Chapter 32 — The Opponent That Isn’t There

  In the afternoon, Ivaline left the town again.

  The fields beyond the walls were quiet—open ground, low grass, nothing to hide in. A good place to make mistakes without witnesses.

  She planted her feet.

  Chronicle observed.

  “Instead of repeating movements,” he said, “try something else.”

  She tilted her head.

  “…Like what?”

  “A phantom fight.”

  “…What is that?”

  “You create an opponent,” Chronicle explained.

  “Not with your hands. With your intent. You fight what you imagine—its habits, its reach, its malice. That way, you refine more than technique.”

  She considered it.

  “…I can try.”

  She closed her eyes.

  The first shape came easily.

  A rabbit.

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  Not prey—one that fought back. It darted, lunged, tried to bowl her over. Clever, but light.

  She moved.

  Too fast.

  Too clean.

  It ended quickly.

  “…That was easy.”

  “Because you know rabbits,” Chronicle replied.

  “Continue.”

  She imagined birds next.

  Three of them.

  They swarmed—pecking, tugging at her hair, striking from above. She flinched at first, ducking awkwardly, but once she recognized the pattern, her movement changed.

  Short steps.

  Controlled swings.

  The birds scattered.

  Next—

  A stray dog from the town.

  Lean. Hungry. Cautious.

  She circled.

  Then—

  Another orphan.

  A boy she once knew.

  Fast. Desperate. Willing to bite.

  Her body stiffened.

  Her breathing slowed.

  She defeated him.

  And then—

  The shadow changed.

  The man who stole her food.

  Her jaw set.

  She closed her eyes fully this time.

  The fight was ugly.

  She fell.

  Rolled.

  Scraped her knees raw in the dirt.

  But she did not yield.

  When it ended, she stood shaking.

  “Huff… huff…”

  Her breath was rough, but her lips curved upward.

  Satisfied.

  Chronicle spoke gently.

  “I do not know what image you fought,” he said.

  “But well done.”

  “Hmmm?”

  Her tone was light.

  Even if it was only imagination—

  She had won.

  But she wasn’t finished.

  Next came the three thugs from Tomas’s bakery.

  This time, she lost.

  They moved together.

  Cornered her.

  Overwhelmed her.

  She stopped.

  Adjusted.

  Tried again.

  Lost.

  Again.

  Revised.

  Planned.

  When she finally won, the sun had begun to sink.

  She dusted herself off.

  Stood again.

  Focused.

  Chronicle felt it before she spoke.

  “…..”

  A new silhouette formed.

  Not an enemy.

  Not prey.

  Something straighter.

  Calmer.

  A presence that did not attack—

  Only demonstrated.

  The shadow that had taught her how to move.

  What comes with skill [Swordsmanship - Lesser]

  She raised her stick.

  And challenged it.