Chapter 21: Sometime, Dirt is sufficient

  Ivaline stood.

  She moved slowly at first—without guidance, without instruction.

  Her gaze fixed on something unseen, and then her movements sharpened. Not hurried. Certain.

  Chronicle observed.

  Her posture adjusted.

  Her stance refined itself, fraction by fraction, as if following an invisible line.

  “I saw a vision,” she said quietly.

  “A silhouette. Showing me how to move. When to stop.”

  She described it simply, trusting he would listen without interruption.

  “It’s…” she paused, searching for the word, “…clearer than when you taught me.”

  “Good,” Chronicle replied.

  He accepted the truth easily. What he had given her was structure, not mastery. He was a historian, not a swordsman.

  “…You’re not angry?”

  “I accept what is true.”

  “Hm.”

  She continued training in silence until her breathing steadied.

  Then—

  “Found you… bitch.”

  “… / …”

  A branch snapped.

  Not loud.

  Not careless.

  They turned together.

  The man stepped into view.

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  Same face.

  Same eyes.

  Different hands.

  He carried a stick longer than hers. Thicker. Cleanly cut—made, not scavenged.

  He smiled.

  “Bitch. You beat me last time because you had a weapon.”

  He lifted the stick.

  “Now I do too.”

  Ivaline said nothing.

  Her feet shifted—just enough.

  Her grip changed.

  “Oh?” the man laughed. “You won’t run like last night?”

  He stepped closer.

  “Good. After I take the meat, I’ll ravage you too.”

  Chronicle felt it immediately.

  Not fear.

  Risk.

  The man had reach.

  Mass.

  Endurance.

  Understanding did not cancel physics.

  The skill was lesser.

  “…”

  Ivaline spoke first.

  “I’ve got this. Watch me.”

  Chronicle did not answer.

  Silence was consent.

  The man lunged.

  A wide swing—brutal, confident.

  Ivaline stepped inside the arc, not away from it.

  Her stick snapped upward—not to meet the blow, but to claim the space his arms needed to pass through.

  She retreated.

  Not panicked.

  Measured.

  Chronicle tracked every angle.

  She dodged when necessary.

  Struck when possible.

  Her blows were not strong.

  But they were precise.

  A knuckle.

  A wrist.

  A knee.

  The man grunted.

  Then laughed.

  “Is that all?”

  He pressed harder. Faster.

  The margin narrowed.

  One misstep—

  Her heel slipped.

  “Ah—!?”

  The man’s eyes lit up.

  “Got you!”

  The stick came down.

  Heavy. Certain.

  Too fast to outrun.

  But Chronicle’s voice—from memory, not sound—cut through her thoughts.

  Take their eyes. Dirt is sufficient.

  Ivaline did not think.

  She acted.

  Her free hand scooped.

  Threw.

  Dust. Gravel. Anything.

  The man roared.

  Blinded.

  His strike missed by inches.

  And Ivaline did not hesitate.

  She stepped in.

  Not wildly.

  Not screaming.

  She struck where he could not defend.

  Once. Middle of the chest, stabbed

  Twice. Swung up to hit his jaw.

  Then she retreated.

  The man staggered back, clutching his face, swearing—blind, furious.

  He did not pursue.

  He could not.

  When he finally stumbled away, hurling promises he could no longer see how to keep, the forest swallowed him.

  Ivaline did not chase.

  She did not gloat.

  She lowered her stick only when her hands stopped shaking.

  Chronicle spoke at last.

  “You chose distance correctly.”

  She exhaled.

  “…I didn’t run.”

  “No,” he said. “You stood.”

  And this time—

  She believed it.

  They returned to their abandoned house while make sure that no one followed.

  Ivaline hugged her wooden stick, wrapped herself in a cloth. lie down at the corner.

  "Chronicle."

  "Yes."

  "Thank you"

  "... You're welcome."

  There's many thing she want to thanked him for, but for now, she thanked him for believed in her

  Chronicle said nothing, just approved.