Chapter 165: Teaching Time [3]
Our blades screamed against each other, a shrill bite of steel on steel that rattled through my bones. The shock of his strength jolted down my arm, threatening to rip Silent Fang from my grip. I clenched harder, teeth grinding, refusing to give him that satisfaction.
Doran leaned in, close enough that I caught the faint musk of leather and smoke clinging to him. His grin was sharp enough to cut. "Better. But you’re still fighting like a child throwing stones at a wolf."
I twisted my blade and shoved, trying to break the lock. He let it slip just enough, and I stumbled forward into the space between us—exactly where he wanted me.
His dagger snapped upward, faster than a blink.
I threw my weight back, Silent Fang scraping barely in time to turn the edge away from my throat. The impact sent sparks bursting into the dark, and the reverberation numbed my wrist.
"Sloppy," he muttered, though there was no malice in it. Only sharp, cutting instruction, the kind he used to give me during drills.
I spat iron from my mouth and reset my stance. "If you’re so damn perfect, why don’t you stop talking and finish this?"
"Finish it?" Doran’s laugh cracked through the chamber. "Boy, you think this is a fight? This is me holding your hand while you try not to drown."
Then he vanished.
One blink—he was gone from my sight, leaving only smoke and the whisper of his boots across stone. My skin prickled, my instincts screaming.
Left!
I pivoted, blade swinging—too late.
Pain flared along my shoulder, shallow but hot, as his dagger licked across me before disappearing again into the haze. Blood trickled warm down my arm.
I hissed, forcing breath through my teeth. "Coward... hiding in smoke."
His voice came from everywhere at once, low and amused. "Says the boy who calls himself Faceless."
My grip tightened on Silent Fang. He wasn’t wrong, but damned if I’d let him win the banter.
"At least I don’t waste my time dressing up as a maid."
There was a pause—then a deep, rumbling chuckle. "Touché."
Another flicker in the dark. I caught it this time—not the movement itself, but the intent behind it, that subtle tightening in the air before he struck. I ducked low, feeling the rush of air as his dagger whistled past where my head had been.
I rolled forward, came up under his arm, and slashed upward.
The edge kissed his vest, cutting fabric but not flesh. Close. Too close.
His grin widened as he looked down at the fresh tear. "Heh. Now you’re learning."
I raised my blade, panting, blood dripping from my shoulder. "Keep pushing me, old man. You’ll regret it."
"Good." His eyes glimmered like a wolf’s in the smoke. "That’s the fire I want. Show me whether you’re a thief who hides... or a predator who hunts."
Then he blurred again, faster than before.
This time, I didn’t back down.
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3rd POV
Clang!
Doran’s eyes narrowed, a bead of sweat running down his temple as the dark blade cut for his neck. He deflected it just in time, but his heart skipped.
What a terrifying rate of growth.
He had come north intending to fade into quiet retirement, to play the role of teacher rather than predator. Yet here he was, facing a boy whose blade gleamed like a gem freshly unearthed, dazzling and raw.
The strike Doran had meant only as a show of authority—as a reminder of who stood above—had been neatly avoided. Worse, it had been answered. And the boy wasn’t bluffing when he called himself the Frost Mane.
...When he claimed to have mastered most of that manual, I thought it was pure bravado. But that movement just now—
It was unmistakable. The same hidden step Doran himself had refined over years in the shadows.
He’s absorbed it. Maybe sharpened it under that knight he served. He’s not just running anymore... he’s fighting back.
The Julies’s blade pressed forward with conviction, not wild desperation. For the first time, Doran felt something rare stir in his chest—something dangerously close to pride.
But he also saw the mistake.
With a grunt, Doran shoved forward, their blades screeching as black met gold. Sparks leapt between them, lighting their faces in the smoke-filled dark. A contest of strength—something almost unheard of in a dagger fight.
"Good instincts," Doran muttered, his voice gravel low. Then, with a twist of his wrist, he shifted his weight and forced the boy’s blade down.
The Julies’s stance faltered, knees bending under the pressure. "Ugh—!"
"That’s it," Doran said, eyes sharp but steady. "If this were a real fight, what you just did would serve you well. Evade, counter, press the advantage—that’s survival."
Julies’s grip tightened, sweat slick on his palms, refusing to let his blade fall.
"But this isn’t a fight." Doran’s voice cracked like a whip. "This is a lesson. And the very fact that you dodged was your mistake."
The Julies’s eyes widened, confusion flashing across his face.
"My strike wasn’t meant to kill you." Doran pushed harder, forcing another spark from their blades. "It was bait. A snare to drag you into counterattacking before you understood the rhythm. You moved too soon."
Julies gritted his teeth, veins rising along his neck as he resisted.
"You want to master counterattacks?" Doran hissed, leaning close, their faces only inches apart. "Then stop treating every blade at your throat as death. Sometimes the strike isn’t meant to kill—it’s meant to teach. And if you can’t read the difference, boy, you’ll die long before you carve your name into the world."
With a sudden release, Doran pulled back, letting the pressure vanish. The boy stumbled forward half a step, catching himself just in time.
Doran smirked. "Lesson one: never dodge blindly. Sometimes the opening you fear is the one you need."
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Author Note:
Thank you for reading the Chapter. I hope you continue to do read more in future.