Chapter 17 : At the Edge of Empty Miki.
Light exploded from Arwyn’s blade.
A single, perfect arc—brilliant, absolute—descended toward Rynvaris. For an instant, the arena vanished from her senses, swallowed by blinding white.
It felt as though the moon itself was falling.
The pressure crushed downward, heavy enough to bend the air, heavy enough to make her knees scream in protest. Stone groaned beneath her boots. There was no space to evade—no margin for error.
Only a choice.
Rynvaris lowered her stance, sword turning inward, elbows drawing close as her breathing slowed by instinct rather than will.
“Silver Tranquility.”
The blade traced a quiet circle.
Moonlight softened.
The raging force was caught—redirected—sliding along the flow of her Miki instead of tearing straight through it. The arc screamed as it twisted aside, its violence dulled but not erased.
The impact still hit.
Her arms shuddered violently. Pain shot through her shoulders as her boots scraped backward across the stone, sparks and scorched lines carving themselves into the arena floor. Her breath was driven from her lungs in a sharp, voiceless gasp.
But she did not fall.
She held.
“What—?!” Prince Draven surged to his feet, disbelief cracking his voice. “That half-blood even mastered 'Silver Tranquility?!' The defensive form of the Flowing Moon Sword?!”
The arena fell into stunned silence.
Then—whispers. Shaken voices. Murmurs colliding like waves.
Some clenched their fists in grim satisfaction.
They had bet on Arwyn.
“Sylvaris!” Elara whispered urgently, fingers tightening around the railing. “Can she block another Full Moon Oblivion?”
Sylvaris’s eyes never left Rynvaris. Her expression remained calm, but something sharp flickered beneath it.
“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “But if she attacks first…”
A pause.
“She won’t need to.”
Arwyn straightened, her blade lowering slightly as she felt the resistance finally give way.
Her smile widened.
“So you really can use it,” she said, tilting her head, voice light with amusement. “Silver Tranquility… I almost forgot someone like you was taught that far.”
She took a slow step forward.
“Did it feel good?” Arwyn continued mockingly. “Standing there? Pretending you belong in the same circle as me?”
Rynvaris’s breathing was uneven. Blood slipped from the corner of her lips, dark against her chin—but her grip on the sword never loosened.
Arwyn laughed softly.
“It’s over, half-blood,” she said calmly. “My blood is better than yours. Purer. Stronger.” Her eyes gleamed with cruel delight. “And so am I.”
She raised her blade once more.
Moonlight gathered again, denser than before—heavier, sharper, absolute.
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“Even if you deflect it with Silver Tranquility,” Arwyn went on, voice cool and instructional, “you still take the impact. And your Miki?” She chuckled. “It’s almost gone.”
Her gaze narrowed.
“You spent most of it cutting down my illusion. Every slash, every step—you played right into my hands.”
“Ha… ha ha…”
Her laughter rang clear across the arena, bright and merciless.
“Did you really think you could win by surviving?”
Prince Draven exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
“It’s over,” he said with certainty. “The half-blood can’t defend another one.”
The crowd leaned forward, breath held, eyes wide—certain they were about to witness the end.
Sylvaris spoke softly, almost to herself.
“Ray doesn’t have enough Miki left to attack…”
The hope lingering in the arena thinned—
and began to fade into despair.
---
Rynvaris barely had time to reset her footing before the next wave descended.
She had no real options left.
So she raised her sword again.
“Silver Tranquility.”
The blade moved—slower this time. Heavier.
Moonlight gathered, thinner than before, wavering as it met Arwyn’s descending arc. The technique softened the blow, redirected what it could—but it was no longer enough to erase the force behind it.
The impact crushed through her guard.
Pain exploded up her arms and into her chest. Something tore loose inside her throat.
Blood surged upward.
She choked, crimson spilling from her lips as her knees finally gave way. Her body struck the stone hard, trembling uncontrollably—but even as she fell, her fingers refused to release the sword.
Metal clattered once.
Then—silence.
The arena held its breath, broken only by the faint, uneven sound of Rynvaris’s ragged breathing as she struggled to draw air into burning lungs.
