The training sword made of birch wood had knocked Anna’s helmet off countless times, and she had lost to Yegor’s blade just as many times.
After Yegor led her out of the castle, she arrived at this military camp and endured his relentless drills every day.
She didn’t understand why the Captain of the Guard of the Grand Duke had to interfere with their secret, but he was undeniably too strong.
Just as he himself had said, as long as he stood guard at the wedding gate, Anna would never have the chance to step through it.
There was still a month until the wedding.
Her time was running out.
“Want to go again?”
Anna said nothing, only silently put her helmet back on.
Click—the visor fell down, shattering her vision into fragmented pieces, and her hearing dulled greatly under the weight of the thick ear guards.
Yegor charged forward with heavy, deliberate footsteps, not even trying to hide them, yet Anna was still a beat too slow.
By the time she swung her sword to block, Yegor’s blade was already pressed against her neck.
If this were a real fight, her head would have rolled long ago.
“You rely too much on your five senses. What, can’t you fight if you lose your sight and hearing? Stop making excuses and settle yourself!”
Yegor’s reprimand sounded muffled. Anna, feeling a bit frustrated, took off her helmet. The cold wind that met her face was a relief, quickly cooling the heat flushing her forehead.
She glanced at the stellated fortress atop the distant mountain peak. Ophelia… what kind of suffering was she enduring?
Not enough. Far from enough. She had to do more… had to become stronger.
Thinking of Ophelia reignited the fire in Anna’s discouraged and restless heart.
She had to live up to Ophelia’s expectations.
She had promised she would never abandon Ophelia alone.
“Yegor, teach me.”
Anna sincerely bowed to the battle-hardened swordsman before her.
Yegor did not respond with words but used his sword to lift her helmet and handed it to her.
“If you want to be taught, then show me the proper attitude! Call me Instructor and be obedient!”
Yegor’s earlier restraint vanished; now he was utterly crude.
He unleashed every vulgar word he had ever known to berate Anna, as if he truly were her Instructor and she his most hopeless recruit.
“Yes, Instructor.”
Anna straightened her back. Though harsh, those crisp commands stirred the long-forgotten memories within her.
It seemed that when she had first been summoned as a hero, she had been like this—yearning for victory, craving glory.
She was still like that now, still longing for victory, only this time it wasn’t to defeat the Demon Lord but to bring her beloved girl home.
“Too quiet! I can’t hear you! You want to master the sword with that little voice?”
“Yes, Instructor!”
Anna’s throat strained, her clear youthful voice almost overpowering the wind.
“That’s more like it. From now on, you’re not a hero, nor anyone’s sword-maiden. You’re a recruit, a clueless recruit. Got it?”
“Yes, Instructor!”
Anna donned her helmet and lowered the visor once more, raising her sword again.
“Recruit, listen carefully.”
Yegor’s sword swung empty strokes, trying to unsettle Anna’s judgment. “If your eyes go blind, your ears go deaf, do you still have the courage to fight on?”
“Of course, Instructor.”
Anna summoned all her focus and barely dodged Yegor’s feint.
But the next strike caught her shoulder as she returned her sword, the attack too fast to follow with her eyes.
Just as the blade twisted mid-air aiming for her neck, Anna’s internal alarm rang loud.
Instinctively, she twisted her body aside. By the time she reacted, the sword had already been swung.
Without thinking, Anna’s counterstrike nearly sliced Yegor’s side.
Yegor leapt back and quickly adjusted the distance between them.
He was surprised by Anna’s instinctive counterattack, born from countless life-or-death battles against the Demon Lord’s army.
Those experiences didn’t grant her better tactical decisions but helped her deliver the most fitting counterstrike in critical moments.
Anna began to understand.
Against weaker enemies, she could rely on her hero’s talents and sharp reflexes to win; but against opponents of equal or greater skill, technique alone was often useless. The true deciding factor was instinctive reaction.
Not relying on sight or hearing, nor on flashy swordplay, but surrendering control to the subconscious—the battle-hardened self within the soul would make the most reasonable choice!
If skill and talent could not win the day, then she would leave it to instinct.
Bang. A muffled thud, splinters flying.
Anna treated her sword as an extension of her arm. She closed her eyes and focused on the force flowing through her blade.
Next strike… from the left!
A precise interception.
If she attacked… a feint downward!
Then a horizontal block.
The follow-up would be a straight stab, but she couldn’t sidestep; she had to block with her sword upright!
Clang. Anna’s blade shattered Yegor’s attempt to twist his strike toward her neck.
This exchange lasted longer than all their previous bouts combined.
“Counterattack! Recruit, are you scared out of your wits? Strike back! Imagine standing before a ruthless Officer of the Demon Lord’s army! If you’re a hero, cut him down!”
That didn’t need saying!
Forcefully deflecting Yegor’s blows, Anna pictured the hideous face of a monster before her as she thrust forward.
Her strikes were precise and focused—eye, neck, heart—like a venomous snake ready to strike a fatal blow at any moment.
Not enough, still not enough.
The monster’s face shifted to Gekhlros’s, and Anna’s sword surged with anger and the thrill of revenge.
Her attacks grew fiercer, but that gave Yegor more openings.
He seized the opportunity to counterattack, pulling himself out of Anna’s rhythm.
Her change of tactics was swift.
She began to forsake defense, pouring every sword stroke into offense.
If her hand was cut, she would make sure to strike the opponent’s neck.
If her chest was pierced, she would take the opponent’s head in exchange for the wound.
She fought with wounds, trading injury for life.
A madwoman. A complete madwoman.
Anna’s frenzy stunned Yegor. This new generation hero, whom he had underestimated, was now unleashing a madness far beyond hatred.
Her swordplay lost form but sought freedom, wildly dancing as if breaking shackles.
Unknowingly, Yegor had stepped into her tempo, barely able to keep up, sinking into the whirl of blades.
Like a gale, like a torrential rain, like thunder, like lightning, like snowflakes, like flames.
Anastasia’s Sword Dance was reborn after three years.
When freed from the emotional vortex, Anna stared blankly at her sword.
How could she have forgotten? The very instinct that had saved her countless times on the battlefield.
Under the Demon Lord’s castle, not only the Holy Sword was broken; her confidence was shattered as well.
She no longer dared to trust herself, nor to entrust her life and things dearer than life to instinct.
She began to rely on tangible things—splendid sword techniques, sharp senses, Ophelia. But the one who could piece together the broken puppet named “Anastasia” had always been only herself.
Some truths Anna rediscovered through the sword.