Shameless

The silence of the Class A gym amplifies the tension between us. Standing on the platform, I stare at Isadora from across the room, trying to read her, but it's impossible. Her face is an inscrutable mask, with no hint of emotion. I've gotten used to seeing her like this... but it's still kinda annoying.

Why the hell doesn't she have her sword? I muse, my annoyance rising. She merely raises her fists in response to my unspoken question. Seriously? Fist-fighting? The prospect is daunting, even if I'm technically better at martial arts. Because I know, with those fists, she can easily steamroll me. Great. Just what I needed today.

"Please go easy on me," I say, half-jokingly, though I'm fully aware she probably won't.

She remains silent, her eyes sharp, fists ready. It's a silent command: Come at me.

Taking a deep breath, I charge, trying to use speed to my advantage. I feint left, but she doesn't budge. Annoyed, I throw a jab towards her face, which she easily dodges. Damn it, I think, frustrated.

Pivoting, I send a roundhouse kick her way. But she's too quick, ducking and grabbing my leg, trying to trip me up. The sheer power behind her grip nearly floors me. Shit. This was a bad idea.

I barely regain my balance, dislodging my leg from her grasp. But there's no stopping her. Every attempt to land a hit is met with resistance. Her defenses are impeccable, and every countermove she makes is a silent promise of pain.

A right hook comes speeding my way, and I instinctively duck, just in time. That would've hurt like hell. Before I can even recover, her knee is thrusting towards my midsection. I try to block it, but the impact sends a jolt of pain through me. Fuck, that hurt.

Regaining my composure, I go on the offensive. If she's going to play rough, so will I. A series of jabs, hooks, and kicks are unleashed in her direction. She deflects and dodges each one with that infuriatingly blank expression. Every failed attack only pisses me off more. Come on!

Suddenly, I spot a potential opening and aim a surprise kick to her side. But, to my frustration, she sidesteps, leaving me momentarily off balance. Taking advantage, she lands a hard punch to my ribs. I stagger back, wincing. Oh, that's going to bruise.

I mentally curse, trying to shake off the pain. I'm drenched in sweat, and while my breathing is ragged, she seems as composed as ever. Is she even human? How many times have I asked that same question? 

I rub my neck, still feeling the sting from our recent exchange. Dueling with Isadora is always such a taxing experience, and not just because of the physical exertion. There's something about the way she moves, how effortlessly she counters every attack, that pushes me to my limits. It's like an intense workout session for my endurance. Honestly though, will I ever be on par with her?

[Hahahaha. You want to reach her level?]

I roll my eyes, clicking my tongue in irritation. "Shut up, you shitty system," I mutter under my breath. Before I can prep myself for another round, Isadora's voice breaks the silence.

"Why aren't you using martial arts?" she asks. The question catches me off guard.

I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. Isadora is not one to ask questions, especially not about my fighting style. "Are you curious about the martial arts I use?"

For a moment, she seems taken aback. Her gaze drops to her feet, then she speaks in that ever-neutral tone, "I saw you dueling Caspian."

A memory surfaces — that spar with Caspian in the junior area gym. A private session, or so I thought. But for her to have seen it, she must've been spying on me. I can't help but grin, "Did you spy on me?"

Ignoring my question, she continues, "Your movements are different compared to when you train or spar with anyone else."

She's right. Caspian's strength surpasses even Isadora's. With him, I had to switch techniques, prioritizing speed over strength. But there's something else she doesn't know.

"I tried to copy both of you... I couldn't," Isadora admits, looking slightly frustrated. This revelation is amusing. Isadora, the genius who could replicate any sword technique she observed, stumped by martial arts?

It makes sense though. While she has an unparalleled understanding of sword techniques, probably thanks to years of training since childhood, she might not grasp the core principles of martial arts. I think back to something Ilka mentioned once – Caspian's technique is a very, very bad copy of one she knew. And if Ilka thinks it's bad, it's hard for me to gauge its true quality.

But that's not the only difference. Swordsmanship and martial arts, though rooted in similar principles, diverge in application. Swordsmanship is about mastering an external tool, treating it as an extension of oneself. Martial arts, on the other hand, is about honing the body itself into a weapon. That's a distinction Isadora might not fully appreciate.

Drawing a deep breath, I fix her with a steady gaze. "You know, copying someone's martial arts behind their back is very disrespectful." My tone is light, but the underlying message is clear.

Isadora blinks and nods. Wait, what? She's admitting to it? My eyes narrow, trying to decipher her. "You tried to copy my technique even though you know it's wrong?" I ask, needing to confirm that I've got this straight. Again, she nods, not an ounce of hesitation in her demeanor.

"Why?" My voice is laced with genuine curiosity.

She tilts her head, seeming baffled by the question. It's as if the answer is obvious and I'm the one missing the point. "Because you won't get mad at me," she finally says.

I fight to suppress a laugh. Is she for real? Oh, man, she's got guts, I'll give her that. And she's right. I probably wouldn't be mad. It's not like she's trying to copy the martial arts techniques of Ilka. But her blatant honesty leaves me at a loss for words.

