NOVEL NEXT Chapter 109: Learning Her
Her blade clashed against his again, sparks flaring like fireflies in the night.
She pushed harder. Colder. Sharper. Driven by pride and fury both. She refused to be treated like this!
And Bruce's expression never changed.
He looked calm. Focused. Almost thoughtful.
As if he was studying her. As if he was learning from her. As if he was enjoying himself.
Jean refused to back down.
She would not lose. Not like this. Not on equal ground with the monster who dominated everything.
She attacked again, relentlessly, furiously—
And Bruce matched her. Step for step. Blow for blow.
Choosing, intentionally, to fight her as an equal.
For now..
WHOOSH-!!!!
Jean's double-ended sword spun in a sweeping arc of cold blue light, the air hissing as her strikes carved through it. She moved with disciplined ferocity, each slash crisp, each twist controlled, each step honed from countless hours of training. Her blade danced, an unrelenting storm of precision and cold intent.
Bruce moved with her.
He matched her pace effortlessly, parrying with the relaxed precision of a man who had already deciphered her rhythm from the very first clash. His dagger flowed between their blades with minimal motion, almost lazy, yet every defense was perfect. His posture remained unhurried, his breathing steady, his eyes half-lidded as if he were analyzing more than fighting.
And then,
something shifted in him.
A faint widening of his smile. A sharper glint in his gaze. A subtle tightening of the air around him.
Jean felt the change instantly. Her breath caught, heart tightening in her chest.
Bruce stepped forward.
The world blurred.
A cold flash streaked toward her neck, a killing strike so precise, so perfectly angled that she knew it would sever her head cleanly if she didn't react. His dagger gleamed, slicing through the air with lethal intent. But even in that murderous arc, she sensed it:
He was holding back. Deliberately limiting his speed. Letting her see the strike.
Letting her react.
Jean's instincts exploded. She snapped her weapon up, steel slamming against steel.
The clash rang out violently, a sharp CLANG that echoed through the clearing. Sparks burst between them as the impact pushed her back several steps, boots skidding across the earth. Her arms shook from the force. Her ribs tightened. Every nerve screamed that the strike, despite being controlled, carried enough killing intent to tear her in half.
Bruce's eyes gleamed with unrestrained amusement. "Interesting…"
She didn't get a breath.
He was already on her again.
This time, his movements erupted into chaos, wild, explosive, unpredictable. A controlled storm of violence. His slashes grew heavy, brutal, relentlessly crashing into her guard with a momentum that rattled her bones. Each blow came from a new direction: overhead cuts meant to crush, diagonal slashes meant to maim, sudden reverse-grip stabs aimed at arteries and joints. Every strike felt like a hammer smacking into her arms.
Jean parried with trembling hands, her sword vibrating from the impact. Pain shot through her forearms. Her muscles strained with every block. She widened her stance, anchoring herself against the overwhelming force. She redirected instead of resisting, deflecting rather than taking the hits head-on, letting his power slide past her instead of crushing her beneath it.
Her lungs burned. Sweat streaked down her cheek.
But she moved anyway.
'Don't falter… Don't break...' Her mind was in chaos.
Bruce's grin stretched wider, thrilled by her resilience.
And then... again, he changed.
The air stilled. His aura sharpened into something clean, silent, surgical.
He vanished.
No ripple. No sound. No warning.
Jean's stomach dropped.
A killing chill brushed the back of her spine. Bruce appeared behind her like a phantom, dagger gliding toward her back with such quiet lethality that even air refused to disturb him.
Jean didn't see him, she felt him. Her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up. She dropped her weight, pivoted sharply, and swept her blade upward behind her.
Steel met steel in a whisper-quiet clash.
Her weapon trembled. His dagger hovered inches from her spine.
Her heart pounded so violently she felt it echo in her skull. The scent of blood and frost filled her lungs. She swallowed hard.
This wasn't the berserker anymore.
This was an assassin. Clean. Perfect. Clinical.
Bruce didn't give her a moment to recover. His body softened, movements melting into something fluid and graceful. His strikes flowed like water, rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern that made predicting his next move nearly impossible. His steps rippled across the ground like waves spreading across a lake.
Each motion looked gentle. Relaxed. Harmless.
But every arc of his dagger curved toward a vital point.
Jean stumbled for half a second, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in tempo. She forced her breath to steady, forced her muscles to obey, stepping back into the cold discipline of her Frost training. Her blade snapped up to meet his slashes, adjusting her angles, narrowing her focus, controlling her center.
Bruce's movements curved around her strikes like a river bending around stone.
Every time she adapted, the style changed. Every time she predicted him, he flowed differently. Every second demanded she learn a new way to survive.
Her lungs screamed for air. Her arms trembled with exhaustion. But her eyes sharpened, she swiftly manipulated the mana within her...
'I'm a Frost. I'm a Frost. I won't be toyed with.'
Her resolve crystallized like ice under pressure.
Bruce saw it.
And, curiously, his expression softened, just barely. Not pity, not restraint. Something closer to interest. He slowed his pace by a fraction, not to give her mercy but to study her. To see where she would reach if pushed. To see what she could become.
Jean stepped forward again, swinging with everything she had left. Her blade cut through the air, fierce and desperate, fueled by pride and will.
Bruce parried it smoothly, turning with her motion as if they were two dancers locked in a single rhythm.
She pressed harder. He flowed with her. She sharpened. He watched. She fought. He learned.
Frost and shadow clashed beneath the broken baobab trees, steel singing in wild, chaotic harmony.
Jean refused to bend.
Bruce refused to slow.
And the battle raged on.