The passage of time in the Den of Fairies was disorienting. It was as if time itself refused to be measured, leaving Cassian and his group of twenty or so examinees wandering aimlessly through the vast, endless jungle. Days—or perhaps hours—blurred together, and the only sce they found was in the discovery of a peculiar source of nourishment: the bark of the ancient trees and the sweet, viscous sap that oozed from their wounds when cut.


    While this kept them alive, little else went in their favor. The fairies—small, deceptively beautiful creatures with deadly intent—grew more aggressive with each passing moment. Their numbers seemed to swell the longer the group remained, as if the forest itself were calling reinforcements to expel the intruders. The constant skirmishes drained their energy, their spirits fraying under the unrelenting pressure.


    The most unsettling moment came when Cassian encountered something—or someone—that made the situation even more baffling. Amid one of the chaotic battles, he crossed paths with a group of attackers that seemed unnervingly familiar. Their faces, their movements, their ferocity—it was as if they were the same individuals who had relentlessly pursued them before. Yet, members of his group swore they had seen these same attackers fall, their lifeless bodies left behind during earlier encounters.


    This eerie revtion only deepened the confusion. Were these people resurrected? Clones? Illusions created by the fairies? Or was something even darker at y, a maniption far beyond theirprehension?


    "What the hell is happening here?" Larick eximed, his voice tinged with both confusion and shock. He wasn''t alone in his bewilderment—everyone in the group shared the same sentiment. Larick''s disbelief was rooted in the fact that he had personally killed some of these attackers. He vividly remembered cutting them down, even tearing their bodies apart in some instances. Yet here they were, back again, as if resurrected.


    Cassian, who had initially thought this was merely an entrance exam for the academy and that his real investigations would begin afterward, found himself equally stunned. The situation was far beyond anything he had anticipated, and he struggled to make sense of it all.


    The entire group was gripped by fear, their morale shattered. To make matters worse, some of the people they had considered friendsrades who had fallen in earlier battles—were now returning, alive and well. But they weren''t the same. These former allies were attacking them with an unrelenting ferocity, as if they had be something else entirely.


    "I don''t know…" Cassian muttered, his voice strained as he parried a heavy blow from one of the resurrected—or whatever these things were. Part of him couldn''t deny the thrill of the fight. These encounters pushed him, sharpening his skills and forcing him to adapt. Yet, another part of him was desperate to end it all, to escape the madness that seemed to tighten its grip with every passing moment.


    Now, as he engaged in a fierce sh with a burly, dark-haired boy wielding a sword, Cassian''s focus sharpened. He began to sense something unusual—a distinct essence in his opponent''s movements. It wasn''t just the way the boy fought; it was the way his strikes carried a rhythm, almost like a signature imprinted into the flow of hisbat.


    Cassian ducked under a wide swing, countering with a quick sh aimed at the boy''s side. The boy deflected it with a precision that made Cassian''s eyes narrow.


    Cassian tightened his grip on his sword, his thoughts narrowing in on the principles he''d long studied and practiced. His style wasn''t born from brute force or reckless aggression. Instead, it was built on precision, calction, and control—understanding the rhythm of a fight and exploiting its tempo.


    As he shed again with the burly boy, Cassian noticed something more. His opponent''s movements were fluid, almost like water, seamlessly transitioning from one strike to the next. The boy wasn''t just fighting; he was setting a rhythm, dictating the pace of their battle. It was a technique Cassian recognized but didn''t often encounter.


    ''Flowing Sword Style,'' Cassian realized, his mind piecing it together. It was a rare approach, one that prioritized adapting to the opponent''s tempo or forcing them to follow yours. Each movement was deliberate, yet it felt natural, as if the sword were an extension of the body.


    Cassian''s mind churned as he pieced together the essence of his opponent''s style. It wasn''t just the Flowing Sword—it shared roots with his own Precision Sword Principle. Both styles were born from calction, analyzing every movement to ensure efficiency and control. But where Cassian''s technique sought perfection through deliberate nning, the Flowing Sword added an unpredictable rhythm, making it harder to anticipate.


    ''It''s like looking at a distorted mirror of my own technique,'' Cassian thought as he deflected another strike. The boy''s flowing movements were almost mesmerizing, each attack seamlessly following the next, but Cassian noticed the subtle patterns hidden within. Every move, though fluid, followed a logic—a calction—simr to his own principles.


