Chapter 13: The Final Test

The morning air was cool and crisp, tinged with the scent of damp earth and the faint trace of smoke from the forge. The training yard was quiet except for the distant chirping of birds, a deceptive calm before the storm that was about to unfold.

It had been a grueling week. Callan had pushed them hard, drilling them in combat every day. Sylvie had thrown herself into the training with an almost obsessive intensity, soaking up every lesson like a sponge. But even she was surprised by how quickly she was improving.

Sylvie tightened her grip on the wooden dagger in her hand, rolling her shoulders as she faced Sylas. Her brother stood across from her, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as he spun his wooden sword in one hand. He had trained since he was old enough to walk, and it showed in the way he carried himself—steady, confident, prepared.

Their father, Callan, stood between them, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp gaze flicked from one to the other, assessing, waiting.

"This is your final test before I leave," Callan said, his voice carrying authority. "Show me what you've learned. No holding back."

Sylas cracked his neck. "Hope you're ready to lose, Sylvie."

She smirked. "Big words for someone who blinded himself last time."

Sylas groaned. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Not a chance."

"Enough talking," Callan interrupted. He lifted a hand. "Begin!"

Sylas moved first.

His speed was impressive—far beyond what an untrained opponent could handle. He lunged forward, his wooden sword coming down in a powerful arc.

But Sylvie was faster.

She sidestepped, shifting her weight just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly by. Too slow, she thought.

The movement came instinctively, as if her body already knew what to do. It was something deeper than just reacting—it was reading him, watching the way his muscles tensed, how his stance shifted, how his breathing changed before a strike.

It felt like second nature.

And it was.

She had been doing this all her life, just not in this world.

In her old life, she had lived for combat. Not the kind fought with swords, but the kind waged with fists, kicks, and precise strikes that could take an opponent down in seconds.

It had all started with Bruce Lee.

She still remembered being five years old, sitting cross-legged in front of their tiny, outdated television, eyes wide as she watched Enter the Dragon for the first time. The way Bruce Lee moved, the way he fought—graceful, controlled, devastating. He was like a force of nature, unstoppable.

She had been obsessed.

Every night, she would mimic his moves in the mirror, trying to replicate the perfect kicks, the lightning-fast punches. When she saw his famous one-inch punch demonstration, she tried it on every surface in the house, including her sister (which resulted in a lot of crying and one very angry mother).

But she wasn't satisfied with just copying what she saw on screen.

She had begged her mother—pleaded, really—to enroll her in karate lessons. After weeks of relentless persistence, her mother finally caved.

The first time she stepped into a dojo, she had been the smallest kid there. But what she lacked in size, she made up for in sheer determination. She trained relentlessly, spending hours after class drilling her forms, refining every movement until it was second nature.

She climbed the ranks quickly—too quickly, some had said. By the time she was a black belt, she was younger than most of the students still working their way through the lower belts.

But then… life had gotten in the way.

Money was tight. Her family needed her. And no matter how much she loved karate, love didn't pay the bills.

So she had walked away.

Yet now, as she weaved through Sylas's attacks, redirecting his strikes with precise movements she had never been taught in this world, she realized something.

She never truly stopped.

The skill had never left her. It had just been waiting for the right moment to return.

Sylas feinted left before swinging right, aiming for her ribs.

She didn't think—she acted.

Instead of retreating, she stepped into his attack, twisting her torso just enough to avoid the blade. Then, with a fluid motion, she brought up her free hand, catching his wrist and pushing it just off balance.

It was an old technique—one meant to redirect force rather than stop it outright. In a real fight, she could have disarmed him. But with wooden weapons, all it did was throw him off for a split second.

A split second was all she needed.

She darted in, her wooden dagger aiming for his exposed ribs.

But Sylas wasn't just a skilled fighter—he was experienced.

He twisted at the last moment, bringing his knee up in a defensive block. The next thing she knew, his wooden sword hooked under her wrist and—

Thwack!

Her dagger flew from her grip, clattering to the ground. Before she could react, the tip of his sword was at her throat.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Callan's voice rang out.

"Match over. Winner—Sylas."

Sylvie let out a slow breath, her hands dropping to her sides.

Sylas stepped back, grinning as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Damn, Sylvie. You're scary."

She smirked. "You barely won."

Callan, however, was watching her with an unreadable expression.

"You fight differently," he said finally.

Sylvie froze.

She forced a casual shrug. "Instinct, I guess?"

Callan studied her for a long moment before speaking again. "Those weren't techniques I taught you."

Sylas blinked. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Callan's eyes stayed on her, sharp and assessing. "The way you move. The way you counter. Those aren't dagger techniques—they're something else."

Sylvie swallowed.

She needed to brush this off.

"I don't know," she said quickly. "Maybe I just… figured it out?"

Callan narrowed his eyes, but after a moment, he let it go.

"You did well," he said. "Both of you."

He turned and walked toward a wooden crate at the edge of the training yard. From within, he pulled out something wrapped in cloth.

He tossed it to Sylas.

Sylas caught it, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a gleaming steel sword. His eyes widened. "This is—?"

Callan nodded. "Your old blade looks a little worn and doesn't fit your hands properly anymore. You've earned it."

Sylas ran his fingers over the blade, his expression a mix of awe and pride.

Then Callan turned to Sylvie. He reached into his coat and pulled out a dagger.

It was old, the blade dark with age, but when she took it in her hands, she was surprised by its weight—solid, unyielding.

"I picked this up during a job," Callan said. "It should be broken by now, but it's not. Maybe there's some magic in it. Thought it might be useful to you."

Sylvie stared at the weapon. An unbreakable dagger?

She grinned. "I'll take good care of it."

Callan ruffled her hair before stepping back. "I have to go now."

The mood shifted instantly.

Mira stood at the porch, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

Callan turned to her, placing a hand against her cheek. "I'll be back."

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. "You always say that."

Callan mounted his horse, looking back at them one last time. "Be strong."

With that, he rode off.

As the dust settled, Sylvie clenched her new dagger tightly.

She wasn't just going to be strong.

She was determined to become unstoppable in this world. But as a smirk tugged at her lips, she exhaled sharply and muttered, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves over a little progress."

Name: Sylvie

Age: 8

Class: Unawakened

Attributes:

• Strength: 3 (↑1 from training)

• Intelligence: 7

• Agility: 4 (↑2 from sparring and movement training)

• Mana: 10

• Dexterity: 11 (↑1 from precision training)

Aspect:

• [Tinkerer's Blessing](Proficiency: 8/10)

Skills:

• Combat Basics (Proficiency: max) (↑ from sparring and memories of a past life)

• Observation (Proficiency: 5/10) (↑4 from analyzing opponents)

• Running, cooking, washing...….

She smirked.

She was just getting started.