My thoughts are interrupted when she asks, "Is this why you've been following me around?"

Wait, has she been following me? And for how long? My surprise must be evident because she nods in affirmation. "Teach me," she says simply.

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. Before I can ask her to clarify, she pulls out a sword, brandishing it expertly. "You teach me," she states, pointing it at me. A momentary pause, then she adds, "I teach you."

My jaw drops. She can't be serious. "You're going to teach me your family's swordsmanship?" The very idea is ludicrous. Such techniques are closely guarded family secrets.

She nods in affirmation.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process this. "You can't just teach someone your family's swordsmanship. Hasn't your father told you that?" I ask, trying to gauge her understanding of the gravity of what she's offering.

She shakes her head. "No."

Of course, he hasn't. I sigh. I can't blame the man; he probably never imagined his prodigious daughter would even think of sharing their family secrets, especially not with me.

That's when she reaches into her bag, pulling out a coconut. I blink, taken aback. "I can give you this," she says, offering it with a hint of reluctance in her voice.

My veins pop in exasperation. "I gave you that," I point out, recognizing it. "Is that the one I handed over earlier today?" She just looks at it, not saying anything. Ah, this kid. It's almost heartbreaking how socially awkward she is.

This entire exchange is so... bizarre. And honestly, kind of sad. I'm finally conversing with Isadora, but this is not how I'd imagined our conversation would go. It's like discovering she has an addiction... and realizing I played a part in it... I didn't think much of it before since coconuts aren't a big deal. I... I'm responsible for her addiction. I hope her father doesn't kill me for it. 

Sighing, I say, "I don't want your coconut. But how about this... help me develop a sword technique."

★  ★  ★  ★  ★

The familiar, biting taste of wine sears my throat as I take another swig, the sting temporarily distracting me from the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. The dim lighting in my office, coupled with the soft, ambient glow of the lamps, casts a comforting warmth over my cluttered desk. But warmth is the last thing I feel right now.

"Dammit, V," I curse under my breath. The bottle is half-empty, or perhaps half-full depending on one's perspective. Mine? Oh, it's most certainly half-empty. "Why did you leave me with that girl?"

The soft groan from the corner of the room draws my attention. Lysandra, sprawled across my favorite chair as if she owns the place. Her presence is like a thorn in my side. "Tsk, no respect," I think to myself. Her demeanor reminds me all too much of Biana, that insufferable brat. "Why does V keep her around?"

Lysandra's unease is palpable. It's clear she isn't fond of V's company, yet she seems bound to him. Watching him, watching her. It's a relentless dance they're ensnared in. But just as I'm about to lose myself in these thoughts, something startling happens.

Lysandra's usually red-orange hair turns a startling shade of ice white, and out of nowhere, a gigantic icicle – the size of a carriage – shoots out from her hand, aimed straight at my precious collection of relics.

"By the Ancestors!" I gasp, but instinct kicks in before panic can fully set. With a flick of my finger, every plant in my office springs to life. They grow at an alarming rate, twirling and extending their branches, and in a split second, they catch the monstrous icicle, shattering it into harmless fragments that litter my office floor. The power of elven magic, don't ever underestimate it.

I reach for a fresh bottle, not sparing a second to remove the cork before chugging its contents. The cold, tingling sensation of the wine contrasts sharply with the adrenaline surging through me. "Fuck," I mentally shout. "Just what the hell is she?"

Lysandra, however, remains unfazed, lazily twirling a strand of her now ice-white hair, eyes glazed over as though she's in a world of her own.

The world seems to slow as Lysandra and I lock eyes. There's this enigmatic aura surrounding her, making her impossible to read. The only emotion that pierces through that aloof exterior is an uncaring indifference. Our staring contest stretches on, the tension palpable.

A resigned sigh escapes me. "I don't get paid enough for this," I muse, letting the silence stretch. "Should I start charging V for babysitting?"

Feeling a twinge of annoyance, I break the silence. "Are you human?" The question's been nagging at me ever since she enrolled.

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "I am."

"Bullshit," I think, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Taking another generous gulp of wine, the bitterness mirroring my mood, I mumble, "Whatever. If V doesn't want me to know, then maybe it's better not to."

Suddenly, Lysandra's hair begins to emit a vivid orange-red glow, brighter than before. The atmosphere in the room becomes charged, threatening. I instinctively react, tapping the table as thick vines surge to life, rapidly circling around her. I particularly make sure they push her off the chair. "You are not ruining my chair," I mentally huff.

The vines envelop Lysandra in a tight cocoon, and almost immediately, a muffled explosion reverberates from within. The protective barrier I erected with the vines contained the brunt of her fire magic. Pulling back the vines, Lysandra falls back into the seat, clearly exasperated.

"I hate this," she groans, voice laced with annoyance.

"Join the club," I think with a smirk, savoring a tiny bit of satisfaction from the ordeal. "What were you thinking, using your magic in my office?" I challenge, wanting to establish some boundaries with the unpredictable girl.

Lysandra just rolls her eyes, pushing a strand of glowing hair behind her ear. Her entire demeanor screams, "I couldn't care less." And it's infuriating.