"Skill description: [Violet Violent Swordsmanship]."
There was a flicker of hesitation, as if even the system needed a moment to register the request. Then the blue holographic screen shimmered back to life.
——[Violet Violent Swordsmanship]——
Creator: Cassius Lancaster
Rank: ★★★ (In Development)
Affinity: Lightning | Nothing
A self-originated combat art created by Cassius Lancaster, born from instinct, rage, and necessity. Violet Violent Swordsmanship embodies unrestrained aggression channeled through refined motion. It marries brute force with calculated finesse—where speed meets savagery, and destruction is wrapped in elegance.
This swordsmanship adapts to its wielder's growth. It does not follow established forms, but rather evolves with each battle fought, injury sustained, and victory earned. With time, its techniques become more unpredictable, its strikes more devastating, and its form more unorthodox.
The signature trait of this art is its "Violet Pulse"—a surge of unstable lightning mana that disrupts the opponent's rhythm while empowering the wielder's next movement.
Current Mastery Level: 12%
Notes: This is a living skill. It remembers. It learns.
Just what the hell was this cuck trying to accomplish?
First, that cursed ocular nonsense—Eye of the End.
Now, some badass, self-created sword technique with a name cool enough to make even the game's final boss blush.
It was a growth-type skill.
Meaning it could evolve. Mutate. Become stronger.
If pushed hard enough, it might one day reach— ★★★★★★ or maybe even beyond depending on my talent and hardwork.
I didn't know why I had this power. Or how I got it.
But thinking about that now wouldn't get me anywhere.
So I shelved those questions—the who, the why, the what-for.
Instead, I zeroed in on the how far.
Motivation surged through my veins like wildfire. My fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of my sword, and I marched toward the training dummies.
This time, they stood still.
Unlike that first session—where Isolde had puppeteered them like psychotic marionettes and made sure Mia and I got beaten six ways to Sunday—these dummies were mercifully silent.
The atmosphere shifted.
I could feel it now—mana. Not just within me, but everywhere.
Like the very air, the room, the sword... was alive.
I called out to it, not with words, but with intent.
And the world answered.
Electricity bloomed to life in jagged streaks across my blade, crackling with a beautiful, violent light.
Amethyst lightning—darker than usual, wilder. It wrapped around the weapon like serpents, then curled around my arms, coiling down my back.
No—I bared my teeth like a beast.
I didn't move like a human anymore. Not like a conventional trained swordsman. No calculated footwork, no pristine posture.
A predator set loose.
Each strike flowed from pure instinct—raw, unfiltered rage, channeled from those strange visions that haunted me every night.
Those dreams where I wanted to tear through existence itself.
Those dreams that bloomed from the Eye of the End.
The first swing cleaved through a dummy, lightning trailing behind the blade like a tail of destruction. The remnants of the strike hung in the air—a violet afterimage, humming with residual mana.
The dummy instantly reconstructed itself. Just like in a game.
That meant I didn't need to hold back.
I wouldn't hold back.
"[Thousand Slash]!" I roared.
Inhuman speed. Countless blows. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands—each one leaving behind a glowing violet scar on the dummy's body.
It was a whirlwind of death. A painting of destruction in motion.
I barely gave it a moment to reset before following up.
The strikes converged into a single point, and from that impact, a ghostly bud formed—a flower made of mana and lightning. It pulsed once... twice... and bloomed.
The explosion that followed wasn't just raw power. It was beauty. The petals—sharp as blades—shot out, piercing through surrounding dummies with eerie precision, embedding themselves deep enough to leave gaping holes.
Some dummies outright exploded, splinters and hay flying through the air, only to stitch themselves back together a moment later.
Again and again, I attacked. My movements blurring into a storm of violet light and feral instinct.
No pattern. No mercy.
Just rage given form.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. I couldn't tell anymore. My arms ached. My body screamed. My vision swam in and out of clarity, and each breath came with a sharpness that tasted like blood and ozone.
The dummies were still standing—rebuilt, whole—but I didn't need to see their shredded remnants to know I'd done something real.
The sword dropped to my side with a satisfying clink, and I wiped sweat from my brow.
"Enough for today," I muttered.
The hunger hit me next. A deep, gnawing emptiness that clawed at my stomach.
I staggered back toward the mansion, ignoring the soreness in my legs. The training arena's doors shut behind me with a heavy thud.
Thankfully, the dining hall was empty. No Mia. No Isolde. No Lucian.
Just peace and the heavenly smell of food.
I slumped into a chair and waved a servant over. "Meat. Rice. Eggs. Soup. Bread. I don't care. Just bring everything."
Within minutes, the table was filled. I didn't even bother with manners—I devoured the food like a starved animal, my mind still echoing with the rhythm of my strikes.
When I finally finished, I pushed my empty plate away, let out a long sigh, and stood.
The walk to my room was a haze.
And the moment I collapsed onto my bed?
Darkness claimed me instantly.
There were no nightmares.
Only silence. And the distant memory of a violet flower blooming in the background.