"Stay out of this!" Cassian shouted, his voice firm as he faced off against Amina's clone. The group had stumbled upon another cluster of doppelgangers, and this time, Cassian insisted on handling one alone. He wanted to test himself—to measure how far he'd come against a formidable opponent. And Amina's clone was the perfect challenge.
Unlike the real Amina, who wasn't the strongest in raw power, her fighting technique was impeccable—fluid, precise, and deadly. The clone had taken that technique and refined it to an almost unnatural perfection. Each swing of her sword left a shimmering blue arc in its wake, the air around it carrying a piercing chill that Cassian could feel with every clash.
Cassian's own blade moved in counterpoint, releasing sharp green arcs of energy as he attacked. His strikes were powerful, forcing the clone back with each collision. Her domain absorbed the brunt of the attacks, but Cassian noticed something—her face twisted in subtle pain with every blow.
The cold radiating from her strikes barely fazed him; it nipped at his skin but caused no real harm. In contrast, his green arcs seemed to take a toll on her. Cassian grinned slightly, his confidence growing.
Cassian could've finished her off easily if he used his domain, but he wasn't here to end it quickly. He wanted to test himself, to see how far his sword skills alone could take him. That's why he was holding back—and why he insisted on fighting her one-on-one.
"Die, you pathetic human," the clone hissed, her voice dripping with venom as she shoved him back. Her eyes burned with frustration. "We'll take your place soon enough."
Cassian steadied himself, brushing off her words with a smirk. "Keep dreaming," he shot back, stepping in and swinging his sword with enough force to make her stumble. She barely managed to block, her feet sliding back a few steps.
As she scrambled to regain her footing, Cassian smirked, his voice dripping with mockery. "That is, if you're even capable of having them."
The clone shoved Cassian back and immediately followed up with a flurry of attacks, spitting venom with every word. "I'm way more capable than you, you piece of garbage! I'm gonna tear you into tiny scraps and feed you to dogs, truning you into dogshit, you shit, you monkey-faced idiot!"
Cassian chuckled, his grin never fading as he parried her strikes. He focused on her movements, trying to predict her next attack by feeling the subtle shifts in the air around her.
"I had no idea you had such... colorful language, Amina," Larick called out with a smirk, clearly amused by the clone's creative insults.
Cassian's sword met the clone's blade again, the clash sending a sharp ring through the air. He felt the resistance, the force behind her strike, and how her movements seemed mechanical yet deliberate. He had gotten better at reading her flow, noticing the subtle shifts in the wind as she prepared to strike. The faint changes told him where her blade would go next, and he adjusted his stance accordingly.
But something still eluded him.
"Flow like the wind." It was simple, poetic even, but maddeningly vague. Cassian had tried to grasp its meaning, but no matter how much he practiced, it felt just out of reach.
What did it mean to flow like the wind? The wind was unpredictable, free, yet it had a rhythm. It could be gentle, barely a whisper against the skin, or it could roar with the fury of a storm. Was it about adapting? About moving without resistance? Or was it something deeper, something more intrinsic to the nature of the wind itself?
He blocked another strike, feeling the clone's frustration growing as she cursed him again. Cassian's mind, however, was elsewhere.
The wind didn't fight; it didn't resist. It moved around obstacles, slipped through cracks, and found its way no matter the barrier.
But even with these thoughts, it still wasn't enough for Cassian to grasp what it truly meant to flow like the wind. He stood motionless for a moment, letting the clone's curses and the clash of steel around him fade into the background. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, the sharp tang of blood and sweat mingling with the earthy scent of the forest.
As his heartbeat slowed, a steady rhythm beneath the chaos, his mind began to wander. He sought clarity, searching for a deeper understanding, something beyond the surface of words and motions. What did it truly mean to flow like the wind? How could he embody it, not just in his technique, but in his very being?
The image came to him unbidden: a leaf falling from a tree.
He could see it clearly in his mind's eye, the way the leaf detached itself, its edges curling slightly as it floated downward. The wind caught it, lifting it in a soft, spiraling dance. Sometimes it surged forward, carried by a sudden gust, and other times it swayed gently, following the faintest breeze.
The wind didn't control the leaf, but it guided it, shaping its path in ways that were both deliberate and free. It curved and twisted, never rigid, and yet it always found its way. The leaf never fought back, never resisted—it trusted the wind completely, surrendering itself to its flow.
Cassian opened his eyes, gripping his sword tighter. That was the essence of the wind: adaptability and freedom. It wasn't about overpowering or controlling; it was about harmony. To flow like the wind was to let go of fear, of hesitation, of the need to dominate. It was about becoming part of something larger, something natural.
He imagined himself as the leaf, carried by the currents of the fight. His movements would have to be light yet deliberate, responding to the shifts and surges of his opponent. Like the leaf, he wouldn't fight against the wind; he would move with it, allowing it to guide him.
Cassian smiled faintly as he raised his sword again. He thought about how the leaf eventually landed, not in a chaotic tumble but in a soft, graceful descent. And sometimes, the wind would lift it again, carrying it upward, giving it another chance to dance.