The air was silent, cold and thickened with darkness. Shallow water rippled beneath Pasta's feet as his breath formed a mist in the void.
"Again."
Hack emerged before him, flanked by mercenaries who approached Pasta, slowly.
Pasta spun his blade, then surged forward, weaving through the flurry of strikes. Each blade came within inches of cutting him down. He was faster than before. But it wasn't enough.
A swift kick from Hack caught him off guard. The dark world blurred as he hurtled backwards, crashing against the ground.
Pasta groaned, clutching his ribs. "Again!"
He pushed himself forward once more, slipping between the mercenaries, more precise and faster than before. Their movements no longer caught him off guard. This time, he would reach Hack.
Their eyes met.
Then—darkness.
His vision swayed as he watched his own body collapse, head severed cleanly from his shoulders.
Hack held the dissipating skull in one hand, with no expression on his face before slashing it in two.
Pasta jolted awake, breath ragged.
Golden leaves drifted around him, withering as autumn kissed the land. The distant rush of a waterfall softened the edges of the forest's stillness, creating a domain of tranquillity. Yet, sweat clung to his skin. His heart pounded, refusing to calm.
"It happened again. I lost," he whispered, slamming his fist against the rock he sat on. "Damn it! What am I doing wrong? I'm faster now—I know it! So why? Damn it all!"
He exhaled sharply, crossing his legs once more. His fingers curled into his palms as he took a slow, measured breath.
"If I just keep trying… maybe, just maybe…"
He closed his eyes, reaching for the energy around him.
Then, he sighed.
"What am I thinking? I can't win like this."
He collapsed onto his back, staring up at the golden canopy above. "What would Mr. Swordsman do?"
He frowned.
"Knowing him, he'd press forward, with no hesitation. Just like at Pyrovile… it was as if he predicted their movements. No—his speed played a role too…"
Frustration boiled over. He gripped his head and let out a guttural scream.
"Arrgh! This is so frustrating!"
His instincts flared, and he blinked only to find Mr Swordsman staring down at him.
Pasta shot to his feet, sword drawn. "Come on, man! You can't just sneak up on people like that!"
Mr. Swordsman said nothing, merely unsheathing his blade.
"That exercise you've been practising… it's not common," he finally spoke. "Using the memories of your foes, mastering their movements while sharpening your senses—it makes for a better strategist. But your body hasn't mastered those skills and tactics you practised there yet."
Pasta ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not stupid. I know that, but…"
His grip tightened around his sword. "I have this problem, Mr. Swordsman. There's a man I want to defeat, but every time I get close, he cuts me down in a blink. I've tried everything, but I can't seem to beat him."
Mr. Swordsman observed him for a moment.
His lifeforce had grown brighter over the past few weeks. But he still had much to learn.
"You wonder how I was able to read those mercenaries at the gate," Mr. Swordsman said, stepping closer. "I didn't predict them."
"The senses of a warrior should never be underestimated. A man filled with bloodlust will always lose in a game of wits and reason because he's predictable. When in battle, you must control your emotions. Either you use them to mislead your opponent… or they use them to predict your every move."
Pasta folded his arms. "So, you're saying predicting attacks through emotions is more important than speed?"
"Speed matters," Mr. Swordsman said with a smirk. "But even then, a man can still read your movements. I know someone far faster than me, yet she can't land a single hit because she's predictable."
Pasta raised a brow, wondering, who in the world would be friends with such a swordsman. Anyways I rather focus on my training than break Mr Swordsman's heart with my comment.
Mr Swordsman stepped toward the centre of the clearing, rolling his shoulders.
"You must understand your enemy, Pasta. Learn where they're coming from. Strength means nothing if your mind is weak."
He raised his blade.
"Now, let's put your speed to the test with a little exercise, shall we?"
#
"What the?!"
Pasta's eyes widened, sweat trickling down his cheek. He snapped his head toward Mr. Swordsman. "You're joking, right? Come on, it's not like you actually expect me to do that."
Mr. Swordsman's face remained expressionless.
Pasta let out a nervous chuckle. "You are dead serious about this, come on!"
"This exercise will train not only your speed but also your wits," Mr Swordsman murmured, his boots pressing into the fallen leaves. "You'll cut down every falling leaf before they hit the ground. Half a thousand of them. A simple exercise, if I must say."
"Half a thousand? You mean… five hundred? We're actually counting that?"
Mr. Swordsman said nothing.
Pasta groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Come on, I haven't even learned Parallel Space yet. Let's do that instead."
"Do you want to defeat that man or not?" Mr. Swordsman's voice was calm but firm. "If so, you should have no complaints."
"Yeah, but come on—it sounds impossible. Maybe a little demonstration would help?"
Without a word, Mr. Swordsman planted his foot on the ground, commanding the wind around him.
A sharp gust spiralled upward, sending dozens of leaves into the sky. Pasta watched in awe as the swordsman slowly raised his blade.
