[ Attempt #1,000,253 ]

  It's hard to say how much of my mind is left at this point.

  A million attempts? I laugh. It feels like some twisted prank keeping me here on a loop, alone with him, my would-be grim reaper. Each failure, each time I'm thrown back, I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself. And Ashkart? He's as tireless and flawless as ever, standing there with his unsheathed blade, unbreakable and ever-watchful, the ideal sentinel.

  I thought — no, knew — I was clever enough to get past him. Thought my magic was powerful enough to simply overwhelm him, to whittle him down to nothing if I chipped away long enough. But here we are. My mind is numb, my hands are trembling, and Ashkart's HP bar still stubbornly refuses to dip below fifty percent.

  I don't want to check the stats again. I don't need to.

  I've memorized his health bar. Every millimeter it drops and every millimeter it refuses to yield.

  This time I don't bother with a full barrage of spells. I'm tired of casting them like a machine, tired of watching them dissolve on contact with his blade or armor like they were never cast at all. It's like my own power has become my enemy. Each spell that doesn't work feels like a reminder: you can't win this way. You need to face him.

  I try to shake off the absurdity. I've been training as a mage, I think. Magic is where I've honed every ounce of my power. It should be enough. It's supposed to be enough!

  But it isn't.

  I look at Ashkart, feeling more raw than ever yet somehow eerily calm. I'm used to that face now — the blankness in his gaze, like he's the very embodiment of fate itself. Calm. Inevitable. Implacable.

  [ Attempt #1,000,310 ]

  It's a blur.

  Dodging his strikes has practically become muscle memory. Every lunge, every cut of his blade — I know the angles, the trajectory of each movement, even the exact pause he makes between them.

  It doesn't matter. He's still too fast, too strong. I can keep up with his movements but the moment I stop to cast, he's there. Any magic I cast feels like an insult, some flimsy trick he doesn't even acknowledge as real.

  It's like I'm throwing air at him.

  I'm beyond frustrated. I'm furious. But beneath that anger, there's a quiet, resigned part of me. I have to face facts: I've exhausted every spell I know. No amount of chanting, no tier of magic will reach him. He's immune to my highest level, like it's nothing more than a nuisance.

  I grit my teeth. There's a slight tremble in my fingers as I release the staff.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It drops to the ground, echoing in the stillness of the corridor. Simple sound. And yet it marks a decision I never thought I'd make.

  If magic won't work, maybe… maybe it's time to rely on something else.

  I exhale sharply, fingers twitching. Swordsmanship isn't my strength. It's just something I picked up, an afterthought, an insurance policy for close quarters when I didn't have a choice. But against Ashkart? It's absurd. Laughable. I'm basically competing in his own specialized field.

  Yet here I am.

  My fingers brush the hilt at my side. It's still foreign, that weight. I'm a mage — was a mage. Or am I? The thought feels slippery, intangible, like I'm grasping at the memory of who I once was, someone lost in these endless attempts.

  "Okay," I mutter to myself, "let's give him something different."

  I draw the blade slowly. The steel catches the dim corridor light as it clears the sheath. I lift it with both hands — awkward, heavy, but grounding in its own way. This time, no spells, no complex movements. Just this. Just me closing the distance myself.

  I look at him — that vacant gaze that feels timeless — and feel something different rising in my chest. Not frustration. Not resignation.

  You've tanked a million of my spells, I think, tightening my grip on the hilt. Now face me.

  Ashkart's sword lifts. Slow. Graceful. No hesitation. Just readiness, like he's been waiting for this moment too.

  I don't give him the first swing.

  [ Attempt #1,000,311 ]

  I lunge, bringing the blade down with everything I have, every muscle straining as I pour myself into the strike.

  He meets me head-on. His sword intercepts mine in a sharp, ringing clash that reverberates up my arm and jars my teeth. I hold firm. He presses down, the weight of his strength nearly overwhelming me — his sword like an immovable wall, a barrier I've spent a million attempts trying to break and am now walking straight into.

  For a moment the ground beneath us seems to throb under the intensity of it. I push harder, clenching my jaw, keeping pace with him little by little.

  His blade draws nearer, its heaviness pulling me down.

  And then — I sense something. A delicate shift, a slight change in the tension. He's giving, just a little. Just enough for me to recover.

  This is a test, I realize. He's assessing me. Gauging my perseverance.

  Fine. I'll show him.

  I twist my blade and push through the opening. Our swords slide past each other in a sharp arc and for the first time — for the first time in a million attempts — his eyes narrow. Just a fraction. Just a glimmer of recognition.

  I got your attention, didn't I?

  [ Attempt #1,000,352 ]

  I'm not sure how long this goes on.

  Each encounter, each strike, feels like a heartbeat — a continuous, endless pulse as we trade blows. At first my movements are awkward, the sword heavy in my hands. But with every attempt my skills sharpen, every misstep shaping me into something slightly less terrible than before.

  Gradually, I start to adapt. I start to understand. I start to predict his movements, catching the subtle shifts in his position before they become actions.

  The sword feels different now. Lighter. Almost like an extension of myself. With every swing, every block, I can feel the weight of his expertise pressing down on me — insisting I dig deeper, demanding more than I thought I could give.

  Then, somewhere in that rhythm, something shifts.

  The distance between us feels less solid. Each clash chips away at the gap, dismantling the barrier that's kept me from truly confronting him. I can sense it in his eyes — that subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of recognition growing with every exchange.

  But it's still not enough. Not yet. The immense weight of his strength, the staggering force of it — it's only just barely begun to falter.

  My thoughts race. Every instinct pushing me to go further, to push past this final obstacle.

  I somehow understand that this is it.

  This is the path ahead.