CLEAVER OF SIN - Chapter 271

Chapter 271: Pristine
[The previous chapter has been corrected]

Time passed, and the once quiet mountain peak was now filled with the low groans and ragged breathing of exhausted students. The wind did not stop blowing, but now it carried with it the scent of blood and sweat, the raw aftermath of a brutal lesson. The rocky ground that had once been clean and untouched was now marked by shallow cuts, footprints, and streaks of red.

At this moment, every student who had moved to attack Instructor Jane lay sprawled across the mountain floor, injuries marring their bodies, their limbs trembling or limp. Some clutched their arms, others their ribs or legs, each of them incapacitated in one way or another.

But despite the blood, despite the pain, not one of them bore a life-threatening wound. They were injured, yes, but bleeding to death? No. Jane had made sure of that. Every strike she delivered was controlled, precise, calculated to push them to the brink without crossing it.

Jane’s black eyes swept across the bodies with a calm assessing calm. She had evaluated each of them thoroughly, every flaw in their stance, every hesitation in their intent, every weakness in their guard. She had seen it all and carved it into their flesh with merciless clarity. But now, her gaze shifted away from those scattered on the ground and instead turned toward the ones who had not moved at all since the beginning of the spar.

Standing apart were the remaining top-ranked students. Asher, silent and unreadable. Vaelra and Vaelric, the royal twins whose presence alone carried pressure. William, whose expression remained composed despite the chaos around him. Caelan, calm but gripping his scythe with growing intent. Beryon, whose golden eyes flickered with restrained fire. Darissa, her posture steady, her sword loosely in hand, green eyes focused like a predator in wait. And Ryaen, fists clenched around the hilt of her weapon, her breathing deep and controlled despite her lack of formal weapon training.

As for Oliver and Michael, they had already tested their strength and fallen like the rest.

“Let me go first,” Ryaen said calmly, stepping forward.

There was no arrogance in her voice, no pride, only a simple statement of intent. Ryaen was a specialist in hand-to-hand combat, her body conditioned through fists and feet, not blades and steel. She knew better than anyone that she could not match the rest of the top ten when it came to weapon mastery. She was not delusional, nor was she ashamed. Even if she could not wield a sword like them, she would step forward all the same. That was her resolve.

She began to move toward Jane, each step steady and measured at first. Then her pace shifted, soft steps turning into a light jog, and in an instant, her body launched forward into a full-speed sprint. The sword in her hand tore through the air, its edge aimed straight for Jane’s ribs in a weirdly clean, direct line.

Jane did not dodge. She simply raised her sabre, steel meeting steel with effortless ease, her expression unchanged. Ryaen pivoted instantly into her next motion, attempting to replicate the movements she had observed from earlier battles. She had no real foundation in swordsmanship, only instinct and physical conditioning, and while her movements were clumsy, they were filled with raw, explosive force.

Jane parried again, light as wind. She didn’t strike back, not yet. She allowed Ryaen to continue, watching, gauging, understanding. But after only a few more exchanges, it became clear. Ryaen was pushing forward purely through speed and raw power, lacking the refined control that weapon combat demanded.

So Jane moved.

With one clean swing, the sword in Ryaen’s hand was sent flying through the air, spinning several times before clattering down the mountain slope. Ryaen’s lips twitched in a helpless grimace, a silent acknowledgment of how poorly she handled a weapon. In that same moment, Jane’s blade blurred, and in a flash of silver, dozens of shallow cuts bloomed across Ryaen’s skin. Red droplets scattered into the air like rain.

Ryaen’s body froze, strength leaving her limbs in an instant as she collapsed face-first onto the ground.

Jane did not spare her a second glance. She did not speak. She simply continued walking forward, the mountain wind trailing behind her like a cloak as if she were a sword god descending from the heavens.

The pressure around her shifted.

The air behind her ruptured with a sharp crack as she moved, not at the controlled speed she had used earlier, but faster, sharper. Her figure blurred, appearing instantly behind Vaelra and Vaelric, the royal twins who stood side by side like mirrored statues of grace and lethality.

Like a lightning bolt descending from the clouds, her sabre came down in a vertical arc, fast and merciless.

The twins reacted in perfect synchrony. Vaelric’s scythe shot upward to intercept the descending sabre, metal shrieking against metal in a clash that sent a shockwave rippling through the ground. The moment their weapons met, the earth beneath their feet cracked, splintering in a spiderweb pattern as the force of their collision rolled outward like a quake. Vaelric rarely used his weapon, often relying on his royal bloodline’s ability, but that did not mean his weapon training was lacking. His scythe arm held firm, though his boots dug into the ground from the impact.

At that exact moment, a blur of movement appeared behind Jane. Quick, deadly, silent.

Vaelra.

Her figure cut through space like a shade, brown cloak rippling as she moved with assassin-like fluidity. Her dagger came down in a lethal arc toward Jane’s shoulder, aiming not to kill but to cripple, targeting the tendons that controlled arm movement, trying to disrupt Jane’s precision and flow.

But Jane had already seen her. She pulled her sabre back with a fluid motion, breaking contact with Vaelric’s scythe just enough to twist her body. Her blade arced upward, its flat side catching the edge of Vaelra’s dagger in a flawless deflection that sent sparks scattering through the air.

And then, it was no longer just the twins.

Multiple figures burst forward in a blur, each moving with the full weight of their reputation as the academy’s elites.

Darissa’s sword flashed from the left, cutting through the air in a sharp, direct strike. William’s claymore came down in a brutal downward swing aimed at Jane’s back, heavy and unrelenting. Caelan’s scythe swept in from the front like a guillotine seeking to cleave through everything in its path.

The pressure converging on Jane in that instant was immense, enough to suffocate any ordinary combatant. But her face remained calm. Her black eyes did not waver.

Seeing the convergence of strikes, her posture shifted. Her center of gravity lowered by a fraction, her shoulders relaxed, and like a dancer meeting the crescendo of a symphony, she moved.

Her sabre became a streak of silver.

In one breath, one fluid motion, she deflected every attack that came at her. Metal clashed in rapid succession, each collision ringing through the mountain like a storm of bells. Sparks burst in every direction, and the sheer force of the deflection sent a powerful shockwave bursting outward.

The air itself exploded like an overfilled balloon, the pressure slamming into the students and forcing them backward. Their feet skidded across the stone, carving trenches as they struggled to brace themselves.

Jane stood pristine.

Her hair remained unruffled. Her breathing was steady. Her stance, unshaken.

Her eyes then shifted toward Darissa, locking onto her like a predator recognizing worthy prey. Without a word, she moved, her blade already singing through the air, aimed at Darissa’s arm with chilling accuracy.