Why did Blaine waste so much time talking with Bakuto instead of using the Elemental Bow or his close-combat abilities to end it quickly?

Bakuto was a rare Master of Swordsmanship—arguably the finest among the Hand's immortal leaders.

But Blaine didn't care.

He simply wanted to test the Swordsmanship skill he had just acquired.

Could he cut down a man who had long since returned to the fundamentals of the blade?

Although Blaine's Cursed Blood was technically a knife, in combat there was little distinction—sword and blade belonged to the same family.

And when Bakuto heard Blaine's challenge, he remained outwardly calm, but inside he was secretly delighted.

He knew full well how dangerous Blaine was.

His heart, however, was far less steady than his face suggested.

Anyone who could stir up this much chaos in the world so quickly was not to be underestimated. Blaine's abilities seemed endless—more than five different powers had already been exposed to the public. Who knew how many more he had yet to reveal?

But now, hearing Blaine restrict himself to pure Swordsmanship, Bakuto finally exhaled in relief.

If Blaine had chosen to rely on his overwhelming powers, he could have ended the fight instantly. Instead, he wanted to pit his blade against Bakuto's.

If their positions were reversed, Bakuto would have killed his opponent without hesitation, rather than facing him at his strongest skill.

Like in the movies—"I'll fight you where you're strongest"? Ridiculous.

Teenagers, he thought, were still far too naïve.

"Can I refuse?" Bakuto asked with a dry chuckle.

He drew a longsword from within his gentleman's cane and pointed it at Blaine.

Unlike Blaine's curved Cursed Blood blade, this was a double-edged sword—genuine steel, nothing hidden.

Bakuto's confidence in his Swordsmanship was absolute.

"I don't get it," Blaine muttered. "Why do you villains always hide swords inside canes? Is it supposed to catch people off guard?"

He sighed. He had always thought concealing weapons in walking sticks was a stupid gimmick.

"No. It's just convenient," Bakuto replied, his eyes fixed on his blade. "Carrying a sword openly tends to draw attention. Don't you think it's troublesome?"

"…Fair point." Blaine gave a reluctant nod.

The two stood in tense silence, blades poised, until Bakuto finally struck.

He raised his longsword and thrust forward.

It was the most basic attack in Swordsmanship—a direct thrust. But as the saying went, "the thrust is the soul of the sword." Master enough thrusts, and you could feel the line between reality and illusion when holding the blade. Every form of swordplay was rooted in this foundation.

A thrust seemed simple, even crude: a straight stab to pierce the enemy. But in the hands of a true master, it became as fluid and powerful as a dragon bursting from water, an immortal leading the way.

Bakuto's execution was flawless, his speed and precision dazzling.

But Blaine was ready.

He angled the Cursed Blood blade sideways, parrying sharply, and brought his knife down in a counter-slash.

Bakuto's face didn't so much as flicker. He absorbed the recoil without flinching, twisting his sword smoothly along the clash. Using Blaine's own momentum, he redirected the blade and swept low, aiming to slice Blaine's legs.

It all happened in an instant.

Blaine stepped back several paces, and the duel truly began.

No glowing sword energy. No fantastical theatrics.

Just steel against steel.

They traded cuts, thrusts, slashes, and counters in the narrow corridor.

The techniques looked simple, but in their hands every movement carried layers of mastery. A thrust here, a cut there, a sudden feint, a swift parry.

Stabs, chops, hangs, wipes, points—their swords flashed endlessly, the tempo dazzling, their battle sharp and brutal rather than elegant.

Swordsmanship was, after all, a beautiful craft.

Still, Blaine thought, it would've looked cooler if his Cursed Blood blade were a proper sword.

The fight intensified.

Steel rang again and again.

Bakuto was, without doubt, a rare master of the blade.

And Blaine? He was armed with Swordsmanship, Level 4.

The clash was fierce, but in truth, there was no comparison.

Blaine was stronger.

Bakuto's clothing was shredded, his body narrowly avoiding serious injury.

If not for his evasions, the cursed poison coating Blaine's blade would already have ended him.

By contrast, Blaine remained untouched.

Not because of his hunter's suit.

But because Bakuto had never managed to land a single strike.

Step by step, Bakuto grew more desperate.

The corridor walls bore the scars of their battle—deep cuts and slashes carved into plaster and stone, each one radiating lethal intent.

Bakuto, breath unsteady, stared at Blaine with horror in his eyes.

He never imagined Blaine's Swordsmanship would surpass his own.

Could it be—was Blaine, like him, someone who had lived for centuries?

But Blaine almost laughed aloud.

He hadn't forgotten—he could read minds.

[Bakuto's thoughts: Damn it… this boy must have lived as long as I have. How else could his Swordsmanship be greater than mine?]

To that, Blaine had only one response.

Grandpa's still young, thanks.

[Bakuto's thoughts: No… if this continues, I won't last. I can't let him keep pressing me with just Swordsmanship. I'll use something else, and finish him.]

Blaine smirked.

Typical Hand leader—always scheming.

But he wasn't surprised. He'd expected Bakuto would eventually break their unspoken rules first.

What Bakuto didn't know was that his every thought had already been laid bare.

One of the Hand's Five Fingers.

An immortal who had once betrayed K'un-Lun.

And aside from his blade, Bakuto still hadn't used the Hand's other forbidden weapon.

Chi.

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