Loss

At the top of a gently sloping hill, a small and humble wooden house stood against the endless horizon.

In its backyard, where the green plains stretched out for kilometers, three figures stood beneath the radiant glow of the afternoon sun.

One was a frail-looking, middle-aged man dressed in a butler's suit, his bald head gleaming under the golden light. 

His clean-shaven face bore deep amber eyes, aged yet warm, his gentle smile radiating an undeniable sense of affection and wisdom. 

Though his demeanor was that of an elder steeped in kindness, the aura that emanated from him told a different story—thick, regal, and mighty, it rolled off him in waves, a silent testament to the power that lurked beneath his composed exterior.

He stood between the other two figures.

On one side was a young boy, no older than ten, gripping a wooden sword tightly in his small hands. His short, curly white hair clung to his sweat-drenched skin, while his deep scarlet pupils, swirling faintly with gold and amethyst, glowed under the light. Though he was still a child, he was already unusually tall for his age, standing at an imposing five feet, his lean body finely sculpted through years of relentless training.

On the other side, towering over the boy, was a woman of striking stature—standing at over seven feet tall. Draped in layered black robes of flowing silk, her long, midnight-black hair cascaded down her back like liquid shadow.

Her golden eyes held a glint of amusement as she regarded the boy, the wooden sword resting lightly in her grasp.

The two stared at one another, locked in a silent standstill. Then, the butler waved a hand.

WHOOSH!

The boy vanished. The air exploded in his wake, soil kicking up from the force of his step as he blurred forward in an instant.

Milky white energy gathered at the soles of his feet, carrying him through the air as he lunged toward the woman, his sword rising from the earth toward the heavens in a single, fluid motion.

The woman smiled. Before he could even register what had happened, an invisible force yanked his arm backward, nearly tearing it from its socket. The energy beneath his feet shattered instantly, sending him plummeting toward the ground.

CRACK!

His body collided with the woman's rising knee, a sharp jolt of pain rocketing through his ribs. He was flung into the air once more, wincing, but he twisted his body midair, refusing to lose control. 

With another sharp inhale, he gathered his energy, forcing his body into a tight spin. His sword was already in motion, a sharp downward slash aimed directly at the woman's throat.

She shook her head.

"I've taught you everything I know, drilled into you every lesson I've learned, honed and perfected over the years, and yet…"

Her wooden blade blurred.

The boy's sword was parried in an instant. But this time, before she could follow up, he twisted, executing a midair backflip to narrowly evade the retaliatory slice. He landed on his feet, breath steady despite the close call.

"…you still make the same idiotic mistakes."

The woman stepped forward, her speed incomprehensible. Before the boy could even process the movement, her blade struck his chest, drawing blood. He barely had time to react before her leg swept beneath him, disrupting his balance.

She retracted her blade, then slashed again—twice. A gash tore across his torso, another along his shoulder, both appearing before his body even registered the pain.

The next strike came forward like a liquid whip, fluid and unpredictable, piercing into his skin with precision. Her movements were effortless, alternating between two simple attacks, yet the boy found himself unable to mount a defense.

"Says the trillion-year-old monster who created the style I'm practicing," the boy muttered under his breath, narrowly dodging another strike.

The woman's brow twitched, a vein of annoyance appearing on her forehead. "You cheeky little brat," she mused, her smile deepening. "Are you trying to demean the work I put in? Finding excuses, are we?"

Her speed doubled. Harsh winds howled from the sheer force of her movements. The boy barely had time to register what was happening before dozens of new cuts adorned his body.

BANG!

A cleaving blow came crashing down.

The boy reacted.

With a grace mirroring hers, he parried the strike, redirecting the momentum just as he stepped forward. Twisting, he swept her leg out from beneath her, breaking her stance.

White energy flared as he swung his sword at her falling body, his speed suddenly increasing to match her own.

"Could you have beaten me at my age?" he asked with a grin.

But just as his blade was about to land, an unnatural chill crawled up his spine.

CLANG!

He spun, blocking an attack he hadn't even seen coming. The impact sent a violent tremor through his arms, leaving his wrists aching.

He slid backward, digging into the soil as steam rolled from his wooden sword.

"Hmph. Regardless of age, you remain beneath me. Don't mistake my pity for weakness."

Though her words carried the weight of admonition, the smile on her face told another story entirely.

Master and disciple clashed again and again, their wooden blades weaving a vicious dance of both skill and wit. They fought on two planes—one physical, one mental—each strike punctuated by a series of well-placed taunts.

The butler, observing the battle from afar, smiled warmly. It was a scene that had played out every day for the past eleven years.

'Who would have thought I'd see her smile like that again one day…'

***

Hours later, Icarus found himself slung over his master's shoulder as they descended the hill.

"You've been making good progress lately," said Lady Amalia.

Icarus sighed, his voice heavy with dissatisfaction. "Doesn't seem to be enough. I still have trouble transitioning between my sword stances, especially when I'm off balance. It's too big of a weakness."

Lady Amalia chuckled, ruffling his sweat-dampened hair. "Don't beat yourself up too much. Most people wouldn't even be able to put you off balance in the first place. Don't use me as your standard."

"If I don't use you as my standard of excellence, then what's the point?"

"Amazing mentality, young master," Lord Henry, the butler, interjected with an approving nod.

As they reached the foot of the hill, they arrived at the edge of a glowing emerald lake, not far from their home.

Without hesitation, Lady Amalia tossed Icarus into the cold waters, her laughter ringing out as he cursed her under his breath.

"Alright, wash up," she called, smirking. "We have to go into town later."