Then, he vanished.
A streak of silver crossed the air.
By the time Pasta could register what had happened, Mr. Swordsman was kneeling, his blade clicking neatly back into its sheath. The leaves around him no longer whole fluttered down in shredded fragments.
He turned to Pasta. "I only need you to cut them in half not shredded. Half a thousand of them."
Pasta exhaled sharply. "Yeah, but I'm not exactly great at commanding the wind like you. You know I'm just a fire guy."
He folded his arms. "You could at least handle the wind part for me."
Mr. Swordsman shook his head. "Commanding fire is easy for you. You have a strong spirit—high in vigour. That makes you attuned to fire and earth. But wind and water?" He turned slightly, meeting Pasta's gaze. "They require gentleness. If you force them, you'll launch yourself into the sky instead of the leaves or you'll drown instead of carving out a pocket of air to breathe underwater."
Pasta clicked his tongue. "Great. So, be gentle with the wind. Got it. Easy."
Mr. Swordsman turned away. "I'll go check on Emilia. Busy yourself with getting used to it." He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Pasta…"
Pasta tensed.
"Don't get killed."
A single leaf drifted down.
Pasta swung.
The leaf landed peacefully on his forehead.
"…I hate this already."
#
"HELP ME, MOTHER!!!"
Screams tore through the forest as flocks of birds erupted from the trees in pure terror.
High above, Pasta flailed wildly, snot trailing from his nose, his eyes glistening with regrets of being born. He reached out as if hoping the heavens would pity him and grant the gift of flight.
Well.... The heavens did not.
With a final, undignified wail, he crashed back down, branches snapping against his hardened coating. Leaves cushioned his fall—or at least they tried. The only thing he could see were the bright stars swirling mockingly above his head.
For a moment, he lay there in silence.
Then, he shot back to his feet, throwing a fist in the air.
"Come on, Pasta. You're the mighty one! No mere commandment should trouble you so! You got this! You got this! YOU GOT THIS!"
Bracing himself, he slammed his foot into the ground, generating another burst of wind.
This time, he went higher.
"MUMMY!!!"
And so began the great cycle of Pasta versus Gravity.
Hours passed.
The woodland creatures, once fearful, now gathered to witness the spectacle. A deer looked up from its grazing, ears twitching. A group of foxes sat in a neat row, watching in amusement.
Then, with a final, spectacular fall, Pasta found himself dangling from a tree branch, staring directly at a nest full of baby birds chirping curiously at him.
"...Hey there, little guys," he muttered.
A shadow loomed.
The mother bird had arrived.
Before he could react, sharp pecks rained down on his head. "ACK! OW—SERIOUSLY?! Why does this hurt more than the fall?!"
With a painful thud, he finally freed himself and limped back to the clearing, rubbing his scalp.
"Okay," he exhaled, "I need to rethink this."
He sat on a stone slab, brows furrowed. "The force I'm putting into the commandment is too strong, so instead of moving the leaves, I'm launching myself. But… no, that isn't it."
He tapped his fingers against his knee. "There's something I'm missing. Gotta start from the beginning."
Every living thing has an ethereal form around them—a life force fueled by energy.
Normally, commandments control the elemental energy surrounding the lifeforce…
…
Pasta blinked.
"Wait a minute."
His brain finally connected the dots.
"I'VE BEEN COMMANDING THE AIR AROUND ME INSTEAD OF THE LEAVES?!"
"That explains why I keep getting blasted into the sky!"
Slowly, a wide grin spread across his face.
"I am… a freaking GENIUS."
He shot to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. Again, shall we?"
This time, he took a slow breath, focusing his energy with precision. Instead of brute-forcing the command, he released a subtle burst, gently wrapping his lifeforce around the leaves instead of himself.
Then, he stepped down.
The leaves lifted from the ground.
Pasta smiled.
His smile vanished a second later when the gust also sent him skyward.
A single tear escaped his eye.
"Dammit!!!"
Midair, he unsheathed his blade, steel flashing in the sunlight. "I've gone through a lot to get to this point. I'm not going to lose here, not now. Not ever!!"
This was it. This was the moment.
The goal had always been to send the leaves into the air and cut them.
Cut five hundred of them.
Cut Five… Hundred… of them.
…
His eye twitched.
"HOW IN THE NINE REALMS AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT NOW?!"
Flailing, he desperately swam through the air toward a single leaf.
"JUST ONE! COME ON, JUST ONE! PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU!!"
His frantic swings sliced nothing but air.
Gravity, once again, reclaimed its hold.
WHAM.
No leaves broke his fall this time.
His coating cracked, his back ached, and his eyes still brimmed with tears as thousands of leaves rained down upon his defeated form.
Still, he lay there, breathless.
Then, ever so softly—
"Let's go again," he whispered.
His fingers clenched into fists.
"But this time… I'll imagine those leaves as Mr. Swordsman."