Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

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Air was slashed, metal ringed, sparks created from the friction, from the collision of two blades, the ground of the sparring room was not covered in drops of blood and shards of bone, when it came to their sheer skill, Ourlon and Syklon were equally matched, but in terms of pure power, the undead had the advantage.

Clearly, Syklon had not forgotten her earlier days in the least, her style was uniquely suited to accommodate for her lack of brute force and abysmal reach, even with all that training, her physique was still much lesser than that of a more regular warrior.

As a an opponent, Ourlon could only respect her deeply, getting anywhere with such disadvantages was worth praises, but getting to the level of being considered on the same level of power as the likes of the halbardier was worth adoration, it was no wonder that she had such ease getting the admiration of others, at least, Ourlon saw it like this, he was not really paying attention to how cute she might be.

True to his calling as a warrior, he was only judging his foe based on prowess, he had to be careful, in here, his body could not be mended by death force or use an art in case one of his arms fell off, he had already received multiple hits, nicks left on his bones.

But he still had the advantage here, he had landed many hits on Syklon as well, her pale blue, ample clothing were stained darkly, a shallow cut running the side of her face, her expression was composed, cold as ice as per usual, visage pale, it was impossible to tell what she was feeling or what was on her mind, utterly focused on the duel, whether she was bleeding out, whether she felt weakened, it could not be guessed, nor could it be felt.

Neither of them were any slower or weaker than when they had begun, but Ourlon had no doubts about it, she was slowly bleeding out, his pale blade, chipped and without a clear edge, it had been created in the forges of the undead palace, created by master smiths of unrivalled talent, uniquely suited for Ourlon and his style, particularly capable of inflicted blood loss.

He could feel it, his instincts were talking to him, the second she faltered, even if only for a brief instant, less than a second, less than half a second, he would be able of delivering his coup de grâce, he knew it, and so did she.

Both stepped back, his hollow sockets focused onto her cold blue eyes.

"Undeath opens path in the arts that you could not even imagine, the simple approval of King Nitok is enough to mould an outstanding battle art, if the blade is your priority, holding onto your life is nonsensical, does it look like have lost anything by pledging allegiance to the noble Prince Of Death?" the pale blade rose high in the air, its razor sharpness looming.

"How are you supposed to progress when you have nothing to lose, when you no longer fear death?" bottom of the hilt pointed at her opponent, firmly held close to her right, Syklon seemed to also be ready to deliver a powerful blow.

Silence, just for an instant before Ourlon laughed, his dirty dark hair hanging from a dry scalp wavered in the air a slight bit.

"That is of no worry, a true warrior does not work off the fear of loss, only the calling of the blade matters, alive, undead, something else entirely, the spirit of combat is all that matters, the thrill of a fight, loss, victory, all that is of importance is the progress in finesse and power, no?

Undeath allows one to no longer focus on frivolous aspects, and devote oneself entirely to the weapon" his grip tightened.

"Would it not be best to overcome those hurdles yourself, instead of taking the easy way and just having them taken away by a third party?" Syklon remained perfectly impassive.

Ourlon considered her words.

"Perhaps you are right, maybe that is best, but tell me Syklon, what do you feel when you imagine yourself decaying alive? Not fall by the blade, but be toppled over by illness, by old age, to lose control of your body and mind as time takes its toll? Does your heart ache? Do you feel a coldness along your spine? Are you afraid of death, Syklon?"

Silence once more.

"Of course, but what about you, Ourlon?"

"Preposterous question, I am one of its servants! And death is kind to those that follow it, to us, a trip into oblivion is but a visit to our ancestral home"

"Let's get this over with, we were given orders, but they don't extend to the likes of you, come!" the air tensed, both swordmasters took one step forward, itching to take another.

Only, that a blue line suddenly pierced through 'duel of true skill', cracks ran all over the walls, floor and ceiling, the battle art that had earned Ourlon fame and infamy in life came crashing down, its effects undone.

Erupting with every ounce that he gathered in this split second, taken completely by surprise, the true might of Storm Of Blade slammed into him, slashing and defending was useless, ribs shattered and one arm fell before he could do anything, half of his skull was hacked away.

Clearly outmatched, the skeleton swordsman took off running into the woods, trees and spirits appeared to cover his escape, but Syklon gave it no intention.

"Duck down"

Sword inside of its sheath, unseen by her student, swung, a perfect circle of brightness emerging from her, expanding outward, cutting down trees and destroying spirits in its wake, all fell to the ground as nothing that she did not want to be spared was left untouched.

The pseudo-domain was sliced, breaking down, Syklon changed the undeads that had been within the domain disappear one after another, seemingly sinking into the ground and then disappearing.

"Well, I see that none of you disobeyed, you did pretty good not getting pounded into the ground, we are still training some more when we return though, you can't struggle so much against guys that call themselves minor lords, just ridiculous"

"But Miss Syklon, you are injured as well" remarked Antieeld

"Mere flesh wounds"

"There is a lot of blood…" Griar added.

"Anyways, stay here you lot, I have something else to do" Syklon disappeared, no one in the group was left unscathed in their confrontations, their instructor herself had not gotten out without a few cuts, although, it had all been her idea to do things this way.

And now, she appeared before the royal courier, a complicated scene playing out before her eyes.