The chill of early dawn clung to the mountaintops like a breath never exhaled. Pale mist coiled between jagged rocks, and the sky above the Mercenary City of Avila was painted in deep indigo and slow-blushing gold. Most of the city still slept, its warriors dreaming of glory or haunted by past bloodshed.

But Saeko was already awake.

Wrapped in silence, she walked the steep trail beyond Avila's northern gate, her katana strapped to her back, her dark cloak billowing behind her like trailing smoke. Her eyes were clear, focused—not with the sharp edge of urgency, but the quiet hunger of discipline. Today was hers. A day to sharpen herself, to push beyond limits, to let her soul scream in silence where no one could hear it but the wind.

And it just so happened that a harpy den was nestled in the cliffs.

A perfect place to train—and to exterminate a threat before it reached the trade roads.

The trail grew steep quickly. Saeko moved like water, her boots quiet over loose gravel and frost-slicked stone. As the sun crept higher, golden light pierced the mist, catching in her hair, casting her in ethereal gleam.

She reached a high ledge by mid-morning. The air was thin here. Crisp. Sacred.

She slipped off her cloak and let it drift against a boulder.

Drawing her katana in one smooth motion, she began her forms—katas honed over years, etched into muscle memory. Each slash whispered through the cold air with impossible precision.

Step. Pivot. Cut. Breathe.

Strike. Sheathe. Draw. Spin.

Again. Faster. Sharper.

Her movements blurred with elegance—almost meditative. But this was no dance of vanity. It was a prayer to the blade. And the wind answered, swirling around her like a loyal specter.

Then came the shriek.

The first harpy dove from above, wings slicing the air with a thunderclap. Feathers black as shadow, talons gleaming like forged daggers. It was larger than she expected—closer to a raptor than a woman.

Saeko didn't flinch. Her blade flashed upward—clang!—catching its claws mid-descent. The force of impact skidded her back a step, her boots scraping stone.

Another cry echoed.

Then a second.

And a third.

The whole sky above the mountain rumbled with movement as harpies burst from their jagged cliffside nest—six of them, shrieking, frenzied, eyes glowing red.

Saeko's expression hardened. "Tch... so it's a flock."

She slid into a low stance, feet grounded, blade angled diagonally behind her—the Wind-Cleaver Form. Her pulse slowed. The world narrowed to wind and wings.

Then she moved.

The first harpy lunged with outstretched talons. Saeko ducked and slid beneath it, her blade carving upward in an arc that split its wing in two—feathers spiraling in the air like torn leaves.

A second harpy dove from behind.

Without looking, Saeko pivoted and slashed horizontally—a perfect midair deflection. Sparks flew as talon met steel. She used the momentum to leap, twisting into a double-spin in midair, her katana tracing a silver circle as she sliced both wings off the attacker. It dropped like stone.

The third and fourth came together, one flanking, the other shrieking to disorient her.

She dropped to one knee.

Breathe.

The wind surged around her like an old friend.

Then she shot upward with a burst of movement that looked almost supernatural. Using a narrow ledge, she launched herself high into the air—flash step. Her form flickered.

One clean stroke severed a harpy's head.

A second slash, barely visible, cleaved the other diagonally from shoulder to hip.

Blood sprayed the sky, glinting crimson in the morning light.

The fifth creature didn't attack. She circled.

Larger. Older. Covered in scarred feathers. A sentient malice glinted in her eyes.

The Matron.

She gave a screeching cry that reverberated across the peaks—summoning one final harpy from deep within the cave.

But Saeko had no time to wait.

She sprinted across the narrow ledges, leapt over gaps with reckless precision, dodging boulders and feathers raining from above. The Matron swooped low, her claws slicing across the cliffside in a deadly arc.

Saeko met her in midair.

Clang! Clang! CLANG!

Blade against claw. Feather against steel. The force of their clash cracked stone and sent shockwaves down the mountain path.

Saeko used a reverse grip, spinning in midair. The katana glowed faintly, the wind building with her momentum. She slashed upward—cutting a spiral of air that trapped the Matron for a breathless second.

That was all she needed.

"Fall."

She flipped backward in midair, let gravity take her, and at the same time, she struck downward with a double-handed overhead slash—the Wind Fang Descent.

The katana connected.

A gash ripped through the Matron's chest, and the wind roared with her.

The creature fell, shrieking, crashing into the rock below with a thunderous impact.

The last harpy, sensing its death, shrieked once and tried to flee—but Saeko flicked her blade, leapt forward, and with a final, effortless cut, ended it mid-flight.

Silence reclaimed the mountains.

Feathers drifted on the wind. Saeko stood still on the ledge, her blade extended, steam rising from her shoulders in the cold morning air.

She exhaled slowly and lowered her weapon.

Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer focus she had maintained. Each movement had demanded perfection. Each step had danced with death.

She cleaned her blade on a torn cloth, sheathed it with a satisfying click, and looked toward the harpy nest.

Inside, she found discarded bones, torn leathers, and the trinkets of lost travelers. She cleared it all, set fire to the remnants, and watched the smoke rise into the brightening sky.

Saeko made her way back down the mountain, body aching but spirit calm. She had not only trained. She had fought. Tested. Proved herself again, not to others—but to the voice inside that asked, "Are you ready for what comes next?"

As Avila's towering walls reappeared in the distance, her mind already shifted to what awaited: the guilds, the missions, the politics, the rivals.

But now, she was sharpened.

Not just in steel.

But in soul.