Under the Sword Puppet's relentless, storm-like assault, Maki's breathing grew increasingly ragged. Her heavy gasps echoed off the walls of the enclosed training room, each exhale a battle in itself. Beads of sweat, large as beans, had soaked her hair at the temples, plastering dark strands to her face. Her clothes clung wetly to her body, disheveled and torn in places—a stark contrast to the composed warrior who had entered.
But her eyes never wavered. They burned with the same iron resolve as when she first stepped through the door.
The Sword Puppet's techniques grew more intricate, more deceptive. In a moment of distraction, Maki failed to dodge—a long gash opened on her arm, blood welling and spilling down her skin. Pain lanced through her like electric current.
Bang!
A brutal kick connected with her abdomen. Maki flew backward, crashing against the hard wall with a sickening thud, then slid down in a crumpled heap.
She hit the ground and immediately forced herself up, gasping like a bellows, every muscle screaming in protest.
The exchanges grew more desperate. Her weapon was knocked away. She fell again. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Then—silence.
The Sword Puppet stopped. It stood motionless, sword lowered, waiting.
Maki dragged herself upright, swaying. Pain clouded her thoughts, but beneath it, something else stirred: clarity.
'I can't just overpower it. That won't work. I need to understand.'
She watched. Every swing, every angle, every shift of weight. The Sword Puppet's attacks seemed chaotic, but beneath the surface, patterns emerged. Rhythms. A hidden structure.
"What school is this swordsmanship from?" she muttered, incredulous. "And since when do Cursed Corpses study the blade? That's not fair at all."
But she kept watching. Kept learning.
She began to anticipate—not enough to counter, but enough to see the attacks coming. Enough to move with slightly more composure, slightly less panic.
Then came the thrust. Aimed at her throat. Too fast to track.
Maki's body reacted before her mind could—a desperate lean backward. The blade whistled past, millimeters from her skin.
'I saw it. I actually saw it coming.'
Joy flickered—then died as the Sword Puppet's blade swept horizontally. She scrambled back, but the sword wind carved a deep gash across her shoulder. Fresh blood soaked her torn clothes.
Her body gave out. She swayed, vision dimming.
"For real?!" she gasped, swaying dangerously. "I almost lost my head!"
To her surprise, the Sword Puppet sheathed its blade. It walked over, squatted beside her, and placed a hand on her wound. A familiar green glow—Reverse Cursed Technique—mended flesh and sealed gashes.
Then it returned to the center of the room. Waiting. Patient as death.
Maki didn't immediately rise for another round.
She sat there, breathing steadying, mind racing through every exchange, every pattern she'd observed. Kamo Itsuki was probably watching somewhere. Next time, she wouldn't be so easily torn apart.
'Next time, I'll be ready.'
Inside Panda's training room, the scene was... less dignified.
A single panda head sat on the floor, blinking mournfully at the shattered remnants of its body scattered across the room.
"Well," Panda muttered to himself, "this is going to take a while to put back together."
The scene inside Panda's training room was chaos incarnate.
Dolls of all shapes and sizes lay scattered across the floor—some sitting, some sprawled, their glass eyes staring blankly at nothing. Spools of colorful thread formed a tangled nest in one corner, while scissors of every conceivable size gleamed coldly from workbenches. Needles bristled from pincushions like porcupines, and half-finished limbs rested on shelves like macabre displays.
It looked even messier than his father Yaga Masamichi's workshop. Which was saying something.
But Panda's attention wasn't on the mess. It was on the figure sitting across from him—another Panda Cursed Corpse, identical in appearance but radiating something utterly different. This one was alive in a way that made Panda's fur stand on end. It was currently mending his former body with practiced, economical movements.
'That's... me. A version of me.'
His thoughts drifted back to the moment he'd first entered.
He'd barely crossed the threshold when the other Panda had attacked—no warning, no pause, just violence. The battle that followed was burned into his memory.
The other Panda's movements were fluid in a way his weren't. Strange. Each motion carried an unfamiliar rhythm—slow on the surface, but hiding depths. Every attack Panda launched was deflected, redirected, turned back against him with minimal effort. It was like fighting water. Like fighting smoke.
He'd switched cores. Big brother mode—full aggression, overwhelming force. The other Panda simply shifted, avoiding the onslaught, then redirected his momentum with a touch. Defeat.
Big sister mode—agile, unpredictable, striking from angles. The other Panda perceived everything before it happened. Block. Counter. Defeat.
Then came the final assault. His body had been systematically dismantled, piece by piece, until only his head remained on the floor, blinking stupidly at his own scattered limbs.
And now...
Panda touched his newly repaired body. The surface looked the same, but beneath—beneath, everything felt different. The connections, the flow, the way his cores resonated.
"It feels... not the same," he murmured, frowning. "What did you do to me?"
The other Panda didn't answer. It simply rose to its feet, fixed him with an unblinking gaze, and crooked a finger.
Come.
The message was clear. Round two was beginning.
Panda rose, settling into a stance. This time, he wouldn't just fight. This time, he would learn.