Sol strode deeper into the living area, his focus making him confident and observant. The indoor pool was covered by a barrier of sorts, making it an extension of the floor. As Rax’Rathos paced around him with his quarterstaff, Sol took in the state of the room.

  A few pillows seemed out of place, a comfortable chair had fallen over, and a few drops of blood marked the path his current opponent had dragged the former estate owner through. Apparently, he had fled upstairs to make his last stand.

  Sol readied himself in a reactive posture while the younger demon strode around him confidently, sizing him up. His form seemed lazy and cocky, arrogant and confident, but his muscles were tensed in anticipation of combat.

  Rax’Rathos was a lot smaller than Sol, but he had likely trained to fight his entire life. His muscles were honed—not just random physical fitness from labor like Sol’s. He did not envy his experience, but if he had known that fighting could be so relaxing and thrilling at the same time, he would have liked to start at an earlier age.

  Rax’Rathos kicked a sitting pillow into Sol, who ignored it. He would not take his eyes off his opponent. But the pillow gave him a fun thought.

  Then the younger demon swung his staff around and lunged forward as if thrusting a spear.

  Sol had trouble reading the motion fully at first, so he decided to dodge, only to realize the strike led into a second thrust.

  There was a nasty, audible sound of wood heavily impacting the transformed claws that protected his fists. The impact reverberated into his shoulder as Sol observed the movements of his opponent. Shoulders turned, the staff retreated, and a quick, seemingly motionless swing sought to impact his head lightly. Sol shifted his claws further back to the back of his hand and blocked the strike in time.

  At the same time, he sneakily moved the pillow into Rax’Rathos’s path.

  The younger demon reacted quickly, adjusted his footwork, and shoved the pillow aside while bombarding Sol with a range of staff attacks. Thrust here, jab there, short strike from above, then below, then an all-out strike from the side.

  Sol took a bit of punishment. The weapon grazed him at times when he tried to dodge, and when he was too slow to match his fist to the attack, he took some nasty strikes to his chest, shoulder, and arm.

  But his focus sharpened, and so did his defense. Soon he was able to read the movement of his opponent with an exciting ease. A smile crept up his lips as he blocked the staff with concise strikes. Despite the bruises he would carry away from the experience, Sol would not have traded away this argument.

  The staff strikes soon increased in force, the anger of its wielder making them heavier and heavier. But it also made them easier to block defensively. Soon Sol was able to advance forward while parrying and push his opponent towards the entrance hall, out of the living area.

  Rax’Rathos screamed his frustration as he moved to javelin the staff at Sol.

  ‘Never interrupt your opponent when they are making a mistake,’ Sol thought, so he dodged and moved closer to face his now weaponless opponent.

  How wrong he had been. Sol quickly learned that Rax’Rathos’s fury was best applied in close-quarters combat. His protected fists were harder than his opponent’s bronze skin technique, but Sol quickly learned there was more to the technique than protection. The strikes hurt—beyond the physical impact alone.

  As he matched fists with his opponent, he quickly realized that his experience with boxing meant a big gap between him and Rax’Rathos. Soon, various small movement counters, like uppercuts and hooks, made Sol retreat with his head behind his arms.

  Rax’Rathos really excelled in close-quarters combat. Concise footwork brought him barely close enough to strike Sol. Dodges were used to position himself better, and the constant onslaught of impacts made Sol’s arms feel like burning iron. They stung, felt heavy, and dragged his movement even further down into the abyss that was this fight.

  Who had ever thought it was a good idea to give a calculating weapon like a quarterstaff to a fighter like Rax’Rathos? Who, much smaller and less heavy, still managed to out-fistfight his opponents while making it look easy. Sol slowly retreated, throwing feints to buy a bit of time and make one last stand.

  His opponent's fury was his strength but also seemed to be a weakness. The younger demon had worked himself into such a raged frenzy that Sol doubted he cared much where he moved. He was already close to the entrance.

  Two strikes hit Sol hard: one clipped the top of his head, reverberating through his body, while the second strike feinted as an uppercut only to hit him as a hook. The accumulated damage got to him, and Sol lost his focus for a second as his mind disconnected briefly.

  When he came back, his vision was narrow, and he was falling toward the ground.

  Hurriedly, he re-applied his focus, rolling off his fall and raising his guard just in time for another strike. It was a bit of luck, but this fall had given him the perfect positioning. Now Rax’Rathos stood exactly between him and the entrance door.

  Sol feinted a few quick jabbing motions before he kicked against the bronze-reinforced body, briefly knocking him off balance.

  The skin technique was great at amplifying impacts and absorbing damage, but it did not stop people from moving you. So Sol did just that. He dashed into the opening, ducked below a quickly thrown punch, and rammed into the lighter and smaller demon at his stomach, carrying him off his feet toward the door.

  A few well-placed elbows into his back made Sol’s spine tingle. The door opened as they approached, revealing the outside, where a small demon girl with a mask was patiently waiting. Sol let go of his opponent as they reached it, throwing him away.

