core abilities—each one exploiting a different advantage over you. The one who stopped you used sharp perception, the one who flanked you has swift intuition, and the one who caught you used mirage to deceive your eyes."

  Makara's voice cutting through the tension, “The mother and child you saw, they’re not real.” Shawn’s eyes widened in realisation as he processed Makara's words. The mother and child he had been so desperate to save—the ones who had fuelled his desperation—were nothing but an illusion, a cruel trick designed to manipulate him. Makara continued, “All the villagers here... they were killed long before you arrived. This was a trap.”

  The soldiers stiffened at Makara's revelation, their shock betraying them. They hadn’t expected their illusion to be uncovered so quickly. The mother and child, who had seemed so tangible, so real in their terror, began to flicker and fade like a mirage dissolved before Shawn’s eyes, leaving only the charred remnants of the village. The soldiers exchanged shocked glances, their deception laid bare. The confidence the soldier held was momentarily shaken, and in that instant, Shawn felt something stir within him—a renewed determination, born from the realisation that he hadn’t truly failed. Shawn had been deceived, but now he knew the truth.

  Shawn pushed himself to his feet, his body still weighed down by exhaustion, but his resolve strengthening with every breath. "Makara, I’ll take care of the one who deceived me. Can you handle the rest?" he asked, his voice steady and calm, though it was clear he was speaking as much to himself as to his companion.

  Makara nodded, a small, wry smile forming at the corner of his lips. “You’re really piling it on, huh? Fine, but you’re cooking tonight. Let’s wrap this up so we can finally have breakfast.”

  With a shared glance, they switched places—Shawn now squaring off against the soldier who had slammed him into the ground, while Makara turned to face the two others.

  The air around them crackled with tension, thick with the promise of the impending clash. The soldiers, momentarily thrown by the unexpected shift in momentum, quickly regrouped, their expressions hardening as they realised they were up against a revitalised and determined opposition.

  Makara, with a glint of amusement in his eyes, grinned at the two soldiers, his demeanour relaxed but with a dangerous edge and took a slip of alcohol from his sake gourd. Meanwhile, Shawn felt the familiar surge of energy coursing through his veins, his power responding to the clarity of his focus. The pain in his body dulled, overridden by the rush of adrenaline, and he locked eyes with the soldier who had previously overwhelmed him.

  “Ready for round two?” Shawn muttered under his breath. He prepared to face his adversary with renewed determination. This time, there would be no deception—only a fight to the finish.

  The tension in the air was palpable as both Makara and Shawn squared off against their respective opponents. Makara, facing the two soldiers in front of him, charged forward with a sudden burst of speed. The soldiers braced themselves, ready to counter his attack, but just as they prepared to strike, Makara abruptly halted his advance.

  In a move that caught both soldiers off guard, Makara casually tilted his head back and took a long drink from his gourd, his sword still resting in its sheath by his side. The two soldiers exchanged bewildered glances, still holding their defensive stances. Uncertainty flickered across their faces as they tried to decipher Makara's intentions. Was he underestimating them? Or was this some kind of trap? The audacity of his actions left them momentarily paralysed, their instincts warning them to be cautious.

  The soldiers, wary of Makara’s behaviour, eyed him suspiciously. Was he truly drunk, or was this just an elaborate ruse to lure them into a false sense of security? Makara's antics only added to their confusion, making them hesitant to act without a solid plan.

  After another tense moment, the soldiers exchanged another glance, silently agreeing on a strategy. They nodded in unison, deciding that they couldn’t afford to take any chances with this unpredictable opponent. Whatever Makara's game was, they needed to put an end to it quickly before he could catch them off guard again.

  The soldier with sharp precision cautiously approached Makara, his eyes narrowed, measuring each step as he closed the distance. With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged at Makara, aiming for a swift, precise strike meant to end the fight in one clean blow, but Makara, in his unpredictable fashion, grinned broadly, his gourd still tilted to his lips, and sidestepped the attack with an almost lazy grace that belied the danger of the situation.

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  As the first soldier's blade sliced through empty air, the second soldier, with swift intuition, saw an opening and seized the opportunity and rushed in from the side. Makara, however, seemed almost to anticipate the move. Without even lowering his gourd, he twisted his body fluidly, raising his sword to meet the oncoming strike. The two blades clashed with a sharp ring, the impact sending sparks flying. Makara’s expression remained one of mischievous delight as if he were toying with his opponents rather than fighting for his life.

  The force of the clash didn’t seem to faze Makara in the slightest. Instead, he removed the gourd from his lips and took a heavy breath and laughed, a hearty, carefree sound that echoed through the air, disorienting his opponents further. “That is one good drink!” he commented and started walking around with his sword in one hand and his gourd in the other.

  His movements became more erratic, his body swaying and twisting in unpredictable ways, yet each step and strike flowed seamlessly into the next. It was as if he had transformed his drunken state into a form of combat, and his sword reacted to him by weaving through the air like a snake with a chaotic yet precise rhythm.

