Chapter 536 Maven of the Red Death
The incoming blade was swift, faster than Kieran had time to process. There was no fancy movement to be done, no time to evade, only enough separation to react using primal instinct.
He raised his arm with a forearm reinforced with blood to defend his neck. Rhaenys' second attack echoed his surprise attack unleashed upon Adeia, aimed at his nape.
The blood formed wasn't smooth, seeming more like a mix between scales and a tough hide, but not resilient. It had stopped Rhaenys' swift attack but had done a mediocre job.
Her attack bit into dense bone, eliciting a sharp inhale and retreating from Kieran. He regarded her cautiously, his expression shaded with extreme vigilance.
A hearty chuckle escaped from between Rhaenys' carmine lips.
"Why did you just step away so? Scared that I'll bite? I don't…" she paused with a brief, chilling smile, her expression contorted with intoxication reaped from rife carnage. "But my blades do, darling."
Kieran belatedly realized her blades were strangely shaped scimitars, not the usual swords. But it wasn't too unthinkable, considering her student wielded a curved odachi. The blade's subtle or pronounced curve complemented their style in a way Kieran had yet to understand.
But he did know their strikes struck faster than their actions betrayed. It was a grim deception. One Kieran wished to learn, dissect, and assimilate.
That thought made his blood boil with restless anticipation, but it didn't dampen the dread he felt as he watched the Flame stitch together tendon, muscle, and skin, leaving a vestige of injury in the form of a shallow scar.
Kieran circled Rhaenys, firing glancing blows to get an understanding of her movements.
He didn't commit to any one attack, noticing the crescent scimitar's broadened center specialized in defending against attack. Despite the semicircle indent near the tapered point, the wide surface area demanded little movement from Rhaenys.
Equally disturbing was the way she held her blade.
It was entirely different from Adeia, who kept her form set as if in the end movement of a downward sword kata. The blade's tip always pointed toward her enemy, following their actions like a viper keeping vigil and keen to strike.
Rhaenys smiled at Kieran's unnerved vigilance.
Slowly, her movements changed, becoming fluid and formless like a tide ebbing and flowing… or blood being pumped to and from the heart in a cycle. An alluring, almost mesmerizing procession of flow.
"Ah, young man. Do you know why they call me Maven of the Red Death?"
Kieran warily shook his head, furrowing his brows at the question. Where was she going with this?
"The answer is simple, but I feel you should experience with your body rather than my words…"
She paused, and when she resumed speaking, her words were felt closely because she was upon him, closing their gap with a soundless bound.
"Don't you think so, young man?"
Kieran's eyes widened when red gale winds swept against his body, nicking his skin faster than he could perceive. It was strange, though. He defended against her sword, the sonorous clangor of their weapons meeting proof of that.
But, the way she moved… it was a grim dance.
And his blood was slowly flowing from him. Though, unlike most, his blood heeded his command, reversing its flow in an attempt to rejoin his inner vessel. But he accumulated cuts faster than his blood could return. This condition would spell death for anyone else, slowly speaking to her title.
Maven of the Red Death… a connoisseur of ravaging demises.
Rhaenys relished in the artistry she performed. An actual demon with a sword, two, in fact. She was not a creature of the dark but a skilled expert at her craft, elevating it to a level with which she could form a signature.
Had this been a true battle, perhaps Kieran would have reached out the Testament again, using its might to unleash havoc upon his opponent, but it was both a pointless and counterintuitive move. Rhaenys was a foe who could give even Cardinal Weiss pause.
Kieran understood he offered no contention, roused no fear in the Maven of the Red Death's mind.
But he absorbed her movements like a sponge. Every cut he suffered lanced his mind in equal measure, finding purchase in his psyche to later benefit his endeavors.
Rhaenys revolved around Kieran, taking note of his gaze with a transient gleam of delight.
"Ah, most would misinterpret your expression for foolhardy gusto, but not I. My eyes have seen many horrors and endured grave struggles. Those are eyes of fascination and comprehension."
Listening to Rhaenys speak, Adeia paid closer attention to their many exchanges. Her old master's grim dance continued, bloody, beautiful, and stark, each slash carrying an austere purpose.
Kieran received many gifts — informative wounds filled with battle knowledge.
Kieran's sword grew faster as he tried to glean the form after the one he learned from Adeia. It was a poor attempt, but he pressed on without much care for failure.
Pain was no new adversary; it was an old, intimate friend.
At some point, Draegerys reopened his eyes and watched with dissipating disinterest, soon replaced by something more… focused and curious.
"Choosing not to clash blades with that young beast may have been an error on your part."
Adeia glanced at Draegerys with subdued admiration.
"Why do you say that?"
"That boy is a parasite of knowledge who would drink himself drunk. But look closer, and you'll realize he can also be a whetstone. Notice how he is attempting to combat her in swordplay alone."
Adeia shifted her perspective, removing her petulant feelings to give her an unbiased standpoint. That's when she noticed it. The rhythm of Kieran's attacks was monotonous because he responded with two strikes in the same alternating pattern.
The monotony was jarring after a while, yet the boy's face remained unchanging. His focus held fast, and his actions sharpened a touch with many tens of repetitions.
"Is he a machine? Even a Master would soon tire after engaging in an intense, protracted session with Master Rhaenys."
Draegerys crossed his arms over his imposing bust.
"The boy is tireless, but not precisely so. He manages his economy well, which is why he is a good whetstone."
Minutes turned into hours, and Kieran felt he was gaining a lot from his session with Rhaenys. Kieran didn't know how long he had with her, but he'd be content to emulate just a fragment of her swordsmanship.
Alas, as tireless as Kieran seemed, there came a time when his body reached the verge of collapse. When that point came, Rhaenys accepted his final strike, catching his blade with a fluid momentum, spinning, and then firing a swift riposte at his solar plexus.
Winded, Kieran crumbled.
The strike seemed simple enough, but his body stopped listening to him after suffering it.
"That was enjoyable, young man. It is a shame I can't learn your name. Should we have time, I wouldn't mind having another go sometime later."
Rhaenys sheathed her dual scimitars and returned to the table for a break.
Meanwhile, Kieran lay sprawled on the floor, stomach collapsing with each wheezing gasp. Now that nothing was rushing within him, pain assaulted him in a colossal tide.
He desired many things — sleep, food, relaxation, but most of all, he wanted to digest what he learned at his own pace.
But he had to get up. There was still the matter of finding remote lodging.
'Fight the pain, move…'
Kieran staggered like an undead risen, finding his bearings. Then, he shuffled his feet past the great hall and beyond.
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