    Cassian tightened his grip on his sword, his mind racing as he shed again with the boy. The difference in their techniques was bing more apparent with each passing moment. While Cassian''s Precision Sword Principle was rooted in the whispers of the wind—calction guided by the subtle shifts and currents around him—the boy''s Flowing Sword was aligned with water, adapting seamlessly to the rhythm of the fight.n/?/vel/b//jn dot c//om


    ''I rely on the wind''s guidance to refine my calctions,'' Cassian thought, his frustration mounting. ''But I''ve never been adept at hearing its whispers clearly. Meanwhile, this guy… he''s tuned into the flow of water like it''s second nature.''


    The boy''s de moved with an almost hypnotic fluidity, each strike weaving into the next like ripples in a stream. Every time Cassian thought he had disrupted the rhythm, the boy adjusted, redirecting the momentum and regaining control. It wasn''t just skill—it was an innate understanding of how to manipte the flow of the battle.


    Cassian dodged a swift sh, countering with a precise thrust aimed at the boy''s shoulder. But the boy twisted effortlessly, using the force of Cassian''s attack to pivot andunch a follow-up strike. Cassian barely deflected it in time, his arm tingling from the impact.


    ''He''s steering the fight where he wants it to go,'' Cassian realized, his jaw tightening. ''And I''m letting him.''


    Cassian took a quick nce around, his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield. None of hisrades appeared to be in immediate danger, though the strange opponents—a twisted mix of those thought to be dead—continued their relentless assault. Satisfied that the situation was under control, Cassian turned his full attention back to the boy in front of him.


    ''Perfect,'' he thought, his blood surging with excitement. This opponent wasn''t just any reanimated puppet; he was skilled, precise, and methodical. Cassian had found the perfect sparring partner, someone who could push him to his limits and help refine his technique.


    The fight intensified. Cassian''s domain pulsed around him, the translucent red energy field flowing like a second skin. It absorbed the strikes he couldn''t evade or perfectly block, allowing him to focus on his offense. His movements were sharper now, more confident, as he let the wind guide his actions.


    The boy''s Flowing Sword technique was relentless, each strike seamlessly transitioning into the next. But Cassian''s Precision Sword, now bolstered by his improved understanding of the wind''s whispers, began to match it blow for blow.


    As their swords shed, Cassian started to see the essence of the boy''s technique more clearly. It wasn''t just about following the flow—it was about setting it, subtly manipting the rhythm of the fight to control the battlefield. The boy''s strikes were deliberate, aimed not just at hitting Cassian but at steering him into disadvantageous positions.


    ''So that''s how it works,'' Cassian thought, his mind racing. He began to adapt, predicting the boy''s movements not just through calction but by feeling the rhythm of the fight. Every parry, every counter, was a test—a way to understand his opponent''s flow and formte his own attacks to disrupt it.


    The boy lunged, his de slicing through the air in a fluid arc. Cassian sidestepped, letting the wind carry him out of harm''s way, and retaliated with a quick thrust aimed at the boy''s shoulder. The boy twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, but Cassian was already following up with a sweeping sh.


    The boy blocked, but the force of the blow made him stagger. Cassian pressed the advantage, his strikesing faster and harder, each one calcted to exploit the openings in the boy''s technique.


    For a moment, it felt like a dance—a deadly, exhrating dance where every move was a test of skill and willpower. Cassian could feel himself improving with each exchange, his understanding of the boy''s technique growing deeper.


    But this wasn''t just about the fight. Cassian knew these strange reanimated opponents were more than they appeared. As he shed swords with the boy, his mind worked to piece together the puzzle.


    ''Why are they using techniques so simr to ours? Why do they look like people we''ve fought before?''


    Cassian''s senses began to sharpen, his domain pulsing faintly around him like a living, breathing entity. He wasn''t sure when it started, but now he could feel it—the subtle rhythm of the boy''s breathing, the faint sound of his boots shifting against the ground, and even the whisper of the wind in the empty space where the boy was about to move.


    It was overwhelming at first, a flood of information that threatened to distract him. But as Cassian steadied his breathing, he realized something remarkable: his mind wasn''t just receiving the input—it was processing it. Each sound, each movement, each ripple in the air painted a clearer picture of what was happening around him.


    The boy shifted slightly, preparing to move. Cassian didn''t see it so much as he felt it—a faint change in the flow of air around him. Before the boy''s foot even left the ground, Cassian''s body reacted, stepping to the side to evade the attack he knew wasing.