The boy didn't hesitate. He stepped forward with an easy confidence, his boots echoing faintly against the ground as he came to stand in front of her.

A smug smile rested on his face, one that suggested he had already imagined how this would end, and that imagination clearly favored him.

He rolled his shoulders once, loosening up, clearly enjoying the attention now fixed entirely on him.

In his hands were a pair of daggers, short and well-balanced, their edges catching the light as he shifted his grip.

He began to swing them casually, flipping them with fluid motion.

With each rotation, the smug smirk on his face grew wider, as if he wanted everyone watching to understand just how comfortable he was with his weapons, how confident he felt stepping into this moment.

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she observed him.

Her hand moved to her waist, fingers closing around the hilt of a thin sword resting in its sheath.

She drew it smoothly, the blade sliding free with a soft, controlled sound, and held it loosely at her side.

"Come," she said, her voice steady and calm, carrying easily across the space. "Show me your skills."

The boy chuckled at her words, a low, confident sound that reflected his belief that this was an opportunity to impress rather than a challenge to survive.

Without another moment of hesitation, he dashed forward, his body leaning into the movement, feet pushing off the ground with explosive force as he closed the distance between them.

His first strike was fast and direct.

One dagger arced upward toward her neck, aimed with precision and confidence, clearly intended to catch her off guard.

But the woman didn't even flinch.

She shifted her head slightly, stepping to the side with grace, and the blade passed through empty air where she had been just a moment before.

The boy didn't stop. He followed up immediately, swinging his other dagger in a wide slash, then another, and another, attacking from different angles, trying to overwhelm her with speed and aggression.

His movements were sharp, well-trained, and undeniably skilled for a student of his level.

Yet none of it mattered.

The woman moved as if the attacks barely registered.

She stepped back, then to the side, twisting her body just enough to let each strike miss by inches.

Her breathing remained steady, her posture relaxed, and her expression unchanged.

She dodged his attacks as easily as breathing, as though she were merely avoiding falling leaves rather than lethal blades.

As the exchange continued, the boy's confidence began to crack.

His strikes grew sharper, more forceful, his movements slightly less controlled as frustration crept in.

Each missed attack chipped away at his arrogance, replacing it with irritation.

He pressed harder, swinging faster, trying to force an opening, trying to make her react.

But despite all his efforts, she didn't.

Not once did she raise her sword to block or counter. She didn't even bring the blade up defensively.

She simply moved, avoiding every strike with minimal effort, her body flowing smoothly from one position to the next.

It was painfully obvious now that she wasn't taking the fight seriously.

To anyone watching, it was clear what was happening. She was toying with him. Letting him exhaust himself, almost like she wanted him to feel the gap between them without needing to state it outright.

And that was to be expected. She was an instructor, someone who had spent years honing her skills in real combat, real danger, real life-and-death situations.

He was a student, talented and confident, but still inexperienced. The gap between them wasn't just noticeable, it was overwhelming.

Still, the boy felt it in his chest, that growing pressure, that refusal to accept what was happening. He should at least be able to land a hit, just one hit.

That was all he wanted now, not victory, not praise, just proof that he wasn't completely outmatched.

His movements slowed, the rhythm of his attacks breaking as his breathing grew heavier.

Sweat gathered along his brow as he finally paused, stepping back slightly, his chest rising and falling as he panted.

He narrowed his eyes at the woman, frustration burning behind them, and tightened his grip on his daggers.

His fingers clenched around the hilts, knuckles whitening, as he prepared himself, determined to push forward despite the obvious difference between them.

"You're rushing your attacks," the instructor said, her tone calm, almost weary, as if she were pointing out an obvious mistake that should have been corrected long ago. "You should calm down."

The boy frowned at her words. His brows knitted together, and the frustration on his face twisted into something uglier, something far less composed.

He straightened slightly, lifting his chin as if looking down on her despite the clear difference between them.

Then he spoke, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"You're just a commoner," he said, sneering openly. "You should be glad you're even standing in front of me."

His words reverberated across the room like a ripple through space.

The other instructors heard him clearly, and a few pairs of eyes shifted in his direction, but none of them said a word.

They remained silent, their expressions unreadable, as if they were deliberately choosing to let the situation unfold on its own.

The woman's brows drew together in a brief frown. It was subtle, fleeting, but it was there.

Then, just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a smile.

The smile couldn't exactly be called warm, and instead carried an edge that made the air around her feel heavier.

"That's no way to talk to an instructor," she said, her voice still even, though the softness from earlier was gone.

The boy scoffed, his lips curling with open disdain.

"Who cares," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "What a mere commoner thinks doesn't matter."

Before anyone could react, he moved.

He charged forward suddenly, far faster than before, his body leaning into the motion with reckless intent.

This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint.

He swung his dagger straight toward her neck, the angle sharp and deadly, and it was immediately clear that he wasn't treating this like an ordinary spar anymore.

Instead, he was going in for the kill.

Nonetheless, woman didn't lose her smile.

She held it in place as the blade closed in, her posture relaxed, her eyes calm.

At the last possible moment, as the dagger was about to reach her, she moved. Her leg swung outward in a smooth, graceful arc, aimed precisely at his own.

The motion was gentle, almost elegant, and for a split second, it looked harmless.

However, what followed wasn't.

Her strike connected cleanly, sweeping his leg out from under him with perfect timing.

The momentum he had thrown into his charge betrayed him instantly. His balance vanished, and his body lifted off the ground, suspended in the air for a brief, terrifying moment as his arms flailed uselessly.

Then he crashed down hard.

The impact echoed through the space with a loud thud, the sound sharp enough to make several students flinch.

The boy groaned as pain tore through him, his daggers slipping from his grip as he rolled slightly on the ground, struggling to breathe through the shock.

The instructor glanced down at him, her expression completely blank now.

She clicked her tongue softly and spoke, her voice carrying clearly.

"I told you," she said calmly, "don't rush your attacks."

The boy gnashed his teeth, his jaw tightening so hard it looked like it might crack.

His fingers curled around his daggers, gripping them tightly as if that alone could reclaim the pride he had just lost.

His knuckles whitened, and his shoulders trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the humiliation burning through him.

He looked like he wanted to say something, anything, that might salvage the moment, but no words came.

In the end, he said nothing.

He pushed himself back up onto his feet, movements stiff and awkward, his gaze lowered just enough to avoid meeting the eyes of those watching.

The embarrassment was written plainly on his face, and the earlier smugness was nowhere to be found.

The woman watched him for a brief moment longer, then spoke again, her voice steady and final. "You can go back now."

She didn't wait for a response. She turned away from him and faced the rest of the elite students, her posture relaxed, sword resting loosely at her side, as if nothing noteworthy had just happened.

The class moved on as though that brief clash had been nothing more than a demonstration, but the tension it left behind lingered in the air.

Damien's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her.

There was something familiar about the way she moved, the way she carried herself, and the calm authority she projected despite the clear disdain some of the students held for her.

A realization slowly formed in his mind, and he felt a quiet spark of recognition.

He knew her.

Not personally, but from the game.

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