  Dizzy, battered, and bruised, Sol stood in the doorway. Blood ran down his nose, his hands felt heavier than stone, and even his claws refused to move back into place despite his efforts. His spine radiated pain down into his legs, and his vision constantly narrowed and expanded as he struggled to stay conscious.

  “I win,” he said breathlessly. Rax’Rathos moved to punch him, but his fist hit a barrier that had formed in the doorway. One ‘argument’ per day per house. Which technically meant—victory.

  The younger demon’s skin technique faded as he blinked away his battle rage. He now stood eye to eye with Sol, whose weakened posture had made him hunch over in the doorway. “You win—what exactly?” Rax’Rathos said with his brows furrowed. “I was never going to stay here. You win a house you can’t defend.”

  The bronze-skinned demon eyed Nyx’Sol from top to bottom. “Especially not after fighting me. You did some interesting things, but now I know how you fight.” He turned to leave. “Next time I will destroy you fully. Don’t expect it to go that easily.”

  The demon girl with her white mask bowed her head toward Rax’Rathos with a friendly tone. “Greetings, young master of the Aurelius Vox family.”

  The younger demon just shook his head. “Bloody vulture,” he grumbled under his breath, disregarding the greeting.

  Nyx could tell by her body posture that it bothered her before she turned and stepped past him into the estate. A faint flowery scent accompanied her.

  Sol turned to follow her into the living area. “I think he dislikes formal greetings. Just be honest and say what you mean,” he said as he sank into a comfortable chair, the process sending sharp pain into every muscle. The damage now really started to make itself known.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “You look terrible,” the demon girl said gently as she passed his chair, her mask tilting sideways as if she were thinking about something. “You really should stop using this technique of yours. It clouds your judgment.” She grabbed a set of teacups from a nearby cupboard and retrieved hot tea from her robes before sitting opposite Sol with a warm cup in her hands.

  Sol eyed her curiously as she brought the cup to her mask, the cup phasing in and out seamlessly. Apparently, she also came from a wealthy and influential clan if she could afford storage items and a mask like this.

  “Do not be rude now, drink,” she ordered.

  Sol sat there for a few moments, his body aching all over, his mood still elevated from his focus ability. The warm liquid ran down his throat, making him notice how parched he had been. Weird. He could not turn off his ability. It was just… there.

  Sipping tea and focusing on his inner emotional state, he just found relaxed joy and a feeling of deep satisfaction. Rationally, he knew this was not how he felt and that this victory of his was not something to be happy about. He was in a terrible state and likely would not be able to claim any house. If he could even find a dirt-hole shack for the night, he would be lucky. He would likely not get food or less than if he had gone for one of the other houses.

  Yet his emotional state was calm, relaxed, and happy. He frowned. He did not want to feel like this permanently. Had this happened before? Did this technique activate without his knowledge sometime after his encounter with the Sword God? “I—I do not think I can stop using the technique.”

  The demon girl took another sip of tea through her mask. Sol could imagine her smile or even a frown, but he had no other indicator than a slight shift in her posture. Maybe he was imagining it.

  “My uncle used to play me beautiful songs when I was little. Every day, he would find me playing in the garden, sing and whistle for me, make funny noises, and play instruments. I enjoyed these moments a lot.” She took another sip, her body posture slouching more into the chair. “Until I turned eight years old. That was when I noticed that he never smiled. Never laughed. His mouth might have, but his eyes never once did.”

  Sol’s focus technique made him analyze the purpose of the story rather than the emotional weight she had just shared with him, which made him frown more. Her uncle also had a technique similar to his. Could he also not control it? Sol thought about his little brother he had played with many times. He had genuinely smiled and laughed with him. If he did that now, would he too not be able to feel affection for him?

  The demon girl eyed him patiently, waiting for him to comment.

  “He could not turn it off?” Sol asked with a focused demeanor. If he was stuck with this, that could be a problem. How long had it been that way? Ever since he had regained this one memory of snow and swords in his encounter with the Sword God?

  The girl put down her teacup and adjusted to a cross-legged sitting position. Her gloved right hand rested on her knee while her left caressed the side of her head, half-vanishing through the mask. “I have asked him many times. He always confirmed ‘I can,’ but never did. Even begging him did not change his mind.”

  Sol was glad to hear that his lack of control was likely temporary. As to why someone would use a technique such as that, he could immediately think of a reason. “A painful memory? If you cannot bear the memory or the feeling is too strong? It feels good to let go of your emotions, especially if they are negative ones.”

  Sol continued after a brief pause. “Your story has made me think about something. I have regained a memory where my past self uses this technique. I assumed it was done by letting go of strong emotions. But that does not seem to be the case. I do not know how to—” He struggled to put it into words. “How it works. How to start and how to stop. It has been a week since I regained that memory.”

  His conversational partner sighed, gathered her cup, and emptied it before she answered with a patient and gentle voice. “Well, at least you are not intentionally blocking emotions in a conversation with others. I felt it was rather rude.”

  “I apologize,” Sol said sheepishly.