  The soldier who had attempted to flank him was forced to retreat a few steps, regrouping with his comrade. They stood opposite each other, their eyes locked on Makara, who now stood between them, his stance relaxed, almost inviting them to attack again. Despite the bizarre nature of his style, or perhaps because of it, the soldiers realised they were facing a far more formidable opponent than they had initially thought.

  Makara, now fully embracing his drunken sword approach, swayed slightly as he adjusted his grip on his sword, ready for the next round. The soldiers, though still cautious, couldn’t hide the growing concern in their eyes. They had to find a way to break through his unpredictable defence, but the path forward was anything but clear.

  “This is just getting started!” Makara taunted, his voice slurred and dripping with mockery. He staggered slightly, weaving his sword in front of him with an almost casual flick of his wrist. The blade moved in a serpentine fashion, whipping back and forth with a drunken agility that defied all conventional logic. Each swing was unpredictable, the arcs wide and erratic, leaving his opponents unsure where the next strike would land.

  The soldiers, who had relied on their core power and disciplined technique, found themselves at a loss. Their well-practised manoeuvres seemed almost useless against Makara’s wild, unorthodox style. Every time they tried to anticipate his moves, they were thrown off balance by the erratic way his body swayed, and his sword danced through the air.

  The soldier with Sharp eyes lunged forward, attempting to exploit what he thought was an opening, but Makara’s sword snapped around like a whip, the blade narrowly missing the soldier’s throat as he barely managed to pull back in time. The other soldier, trying to capitalise on his comrade’s attack, moved in from the side, his sword aimed at Makara’s ribs, but Makara twisted his body with a sudden drunken spin, and his sword met the soldier’s blade with a resounding clash.

  Makara’s laughter filled the air, a sound both taunting and unsettling. He swung his sword again in a wide, unpredictable arc, forcing the soldiers to step back, their faces tight with frustration. They could see that they were slowly being worn down, their disciplined approach ineffective against the sheer unpredictability of Makara’s movements.

  Despite the chaotic nature of his fighting style, there was a dangerous precision in Makara’s strikes. Each blow, no matter how wild it seemed, was deliberate, aimed to keep the soldiers off balance and on the defensive. Makara’s movements were a perfect blend of chaos and control, his drunken swordsmanship a whirlwind that they couldn’t seem to penetrate.

  The soldiers’ struggle was evident as they tried to keep up, their attacks becoming increasingly desperate. But Makara, grinning widely, only seemed to be gaining momentum, his sword weaving through the air like a living extension of his unpredictable, drunken self.

  The soldier with swift intuition, growing desperate and frustrated, channelled his core power to sharpen his focus. As he defended against Makara's chaotic swordplay, he began to find a rhythm amidst the whirlwind of unpredictable strikes. The soldier's intuition honed in on subtle cues in Makara's movements, detecting a pattern in what once seemed like random, drunken sways and unpredictable attacks.

  Makara, sensing the shift in his opponent's approach, deliberately began to adjust his own tactics. He allowed his movements to become slightly more predictable, baiting the soldier into a false sense of control. The soldier, convinced that he had finally deciphered Makara's rhythm, saw what he believed to be the perfect opportunity. He mirrored Makara's sword movements, guiding the exchange towards a seemingly vulnerable point—an overextended defensive block, immediately following up with a swift offensive slash.

  Makara had been waiting for this exact moment, and moments before the trap was activated, Makara did a swift motion as he flicked his sword against the ground, which kicked up a cloud of sand directly into the eyes of the soldier with sharp eyesight in front of him. The soldier recoiled, momentarily blinded and thrown into a disoriented panic, just as Makara sidestepped the incoming slash by the soldier with swift intuition from his back with a graceful, almost lazy movement.

  In the same fluid motion, Makara flicked his wrist, and his sword reacted to it by striking the hand of the soldiers with swift intuition who were in front of him now. Makara’s action was designed specifically to disarm. The impact wrenched the weapon from the soldier's grasp, sending it spinning helplessly into the air.

  As the soldier with swift intuition stumbled back, Makara spun around him with a fluid grace, delivering a swift kick to his back. The kick sent the soldier crashing into his comrade’s hand. The sharp-eyed soldier, who had just managed to clear his eyes seeing his colleague barrelling toward him, instinctively reached out to steady him, but Makara was already upon them with his sword a blur as he dashed forward.

  The soldier with sharp eyes tried to react, but it was too late. Makara's blade pierced through the back of the first soldier, and the momentum carried the sword clean through to the second soldier. The steel sliced through armour and flesh with ease, with deadly precision, causing both soldiers to freeze in shock as Makara's sword found its mark. The two soldiers gasped, blood bubbling up from their mouths, and with stunned disbelief as their lives slipped away.

  Makara, holding his sword, which was still impaled through the two soldiers, took a long, leisurely swig from his sake gourd as if he were on a casual stroll rather than a battlefield. Then Makara muttered with a smirk, "Well, looks like my drunken technique beat your... whatever that was," the humour in his voice underscoring the absurdity of the situation even amidst the chaos of battle.

  "Guess you could say you guys really stuck together till the end, huh?" As Makara pulled his sword out, the two soldiers fell to the ground.

  Sword Master.

  Sword Master