Rhianna's Strength

Youlun barely evaded, but the near miss threw off his balance completely. Realizing his mistake, he did the only thing he could. He rolled. Kayvaan, watching from the shadows, nearly laughed. 'The great Executioner, resorting to a lazy donkey roll?' It was an ugly, graceless maneuver, but it saved his life.

By the time he scrambled to his feet, he was panting. His cloak was covered in dirt, his composure shaken. Rhianna didn't chase him. Not because she was being cautious—because she was stunned. She looked at the sword in her hands. Then at herself. Then at him. The Executioner—the demon who had haunted her nightmares for years—was disheveled, breathless. And just moments ago… She had nearly killed him.

The realization struck like lightning. Had she really changed that much? What kind of man had Kayvaan been, to forge her into something like this? For the first time, she understood. Kayvaan's methods, his training—it had turned her into something greater. 'Was he truly the messenger of the God-Emperor?'

Youlun straightened, exhaling slowly. He didn't care about his own embarrassment. He had no pride in this fight—only duty. The job wasn't done. That was the only thing that mattered. His wrist twitched.

A small crossbow snapped into his hand, the bolt already primed. This was no duel. This was a kill. "Die." Youlun's voice was devoid of emotion as he pulled the trigger. The crossbow bolt shot forward, cutting through the air in an instant. The string's vibration had barely finished humming by the time it reached Rhianna.

Only then did she hear the mechanism fire. Only then did she see the bolt. By all logic, she should have been dead. And yet, she wasn't. With nothing but the smallest tilt of her head, the arrow whistled past, missing her by the width of a breath.

Youlun had already lowered his guard, already begun contemplating how best to confirm the kill. Decapitation? A severed head would serve as undeniable proof—the reward on this job was obscene, enough to drive even ascetic monks into temptation. But then he saw what had happened. His breath caught.

Rhianna was still standing. She had dodged it. Youlun's eyes went wide, his mind freezing for a single, impossible moment. 'How? How did she do it?'

Only the greatest warriors, the ones spoken of in legends, could react fast enough to dodge a crossbow bolt at such close range. Youlun had never seen it done—not in reality, not in all his years of killing. He had always assumed those tales were embellishments, the fantasies of drunkards and bards. And yet, here she was.

'Was it a fluke? A stroke of dumb luck? Or was it something else? Was she truly blessed? Had the God-Emperor Himself turned His gaze upon this girl?' The thought unsettled him, but his hands didn't falter. Years of training, of relentless discipline, overrode his disbelief. He took a measured step backward, keeping the distance between them while his fingers worked swiftly, reloading the crossbow with practiced ease.

'Luck wouldn't save her again.' Youlun took aim, gritted his teeth, and fired.

Again, Rhianna moved the instant his finger squeezed the trigger. Not in panic. Not in reaction. But as if she had known it was coming before he had even fired. She jumped diagonally, the bolt slicing harmlessly through the air where she had been standing. 

'Not once. Twice.' Youlun felt something cold settle in his stomach.

The first time, he could have dismissed as chance. The second? That was something else. The distance between them was vanishing fast. He had no time to fire a third shot. Even the finest crossbow had its limits. The power was undeniable—but the reload time was its flaw.

With a flick of his wrist, Youlun hurled the spent crossbow at Rhianna, hoping to break her momentum. At the same time, his other hand darted to his belt, snatching a small vial. He popped the cork with his thumb, pouring its contents over the edge of his dagger. Poison. The blade gleamed with the venom's sheen, slick and deadly. The application was crude—normally, he would take his time, spreading it evenly, ensuring maximum potency. But there was no time for that now.

Rhianna didn't slow. She batted the crossbow aside with a quick flick of her sword, stepping forward with relentless purpose.

Youlun steadied his stance, knees bending slightly, dagger poised. Most warriors, when faced with poison, hesitated. Even the bravest fighters didn't fear mere wounds. A sword cut, a dagger slash—those were just part of battle. But poison? Poison changed everything. It made the unknown terrifying. Even a scratch could become a death sentence. Youlun had fought men far stronger than himself before—men who, upon seeing the poisoned blade, slowed their attacks, became cautious, adjusted their movements to avoid even the slightest graze. And that was all he needed. A moment's hesitation. A shift in rhythm.

But Rhianna… Rhianna didn't hesitate at all. She didn't pause, didn't flinch. She didn't utter a single word of condemnation or disgust. She didn't care. Her sword came down just as swiftly, just as brutally.

Youlun's stomach clenched. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze like stone. She wasn't some reckless girl swinging wildly. She wasn't driven by blind rage. She was focused. Unshaken. Cold. 'Who the hell is she?' She was only eighteen. Barely a woman, barely past childhood. She should have been filled with doubts, should have been struggling to steady her blade. She wasn't an old warhound, wasn't a veteran who had endured a hundred battles. And yet, she moved like one.

For the first time in a long, long while, Youlun felt something he hadn't experienced in years. A creeping sense of unease. He had thought this job would be easy. He had thought he was being paid absurd amounts for nothing. Now he understood. There is no such thing as free money in this world. This girl… She is a problem.

Their blades clashed again, ringing through the clearing like the tolling of a bell. Rhianna gripped her sword with both hands, swinging with raw power. There was force in her blows, a momentum that pushed Youlun back step by step. She fought like a soldier. Not a duelist, not an assassin—a warrior bred for war.

The longsword was a battlefield weapon. Designed for cleaving, for cutting through men in the chaos of the front lines. And in Rhianna's hands, it was relentless. Youlun barely managed to dodge another strike, his heart hammering. The problem wasn't just her strength. It was her technique. Her movements were precise, efficient—too refined for someone her age, someone of her background. And worse still, her attacks weren't just strong. They were calculated. There was intelligence behind them. She was adjusting. Adapting.