“Hehe…”
Arwyn lowered her blade, watching her with open amusement.
“Pathetic,” she said lightly. “You really held on longer than I expected, weakling.” She glanced toward the stands. “Hey—announce the result already.”
The announcer stepped forward, throat tight, raising his staff.
“By the laws of sanctioned duel—”
A voice cut through the air.
“Oye…”
Rynvaris planted her sword against the stone and forced herself upright. Her legs shook violently, blood trailing down her chin, but she stood.
“I still have my sword,” she said hoarsely. “I’m standing on my feet… and my heart is still racing.” She lifted her gaze, eyes burning despite the pain.
“So tell me—did I really lose?”
The arena froze.
The announcer’s breath caught. A chill ran straight down his spine as her words settled into the air. His hand trembled.
Arwyn stared for a moment.
Then she laughed.
A sharp, mocking sound.
“You’re still talking?” she said, tilting her head. “That’s impressive—for someone who’s already empty.”
She took a deliberate step closer.
“Listen carefully, weakling. You have no Miki left. None.” Her smile thinned, eyes turning cold. “And I don’t even need my sword anymore.”
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Arwyn’s fingers flexed.
“I can finish you right now,” she said calmly. “With fire-element magic.”
At that—
“Elara,” Sylvaris said sharply.
Elara turned, startled, as Sylvaris finally broke her silence. Her voice was low, controlled—but urgent.
“She’s invoking Article Ninety-Five.”
Elara’s eyes widened slightly. “The law…?”
Sylvaris nodded once.
“Law of the Orimvess Empire — Article 95,” she said quietly, as if reciting something etched into bone.
“Elemental magic may not be used before the Coming-of-Age Ceremony. Those who do risk shortening their lifespan—sometimes fatally.”
Elara’s gaze snapped back to Arwyn. “Then she can’t—”
“She can,” Sylvaris interrupted. “Basic spells are permitted.”
A pause.
“Fireball. Flame burst. Nothing refined—but still lethal at close range.”
Elara clenched her jaw. “That girl… she doesn’t care about the cost.”
“No,” Sylvaris agreed softly. Her eyes returned to Rynvaris. “She cares about winning.”
Back in the arena, Arwyn smiled wider, clearly enjoying the tension tightening around her.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she said lazily. “It’s a basic spell. Perfectly legal.”
Her gaze dropped to Rynvaris with open disdain.
“Honestly,” Arwyn continued, “you should feel honored. I didn’t think you were worth shortening my life for.” She raised her hand slightly, heat already beginning to gather.
“But watching you struggle like this?”
A cruel glint flashed in her eyes.
“It’s starting to feel worth it.”
---
— Extra Explanation (As Understood by the Empire) —
The Flowing Moon Sword was never a style built on brute force.
It was a discipline of breath, rhythm, and restraint—taught only to those patient enough to listen to the flow of Miki rather than dominate it.
Within the Orimvess Empire, its progression was commonly understood to consist of three known stages.
The first stage was Crescent Bloom.
At this level, a practitioner learned the fundamentals: precise footwork, controlled breathing, and the ability to synchronize Miki with each strike. Techniques such as the Moonlit Slash were born here—simple in form, yet refined enough to punish even the smallest mistake.
The second stage was Wind Serenade.
Here, movement became fluid and unpredictable, like wind guided by instinct. A swordswoman no longer attacked in straight lines, but flowed from one opening to the next. Crescent Waltz was taught at this level, allowing multiple enemies to be struck down in a single, seamless motion.
The third—and highest stage recognized by most—was Silver Tranquility.
At this point, Miki no longer merely fueled the blade; it surrounded it. A faint moonlit aura became visible as the wielder mastered Silver Veil, a defensive principle that redirected incoming force rather than meeting it head-on. Mastery of Silver Tranquility was considered the mark of an elite swordswoman, rare even among royal instructors.
Few were ever said to progress beyond this.
And among the public, it was widely believed that no further forms of the Flowing Moon Sword existed at all.
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