The air was still. No breeze dared to interrupt the silent pressure emanating from the long-abandoned training hall.
Rusted blades lay scattered across the cracked floor. Training dummies stood like broken scarecrows. Faded banners, once proud and vibrant, now whispered weakly in the sunlight pouring from holes in the ceiling, casting long shadows across the arena. The sky above was blue-green, stretching wide beyond the ruined roof.
A bird passed overhead.
Its feathers burned like wildfire. Like a raging inferno. Real flame, licking across its wings with silent majesty.
Jack blinked. Was that a phoenix? He didn't know. But the damn thing looked divine.
He wished he could look longer.
But in front of him stood death.
The jiangshi loomed tall. Unblinking. Unmoving. A walking corpse shrouded in eerie silence. Its robes were dark, stitched and frayed, fluttering as though caught in a breeze that didn't exist. In its hands was a sword: black as pitch, its edge gleaming with wicked intent.
Jack's breath hitched.
The jiangshi moved.
No warning. No theatrics. One smooth shift, and it fell into a smooth stance.
Jack's skin crawled. His fingers gripped the hilt of the sword he'd pulled from the stone floor earlier—pitch-black, like the one the jiangshi held, though less regal. Less refined. Still, it felt solid. Real.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
This thing's trained a lot.
He let out a shaky breath.
I'm propably going to die if I go up against that.
He crouched low, copying the pose he'd seen in those awakened adverts. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't balanced. But it was what he had.
A leaf drifted between them.
Blood red.
The moment it touched the ground, they moved.
The jiangshi blurred. Jack barely registered it before pain exploded in his side. The flat of the blade struck his ribs, his own weapon having done little to stop it. He hit the floor, coughing and wheezing. Stone dug into his back.
But there was no time to breathe.
Another strike came. This one aimed to cut him clean in half.
Clang!
Sparks burst. Jack rolled. The blow shaved the edge of his shoulder.
He staggered upright. The jiangshi turned. No urgency. Just observation.
Then it came again.
Fast and Unrelenting.
Jack blocked, parried, absorbed what he could. But pain bled through every exchange. Small cuts. Long slices. Nothing fatal, but each one a message:
You are weak.
Why? Jack wondered. Why isn't it killing me already? Is this thing toying with me?
A kick to the ribs brought him out of his thoughts.
He gasped. Dropped to a knee.
The jiangshi stared down at him.
Then, with eerie calm, it raised a hand.
First pointing at Jack's blade.
Then tapping its own temple.
Jack spat blood. He looked the jiangshi in the eyes.
"So you think I'm not serious?"
He stood, barely.
His knees trembled. His arms felt like lead. His lungs burned. But his pride—that stubborn, idiotic fire—roared louder. His leg throbbed.
No breaks. No thinking. Just fight.
He gritted his teeth and lifted his sword again.
Fine. Hard mode it is.
The jiangshi stepped once.
The air changed.
The atmosphere compressed. Like the entire arena had been buried under ocean pressure.
It was watching him.
Waiting.
Jack tried to see. To really see.
Then the jiangshi lifted its sword. It was a simple, downward slash.
The air split.
The ground cracked. A canyon carved in stone from a single motion.
Jack's lips parted. ...How the hell do I beat that?
The jiangshi returned to the center of the arena.
It was ritualistic. A pattern.
Is this thing testing me?
Jack followed, legs dragging. His vision blurred at the edges.
When he reached the center he went into a stance again. Then followed another clash.
This time, the intent was different.
The jiangshi emitted a strong murderous intent.
Jack raised his sword just in time.
Steel met steel.
He knew this thing was done playing around. And yet it still didn't feel so strong. It's undead joints were fragile, limiting it's range of movement.
He fell into a rhythm. Not by choice. But by necessity.
Left. Right. Block. Step. Counter.
It was all raw instinct. His mind couldn't keep up. His body remembered pain, and moved to avoid more of it.
But even then, he wasn't leading this fight.
The jiangshi was guiding him. It was the marionette master.
And he was the puppet.
This isn't a fight. It's a dance.
But one more mistake would be his last.
He remembered the sword.
When he'd pulled it free, something had stirred. A flicker. A pulse. A cold trickling sensation.
He focused on that feeling.
Waited.
Nothing.
The fight continued.
Cuts lined his arms. His vision blurred again. He was losing blood, losing strength.
Then—a blur.
Too fast.
A snick.
A strand of hair fell across his cheek. One of his bangs, sliced clean away.
Revealing his golden eye.
It glinted in the sun.
Honey-colored. Vibrant.
The jiangshi paused.
Stared.
Jack breathed hard.
Too close.
Another stab.
This one grazed his shoulder. The pain barely registered. His nerves were numb.
He fell back, instincts barely keeping him alive.
I'm done.
But then he felt a chill.
A current of cold energy flowing throughout his body.
Just cold. A trickle down his spine. Into his arms. His legs.
For a moment, his muscles awakened.
He surged forward.
The jiangshi blinked.
Steel met steel.
Jack shouted—pure fury, pure desperation—and brought his sword down with every ounce of what he had left.
There was a sound.
Not a clash.
A slice.
The jiangshi staggered.
Why didn't it move?
A clean diagonal gash ran across its chest.
It knelt.
Jack stood above it, chest heaving.
Then the air softened. Read leaves shaped like maple leafs lay around them.
The pressure vanished.
The jiangshi looked up.
Its face began to shift.
Not morph or transform.
But reveal.
The dead mask cracked, faded—and underneath was a man.
Hazel brown eyes. Sunken. Tired.
Lines on his face. From grief, not age.
He looked directly at Jack.
And smiled.
A single tear slipped from his eye.
He looked up.
Toward the broken roof.
Toward the blue-green sky.
"Finally..." The man's voice rang in Jack's ears.
Then his body unraveled.
Not into dust.
Into butterflies.
Blue. Glowing. Ethereal.
They lifted into the air, weightless and quiet.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Jack stepped back, heart pounding.
From the corners of the hall, more butterflies rose.
From shadowed corpses long forgotten.
A final breath.
A final release.
[You have defeated a Fallen Samurai.]
[+200 Star Stream gained.]
Jack didn't smile.
He didn't cheer.
He fell to his knees.
And watched the butterflies vanish into the light.