With everything settled, Helix took another look at the ’Strong man alive.’
Cyril was tall, dressed like the very pinnacle of nobility. A red fur coat fell to his knees, the collar high enough to frame his jaw, the fabric so deep a crimson it looked almost black in the shade.
A golden crown sat on his head, tilted slightly to the side, green gems embedded on its very tips. An insult to rulers all over the world.
That was where his third most famous epithet came from: Wandering King.
His pink braid fell over one shoulder, long enough to brush his chest, neat and clean.
And at his side, a crimson blade sat in its sheath.
"Alright." Cyril clasped his hands behind his back and began to circle the grass field with unhurried energy.
"Here’s how the next three months work: I’m gonna stay in your house, teach you every day until you beg for death, and then further still. By the time we depart, you’re either going to be strong enough to fight Third Wing’s, or you’re going to be dead."
"I can’t..." Helix repeated, voice quiet. His fear of the man was still present, just subdued.
"And why is that?"
"I’m going to the city of Ime in..." Helix did a quick mental calculation, "A few days. So you see, I’m finally going to meet my fiancée, and with my family’s name on the line...I can’t really cancel."
The Blood God stared at him.
Helix stared back, which took more effort than he would have liked to admit.
"I see, well, have fun. Who’s your fiancée?"
"Thank you...? It’s Bellona Azrael, but I doubt it’s going to be fun. I have a feeling our engagement ruined her life, and she’s not very happy with me..."
A look of sorrow passed Helix’s face, but he quickly masked it with a smile.
"A 23-year-old...so that’s your type, Helix. Nice to know we have similar tastes." Cyril smiled at him, but this time it wasn’t that easy-going smile; no, this one was a lewd grin one would expect from a pervert.
He pointed at Helix without looking at him.
"Fine. Enjoy your break. Because when you return, it will be hell." Cyril snapped his fingers as if he’d realized something. "And keep practicing what I teach you."
Of course.
He’d take no breaks, not after the overwhelming powerlessness he’d felt today.
"Now." Cyril stopped in the center of the field and turned to face him fully, red coat settling around him. "We’re going to start with the blade, then move on to controlling your Ichor and Blessing."
He held up one hand, completely empty.
Just his hand, open, relaxed, tilted slightly to the side.
"The House of Reflection has no offensive form," Cyril said. "It does not attack, it does not extend. It receives, and it returns, harder than it was given. Always remember, you’re not a wall, but a mirror."
"Second principle." Cyril took a single step forward. "Distance is everything. Too far, and you can’t redirect. Too close, and there’s nothing to redirect. Learn to see the gap between the two, and then dive into that gap."
"And how do I find that gap?"
"You get hit until you do."
Cyril glanced at Helix’s empty hands, then at the field around them with a mildly bored expression.
He raised one hand, extended two fingers, and snapped them.
A crack split the air, fractures spiderwebbing through the sky, and then thirty feet away the grass parted as something cut through it at speed, and Helix’s crystal sword skidded to a stop at his feet, hilt up, perfectly presented.
Helix picked it up, because there was nothing else to do, and buckled the dagger at his leg into his grip in his other hand.
Sword held forward, and dagger reversed. He settled into the stance that felt most natural, weight low, eyes up.
Cyril watched him with his hands still clasped behind his back.
"You’re already doing it wrong," he said pleasantly.
"How?"
"Your weight is in your heels. A mirror doesn’t lean back; it stands straight. Again."
Helix adjusted.
"Better. Now." Cyril finally unclasped his hands, rolling one shoulder. "Come at me."
"You want me to attack you."
"I want you to try."
Helix’s eyes went cold, every trace of humor and warmth draining from them. He didn’t know how to properly use the Ichor present in his body, but he would try.
Feet digging into the ground, Helix lunged. His body shot through the air like a bullet, feet barely touching the ground.
Looking inward, he reached for the thick, sludgy Ichor flowing with his blood. He seized it on instinct and forced it toward his blade.
Against all expectation, the Ichor surged forward. It rushed through his body, reinvigorating his bones and refreshing his mind.
It felt like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The blessing of the First Wing—access to his affinity—Helix channeled Abaddon’s Abyss.
A thin veil of gray smoke covered his body like armor. By the time he reached Cyril, his body was no longer visible, just a shroud of smoke.
From that smoke, a glint of silver flashed, and the blade crashed downward, intent on splitting Cyril from shoulder to hip.
Meanwhile, his dagger, held in his left hand, carved sideways towards Cyril’s legs. A surefire way to ensure at least one of his attacks landed.
Cyril’s eyes narrowed.
The instant the silver flash emerged from the smoke, his hand shot upward.
His palm struck the flat of the descending blade with frightening precision. Rather than meeting its edge, he redirected the sword just enough for it to whistle past his shoulder, its momentum carrying it harmlessly to the side.
At the same moment, he jumped.
The dagger sliced beneath him, missing by barely an inch as Cyril floated over the sweeping strike with effortless grace.
For a heartbeat, Helix’s world stopped. Both his attacks had missed.
Cyril descended.
His right hand crashed downward in a vicious chop, carrying far more force than Helix’s overhead strike. The air split beneath it, the sheer pressure forcing Helix’s cloak of smoke apart before the blow had even landed.
Simultaneously, Cyril’s left hand swept low in a brutal arc toward Helix’s legs, mirroring the dagger strike he had just evaded.
It was the very same combination Helix had used, just better in every way.
His twin strikes arrived together, slamming into Helix with brutal force. His eyes rolled back, and bones cracked on impact.
His body crumpled like a deflated balloon.
"This is the House of Reflection. Same attack, but better."