Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 52: Learning the third form

The cell was plunged into a heavy, almost suffocating silence, broken only by Mordred’s still jerky breathing, his breath knocked back by the all-consuming rage rumbling inside him. Every muscle in his body tensed, as if his very flesh were trying to contain a fire ready to reduce everything to ashes.

Opposite him, Lysiria looked at him with that elusive expression, that slight smile floating between amusement and satisfaction, as if she alone understood the extent of the chaos she had just instilled in him. Her amber eyes, piercing and unfathomable, seemed to peer far beyond his broken-slave appearance, as if she divined what lay beneath the surface, behind every tense muscle, behind every measured breath, behind the icy fury he tried in vain to stifle.

And then she laughed.

A soft, light sound, barely more than a breath, but it sounded like a slap in Mordred’s face.

He didn’t move, but he felt her fists clench even tighter, her nails digging into the calloused skin of his palms. His whole body was a dam about to burst, and yet she openly mocked his condition.

As he opened his mouth to spit out his hatred, she beat him to it.

- Don’t forget our agreement, Mordred.

Her voice was calm, poised, but tinged with that natural authority, that absolute certainty that he couldn’t change a thing. She knew she’d trapped him, that he’d never be able to back down now, because the simple fact of having agreed to listen to her had already bound him to her.

And then, in a fluid, controlled movement, she slowly approached, traversing the space of the cell as if she owned every inch of it, as if the dirty, damp walls, the rusty chains, the stench of sweat and blood had no power over her.

Mordred didn’t move, but he felt his breath become shorter, not from any disturbance, but from the icy intensity of the hatred he felt at that moment.

She leaned slightly towards him, enough for her subtle perfume-a mixture of smoke and distant spices-to tickle his nostrils.

Then, in a low, barely audible whisper, she crept up to his ear, as if she were about to deposit a slow, deadly poison.

- My name is Lysiria. Remember that name.

Her voice was a thread of silk and iron.

Before he could react, before his rage could drive him to make a rash move, she stepped aside, melting into the shadows of the cell like an elusive specter, her step as silent as when she had entered. And in an instant, she was gone.

As if she’d never been there.

Mordred stood motionless, transfixed by the oppressive silence that had fallen over the room. His whole body trembled slightly, not with fear, but with an anger so intense it threatened to explode at any moment.

He clenched his teeth so hard he could feel the pain in his jaw, his breath becoming deeper, hoarser, his gaze riveted on the wall in front of him without really seeing it.

Lysiria.

He repeated the name in his mind, over and over again, but not to honor her. He wanted to crush her.

She’d played with him.

She’d smiled when she told him about Akane’s hell.

She’d awakened something in him, an anger far greater than he’d ever felt before.

And she knew it.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

A laugh escaped his throat, a hoarse, icy sound, devoid of the slightest trace of humor.

Lysiria wanted him to remember her name?

Very well, then.

He would.

He’d remember it until the day he killed her.

Or perhaps...

Until the day he made her wish she’d never come to him.

Then, unbeknownst to him, came the transition.

A crushing weight fell on him.

A sensation of brutal tearing, as if her body were being pulled in another direction, torn between two realities that refused to coexist.

His heart beat faster, his breath became erratic, and in an instant, everything changed.

The cell disappeared.

The damp, grimy stone walls evaporated.

The smell of blood, sweat and dust vanished.

The metallic cold of the chains weighing down on him dissolved.

And he opened his eyes.

His gaze immediately met the familiar ceiling of his room in Paris.

But something was wrong.

Everything was silent.

Much too quiet.

His sheets were crumpled under his tense body, his muscles still tense, as if he’d never left his cell, as if the rage and pain of that infernal world had clung to him.

His gaze slid slowly to his right hand.

It was still trembling.

His fingers closed in emptiness, searching for a katana that was no longer there.

His legs instinctively carried him off the bed, but the moment he set foot on the floor, he felt a difference.

The wood of the floor beneath him seemed unreal.

The air in his apartment seemed foreign to him.

He had come back here.

But his mind was still there.

He clenched his fists.

His breath was deep, heavy, icy.

