The first style was stillness before movement, and once Lancet tried it properly, he understood why Kestrel had dismissed it as "basic."

It was not calm in the ordinary sense. It was pressure without motion, force held so completely in place that the opponent felt the strike before it happened.

In easier terms, it was lethal intent. If the swordsman meant to kill, then it became killing intent — a powerful aura of danger and death that could either entrap the opponent or send them running.

Lancet practiced it by standing absolutely still while Kestrel circled him and hurled invisible air-cuts past his shoulders, past his ribs, past his throat, until he could no longer tell whether the wind was moving around him or against him.

The first time he held his center long enough to let one of her cuts pass without flinching, Kestrel’s eyes sharpened by a fraction, and Lancet felt the tiny approval.

But she did not let him rest on the feeling.

She kept circling, her air-blade trailing invisible arcs in the stone dust, and she made him understand that killing intent was not something a swordsman summoned on command.

Every fighter carried the memory of every opponent they had ever faced, every strike they had ever landed, every moment they had chosen to end something.

The pressure was already there, buried beneath hesitation and second-guessing and the mind’s constant need to flinch away from finality. Releasing it was not an act of creation. It was an act of permission.

The body already knew how to kill. It had known since the first time a blade was raised with true intent. But the mind kept it leashed.

If Lancet flinched, it caused a crack in the aura. If he hesitated, it was a breath of relief handed to the opponent.

To make the killing intent powerful, the cracks had to be sealed, and the only way to seal them was to decide. Before the duel began. Before the blade was drawn. Before the opponent was even visible.

The swordsman had to decide that he was willing to kill—not wanting to, not hoping to, but willing. There was a difference, and the difference was everything.

If a swordsman stepped into a duel unsure of whether he would do what was necessary, his aura would be weak, and his opponent would feel that weakness and exploit it.

But if the answer was already settled in his bones, then the aura became solid. Impenetrable. The pressure was not something he projected. It was something he became.

The task now was to learn how to enter the state at will, to project a powerful killing intent whenever he wanted to.

Kestrel taught him that the aura began in the eyes. Before the hand touched the sword, before the stance was even set, the opponent should feel the gaze like a blade at their throat.

It shouldn’t be a stare or a glare. But just a simple look of conviction, like you not only know, but you were the one who decided what the outcome of the battle would be.

Then, all that was left was to interact with his Soul Core and project pulses of his own Grace outward.

Those pulses contain his intent, his thoughts, his level of preparation. Once the opponents felt the pulses of Grace, they would also feel the rest of abstracts contained within it. Hence, they would feel your killing intent, which has been greatly amplified by the potency of Lancet’s Grace.

Lancet closed his eyes and reached for his Soul Core.

It was not a simple thing to do on command. The Soul Core sat at the center of every Awakener’s being, the furnace where Grace was generated and stored, and touching it intentionally required a stillness that most fighters only found in moments of extreme focus.

Kestrel had told him it was like reaching into still water without causing ripples. He had thought she was being poetic. She was not.

He found it after several long, frustrating attempts. A warmth deep in his chest that was always there but rarely noticed, like a heartbeat he had trained himself to ignore. This time, instead of ignoring it, he pressed into it. The warmth flared. Grace stirred, and he felt it waiting, ready to move.

The next step was harder. He had to project pulses of Grace outward, not in a stream or a burst, but in steady, controlled waves.

Each pulse had to carry his intent, his thoughts, and finally, his level of preparation. This was not magic in the traditional sense. It was communication. A statement delivered without words.

His first attempt sent out a weak, shapeless ripple that died a few feet from his body. Kestrel did not even acknowledge it. His second attempt was stronger but scattered, the Grace dispersing in all directions like heat from an open flame, touching everything and meaning nothing. Kestrel flicked an air-cut past his ear to remind him that dispersion was not focus.

Lancet steadied his breathing and tried again.

With more concentration, he let out another pulse. This one was denser, and the moment it left him Lancet knew he had gotten it right.

He felt a part of him in that wave. Like he was speaking using magic, communicating through the arcane atoms of Grace. Kestrel’s circling slowed by half a step when she felt it. She said nothing, but her eyes flicked toward him with a different quality of attention.

Lancet did not stop. He pushed again, and this time he thought of the academy. His earlier days that he despised so much. He packed all of it into the next pulse and let it go.

The air around him changed. The temperature did not drop, but something in the atmosphere thickened, like the summit had registered a new presence.

The pulses of Grace spread outward in concentric rings, silent and invisible but undeniably there. They carried not just his intent to kill, but his willingness to endure whatever came before the kill. His refusal to break. His absolute, immovable certainty that he would not be the one who fell.

Kestrel stopped circling.

She stood several paces away, her blade still extended, her emerald hair drifting in the mountain wind. For a long moment, she simply looked at him.

The cold, appraising quality in her eyes shifted into something sharper. Clearly, she was surprised by what he had managed to do.

The killing intent rolling off Lancet was dense and very coherent. It pressed against her senses with a weight that was almost even physical, and it carried none of the wavering uncertainty she had expected from someone still learning to shape his own aura.

This was not the clumsy projection of a student fumbling toward a concept. She had always suspected he was powerful, but just how powerful was this kid?

She felt the potency of his Grace woven through every pulse, amplifying the intent until it filled the summit like the pressure before a storm. It was strong. Stronger than it should have been for someone at his level.

When Lancet opened his eyes, he saw her studying him with her hands folded.

"You learn quickly," was all she said.

It was more of an observation than praise. But coming from her, it felt like applause.

It had taken Lancet the rest of the day to learn that. He didn’t like that at all and hoped that he would learn faster tomorrow.

He returned Kestrel to his Summon Space and spent the night in a cozy cave he had found beneath one of the smaller mountains. The next morning, Lancet went searching for wood, grass and water again.

He cut down what was left of the shelter of the Evolved Mountain Wolves he had killed yesterday, peeled the scarce grass, and scooped some water.

Tomorrow, he would have to find a new place to get grass and wood.

As the sun shyly shone behind thick morning clouds, Lancet climbed up the tallest mountain again. It was much easier now, but he still wished not to do it ever again.

He summoned Kestrel and she prepared the ritual. Lancet sat in the center, shut his eyes and tightened his butt cheeks. Yesterday, he had almost shat his pants and he wasn’t going to take the chance today.

"Ready?" Kestrel asked, looking at the sky.

Lancet took a deep breath. "Blast me."