  “Once we awaken to cultivation, our body becomes an empty vessel that is thrown into a body of water. But instead of rapidly filling with water, only small cracks all over are letting in a small drip. As we continue to grow accustomed to cultivation, when we use this water—this energy, this Qi—we improve the rate at which we let in this outside source.”

  She stood and approached his chair. “You know how to activate the technique but have no concept of how to end it. While I can help you with that temporarily—” She drew a thin needle from her pocket. “If you activate it again, your technique will drain the energy you gather continuously, and you will not have any to apply to your Skin Tempering training.”

  Sol let her approach. Her slender fingers brushed aside his robes around his throat and stung him with the needle at the upper part of his sternum. Immediately, he felt his focus drop away, replaced by an odd feeling of emotional emptiness. It was not the same sensation he had felt when his focus dropped before. Maybe this was a continued effect that persisted beyond the active focus?

  He felt relieved, as if a weight had been dropped from his shoulders. A tear formed in his right eye and fell on his cheek. “Thank you,” he rasped with a heavy voice before coughing to say it again with more gratitude. “Thank you, really. Have you been trained in medicine?”

  The demon girl refilled her teacup with more steaming tea and sat down gracefully before answering. “You are very welcome, though I must say I am a bit disappointed. I had assumed you had a solid grasp on your ability and decent control of Qi. If you did, you would have managed to stop by forcing all of your Qi to do—” Her mask tilted as she observed him. “Well, anything, really. If you run out, your technique will stop working.”

  Sol noticed that she had dodged the question about her training. She was clearly a very private person, so he decided not to press the issue—especially after she had just helped him greatly. There was, however, another thing he wanted to ask.

  “May I ask you a question? You may ask me anything in return,” he suggested. “In fact, you may not even answer my question. After all, I owe you for your help.”

  She considered for a moment, sipping her tea. The beverage had cooled sufficiently, and Sol finished half of his. It reminded him of home; he had tasted this blend of tea before. For the first time in a long time, he felt very raw emotions: missing his siblings, the safety of home, and relying on someone. The smell of his mother’s kitchen and the idyllic peace of a hardworking farm life.

  If she was taken aback, she did not show it. “Did the same person that taught you your ‘lesson’ of a ‘strong foundation,’ as you put it, kill you? They must have been very strong to slice through pakira wood that easily. Did the moment you received your Grace of Undying awaken that memory you mentioned?”

  Sol suppressed a slight smile. So she had been curious about these things, since she even asked two questions at once. “I do not know if my death and receiving the Grace of Undying influenced how quickly I regained a memory. The day of my sixteenth birthday, my coming-of-age day, I died. I was blessed and destroyed what killed me.” He frowned as he thought back to the moment in the aftermath. He had been very calm and collected despite having faced death.

  “What does it feel like?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

  “Death? I don’t know if I even felt that. It felt like a dream and waking up again, in the moment and location that, I think at least, I died in.” Sol saw her shake her head gently. “Oh. The Grace of Undying felt like a surge of power that restores you fully, your body full of energy. It was the best I ever felt.”

  Picking up the thread of his earlier thought, he continued. “But you also feel in control, calm, and like nothing could harm you. Maybe that is the case? This feeling might have triggered my memory later on. I have never thought about it from this perspective.”

  She nodded with enthusiasm. It was calming to tell her about his experience, to have someone listen to his problems. “After leaving my home for the sect, a few days later, I encountered someone on the road to the sect. He wore two swords on his hips, one regular sword in a black sheath and a longer, curved sword in a white one.”

  “You met the Sword God?!” she shouted, rising to her feet before collapsing back into her seat. She sat cross-legged, her leg moving rhythmically in an effort to contain herself. “I apologize, please continue.”

  Sol nodded. “Yes. It was the Sword God. We briefly talked. I refused to fight him. He insisted. His words made me remember as we fought. I think I might have met him in another life—or someone like him.” He sighed. “Needless to say, he cut me apart with ease, healed me afterward, and his words of advice stuck with me.”

  A long moment of silence followed. Sol almost felt like telling her about his beast bond. It felt cathartic to talk about his journey with someone. Maybe another time.

  Her posture suggested deep thought. Sol finished his tea and withdrew the needle from his sternum, placing both on the chair's armrest. This might be a great place to conclude their ‘argument’ and let her take control of the mansion. Even if he had been in peak condition, he would not have tried to take it from someone who helped him and gave him good advice—both before he wanted to hear it and after.

  “Now to my question,” Sol said with a friendly smile as he stood to leave. “What is your name?”

  The masked girl straightened up and sank back into her chair, presenting an authoritative figure despite her small stature and Sol towering over her.

  “We are friends. Friends should remember each other’s names,” she chided him with a coy, facetious voice. “Now leave, friend. I am going to take a bath and want some privacy. The protected hour and lunch will be soon.”

  Sol raised an eyebrow as he observed her. Her leg moved slightly up and down on top of the other, her gloved fingers tapping the armrests rhythmically.

  If she was staring at him in mock anger or with a devious, daring grin, he could not tell. But he knew that he would very much have liked to know.

  Then he nodded and turned to leave.