He wanted to leave.

He wanted to leave now.

He wanted to kill Belgaroth.

He wanted to kill Lysiria.

He wanted to kill every dragon who had dared to defile this world.

But he was trapped here.

In this world where everything was simpler.

Safer.

But more meaningless than ever.

His gaze, filled with cold fury, turned to his bedside table.

The Lightning Kata manual.

His jaw tightened.

If he couldn’t go back there right away...

Then he’d get ready.

He’d train.

The air in Isaac’s room was still. An oppressive silence reigned, broken only by his slow, controlled breathing.

He was shirtless, standing in the center of the room, his black katana held firmly in his right hand. Every muscle in his body was taut, wracked with the residual tension of the abrupt transition between the two worlds. His mind had not left the other reality.

Belgaroth. Akane. Lysiria.

The names overlapped in his skull, clashing like distant detonations.

But he pushed them aside.

He couldn’t fight yet.

Not yet.

Before he could kill these monsters, he had to master his blade to a level he’d never reached before.

And Narukami was the next step on this bloody road.

He slowly closed his eyes, his breath gradually slowing, letting his body anchor itself to the ground.

His bare feet hugged the wood of his floor perfectly, absorbing every vibration, seeking the perfect balance before the inevitable fall.

Then he opened his eyes again, a determined glint in his eye.

He positioned himself as indicated in the Lightning Kata manual, legs slightly bent, katana raised over his shoulder.

The key to Narukami wasn’t just speed or power.

It was imbalance.

He had to throw himself forward, willingly, abandon his anchorage, topple into the void to exploit his own body’s natural acceleration.

He had to fall.

And strike before gravity took him back.

He exhaled slowly, then launched himself.

His foot slid like a thunderbolt.

He leapt, his torso tilting forward, losing all support.

But no sooner had he begun the movement than he felt his center of gravity break violently.

A mistake.

His blade deflected a degree too high, his body failed to follow the perfect angle of movement, and the attack broke cleanly.

He landed too soon, too stiffly, losing his balance completely, rolling abruptly to the ground, the katana nearly slipping from his grasp.

He winced as he felt the sharp impact under his bare back.

He was in pain.

But it didn’t matter.

He started again immediately.

He regained his posture, slightly corrected the angle of his hips, the position of his feet.

He visualized the instant of the fall.

The exact moment when his body would topple over.

This time, he concentrated on the impact.

The technique wasn’t just a question of strength or speed.

It was a perfect descent.

He had to reach the breaking point, the instant when his body went into free fall... and only his blade could stop it.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, listening to the silence, then...

He began again.

His supporting leg provided the impetus.

He propelled himself.

The void opened up beneath him.

This time, he didn’t fight the sensation of falling.

He accepted it.

His torso rocked perfectly.

His katana snapped into position.

But...

Too soon.

His arm didn’t follow fast enough.

The blade struck with too much restraint.

It didn’t explode the ground with the impact, merely grazed it.

A sigh escaped him.

He wasn’t there yet.

But he was making progress.

He could already feel the logic of the movement.

The Instant of Lightning: A First Whimper

Isaac tried again and again.

With each fall, he analyzed, corrected and started again.

He experimented with micro-adjustments.

Accelerate the right leg before the jump.

Release the pressure in the shoulders.

Slightly relax the grip on the katana’s hilt.

Use his body weight as a fulcrum.

And after dozens of attempts, something changed.

He positioned himself again, focused to the extreme, every nerve in his body tuned to his objective.

And he leapt.

This time, he didn’t fight the fall at all.

This time, he almost disappeared from view.

This time, his blade flashed like a bolt of lightning.

The air exploded around him.

The pressure he created caused objects in the room to tremble slightly.

And when he stood up again...

He knew.

It wasn’t perfect yet.

It wasn’t yet Narukami in all her glory.

But...

He’d understood the principle.

He’d felt the thrill of the flash, the moment when the blade became an extension of the fall.

He raised his eyes slowly to the reflection of the window, observing his sweaty torso, his muscles contracted by effort.

Then, slowly, he murmured:

- Soon.

He knew he wasn’t far off.