Chapter 489: Blade Dance

The clash of blades sounded like thunder in the heart of the forest. Each impact sent a ripple through the trees, causing them to groan, birds to scatter in desperate flocks, and roots to vibrate underground. Vergil could no longer hear anything but the metallic sound of steel against steel and his own ragged breathing.

She didn’t seem to pant. She didn’t seem tired. She didn’t even seem worried.

With each swipe of the silver blade, the tiger-woman moved with the grace of someone who doesn’t fight—she dances. Vergil felt trapped by this cadence, forced to react to each fluid thrust, each curving arc. His muscles burned, but instinct urged him on.

“You’re still holding back…” Vergil growled, his eyes ablaze with blue.

She tilted her head, smiling serenely. “No. I am simply what I am. You are the one fighting against yourself.”

That tone cut deeper than the sword. Vergil felt his jaw tighten, his teeth clenching. It was as if she were tearing him apart with subtle words, molding him like a student unable to grasp the lesson.

“I am no one’s disciple.”

Vergil advanced, Yamato flashing a piercing blue. He abandoned any attempt at tactical openings—it was pure aggression, extreme speed and precision. His blades traced a whirlwind, each cut coming from impossible angles, as if his own rage guided him.

But she didn’t just deflect—she guided the fury. A step to the left, a slight twist of her wrist, and her blade deflected Yamato like someone guiding the course of a river. Vergil felt his attacks become involuntary lessons, as if every mistake were noted and returned to him in the form of silent reflection.

That smile of hers drove him mad.

With each failure, he felt less of a predator, more of a learner. But instead of giving in to humiliation, something inside him began to rearrange itself. It wasn’t surrender—it was adaptation.

Vergil began to refine. He cut, watching the response. With each block, muscle memory solidified. With each disarm, an internal calculation adjusted his posture. His muscles vibrated with tension, but also in tune.

He stopped thinking.

The mind that once screamed in frustration now silenced, giving way to something purer. Instinct took shape. His body began to respond without command. The world reduced to the gleam of her blade, the feel of the Yamato’s weight in his hands, the rhythm of his breathing.

A state of flux.

And for the first time, her smile faltered.

The Yamato no longer seemed predictable. Her cuts didn’t follow patterns, didn’t repeat formulas. They were alive. With each passing second, he absorbed her style, and returned it as something more brutal, but also more lethal. A distorted reflex.

She moved to deflect an attack—and for an instant, Vergil was no longer where he should have been. His blade grazed her shoulder, tearing a thread from the white fabric.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. For the first time, her gaze wasn’t that of a teacher, but of an equal.

“Now then…” she murmured, sliding backward, her white dress swaying in waves.

Vergil didn’t answer. There was no more room for words. He advanced.

The duel gained brutal intensity. Each step echoed like thunder. Each thrust produced sparks of demonic energy that dissipated in blue and red flashes. Vergil pressed on, not with desperation, but with relentless clarity.

He no longer wanted to strike her down. He wanted to overcome her.

The blows became cleaner, sharper. Vergil alternated between upward and downward slashes, unexpected thrusts from unlikely angles, each one testing her reaction. With each block, he smirked. With each slip, he etched into her muscles the fraction of time he could exploit.

She, too, was beginning to change.

Her sword no longer moved lightly; now it had weight. Each parry carried the force of a thousand predators. When she countered, the air sliced like an invisible scythe, splitting the ground beneath her feet.

Vergil blocked one of these attacks, and the impact threw him backward, dragging his feet through the earth. But he didn’t fall. He twisted, propelled himself forward, and turned parrying into attack.

His eyes burned. His mouth curved in an involuntary smile. He was no longer the humiliated disciple.

He was the hunter.

“Hhhrrraaaaaah!” Vergil roared, his red energy exploding in slashing waves. The Yamato expanded into beams of light, each slash ripping open the ground and splitting distant tree trunks in half.

The woman charged into the storm, her silver sword spinning in circles, blocking, deflecting, shaping the fury into a dance. The white of her dress was now marred by dust, scratches, and cuts. She was still graceful, but less untouchable.

“You’re learning fast…” she said between the clashes of the blades, her voice firm, but now with a note of respect.

“I’m not learning.” Vergil gritted his teeth, forcing the blade against hers. His eyes flashed, almost mad. “I’m getting over it.”

The impact exploded, throwing them both backward.

Vergil slid his feet, regaining his stance in a split second. He was no longer panting; his body seemed fueled by something other than exertion. Flow guided him.

For the first time, she straightened her stance. The blade, pointed at the ground, now rose, straight, steady. Her gaze was no longer that of a tutor. It was that of an adversary.

The world seemed to go silent. The forest held its breath. The leaves didn’t dare fall.

And then, they advanced at the same time.

The space between them burst into a flash. Their blades clashed in continuous explosions, so fast that ordinary eyes couldn’t follow. The ground opened up in craters, ancient roots were crushed, ancient trees fell in invisible gashes.

Vergil swung Yamato in a downward arc—she blocked, but he changed course at the last instant, sliding the blade past her sword guard and nearly reaching her neck. She recoiled, her white veil shredding in loose strips.

She retaliated with a horizontal slash so swift it seemed to cut through time. Vergil lowered his body, the edge of the blade slicing a hair on his forehead. He pushed off the ground, spinning Yamato in a counterattack, nearly touching the side of her torso.

It was like looking into a distorted mirror. Two predators, two forces molding and responding in sync.

Vergil felt the world disappear. There was no forest, no spectators, not even himself. Only the duel. Only the moment.

He was no longer taught. He was inevitable.

And in her gaze, finally, there was something that was neither calm nor contempt. It was respect.

“Vergil, right?” she said, blocking another attack, her swords clinking with sparks of fire. “You’re starting to remind me… of myself.”

Vergil advanced, his eyes glowing blue. “Then fight as if you were fighting yourself. Because I will cut down everything you put in front of me.”