Fate's Slave - Shadow Slave X Honkai Star Rail

In the instant her blade surged forward, Sunny did not hesitate, because hesitation in the face of something like Jingliu was indistinguishable from suicide. The Soul Serpent responded to his will before conscious thought could fully form, its tattooed presence unraveling from his skin in a surge of black that coiled and condensed into a weapon of impossible density. The odachi took shape in his grasp, its length matching his own body, its surface devouring light rather than reflecting it, as though the concept of illumination itself refused to linger upon it. At the same time, his four shadows surged upward and layered themselves over his form, folding into him with seamless precision as their augmentation multiplied his physical capabilities fivefold, pushing his already abnormal strength into something that began to brush against the threshold of the impossible for his Rank.

It was not enough to match a Saint.

But it was enough to survive.

Steel met ice with a sound that did not belong to the physical world, a ringing clash that carried more meaning than simple impact, because it was the collision of two entirely different philosophies made manifest. The force of it rippled outward, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the already scarred stone beneath their feet as Sunny anchored himself against the blow, his arms trembling under the sheer weight of Jingliu’s strike despite the augmentation granted by his shadows. Yanqing staggered back instinctively, his instincts screaming at him to create distance as the fight shifted from a controlled spar into something far more volatile, his eyes widening as he watched the exchange unfold with a clarity that bordered on disbelief.

From Yanqing’s perspective, what followed could only barely be called a duel.

If anything, it resembled a dance.

Not the refined, structured kind taught in elegant halls, but something far more primal, something that existed on the edge between artistry and madness. Mongrel’s movements did not adhere to any singular form, nor did they follow a predictable rhythm, yet there was an undeniable grace to them, a fluidity that made every step feel deliberate even when it defied expectation. His body moved as though guided by an unseen current, weaving through Jingliu’s strikes with motions that seemed improvised and yet perfectly suited to each moment, forcing her to rely not on prediction, but on sheer superiority in speed and strength to keep pace.

Yanqing’s gaze sharpened as he observed, because something was wrong.

No, not wrong.

Different.

Mongrel was stronger than before.

The difference was not subtle, nor was it something that could be dismissed as mere growth over time. When they had first clashed, both in the Dreamscape and later amidst the chaos of greater battles, Mongrel had fought him on relatively even footing, their exchanges driven more by technique than raw power. Now, however, his physicality had surged to a level that forced Yanqing to reevaluate everything he thought he understood about him, because each clash of their weapons carried a weight that should not have been possible for someone of his Rank.

Which meant one of two things.

Either Mongrel had undergone an absurd level of growth in an impossibly short period of time.

Or...

He had been holding back.

The latter possibility settled heavily in Yanqing’s mind, because the more he watched, the more it began to make sense. Mongrel had never sought to overwhelm him with brute force, never attempted to end their clashes decisively through sheer superiority. Instead, he had matched him, restricted himself to the realm of swordsmanship, as though the act of fighting itself had been the goal rather than the outcome.

As though he had wanted a duel.

Not a victory.

Yanqing’s grip tightened slightly at the thought, his attention sharpening further as he tried to dissect Mongrel’s style, to understand what lay at its core. He had always assumed that Mongrel’s Aspect revolved around adaptation, around deciphering and countering his opponent’s techniques while augmenting his own form into that monstrous, four-armed entity when necessary. However, the more he watched, the less certain he became, because what he was witnessing now felt less like an ability and more like something inherent.

Something learned.

Something earned.

Mongrel fought like a creature unbound by limitation, his blade weaving through forms that shifted seamlessly into one another, his movements transitioning from elegant strikes to brutal kicks, from precise parries to savage pommel blows that carried the raw intent to kill. There was no hesitation in his actions, no separation between thought and execution, as though his entire being existed solely within the act of combat.

It was terrifying.

And yet...

It was beautiful.

Yanqing’s gaze shifted briefly toward Jingliu, his breath catching almost imperceptibly as he analyzed her in turn, because if Mongrel was chaos refined into art, then Jingliu was something else entirely.

She was perfection.

Not in the abstract sense, not in the exaggerated way people described masters of their craft, but in the most literal, absolute meaning of the word. Every movement she made adhered to the fundamental principles of swordsmanship with such precision that it transcended technique, becoming something closer to inevitability. Her blade did not waver, did not deviate, did not attempt to do more than what was necessary, and yet that simplicity carried a weight that crushed everything placed before it.

If Mongrel represented endless variation, then Jingliu represented singularity.

She practiced one swing a thousand times.

He practiced a thousand swings ten times.

And somehow, impossibly, they met on equal ground within the realm of mastery, each forcing the other to adapt in ways that defied conventional understanding. Mongrel’s depth of technique kept Jingliu engaged, preventing her from reducing the fight to a simple execution, while Jingliu’s absolute precision forced Mongrel to remain constantly vigilant, because a single misstep against her blade would be fatal.

It was at that moment that Yanqing understood something that unsettled him more than anything else he had witnessed.

They were insane.

Not metaphorically, not as an exaggeration, but in a very real, very tangible sense that separated them from anything resembling normalcy. Yanqing had attempted to replicate Jingliu’s style before, and he had succeeded in doing so perfectly, yet even then, something had been missing. There had been a hollowness to it, an absence of something he could not define, because while he could copy the motion, he could not replicate the state of mind behind it.

Jingliu did not think.

She did not hesitate.

She did not exist beyond the act of swinging her sword.

Her entire being collapsed into that singular purpose, achieving a state of emptiness so complete that even a perfect copy could not match it, because there was nothing to copy beyond the motion itself.

Mongrel, on the other hand, was the opposite extreme.

Yanqing could follow him, could predict him to an extent, could even counter him when their skill levels aligned, yet he could never grasp the principle behind his evolution. Mongrel changed constantly, abandoning individuality in favor of becoming something fluid, something that could encompass countless perspectives without losing cohesion.

How could someone like that exist without breaking apart?

How could a mind contain that much without collapsing under its own weight?

The question lingered unanswered as the clash continued.

From Sunny’s perspective, the experience was no less overwhelming.

Every strike from Jingliu carried a weight that forced him to adapt instantly, his body moving before his mind could fully process the incoming threat, his Shadow Dance pushing itself to its absolute limits as it struggled to keep pace with something that existed beyond its intended scope. He could feel it, the difference between them, the vast, unbridgeable gap that separated a Master from a Saint, yet even so, he refused to yield ground easily, forcing his body to respond, to learn, to survive.

And in doing so, he realized something that unsettled him more than any opponent ever had.

Jingliu was empty.

Not in the sense of being hollow or broken, but in the sense that there was nothing within her that interfered with her blade. No emotion, no hesitation, no extraneous thought or intention existed within her movements, because everything that did not contribute to the act of swordsmanship had been stripped away, leaving behind something that bordered on pure function.

It was absolute optimization.

The pinnacle of fundamentals taken to a level that even [The War] could not grant him.

Sunny found himself wondering, even as he fought for his life, what kind of existence would be required to reach such a state, what kind of sacrifices would need to be made to discard everything that made a person human in favor of something so singularly focused. For the first time since he had begun walking his path, he found himself confronted with a peak that he could not even begin to comprehend, let alone reach.

Jingliu was the greatest swordswoman he had ever encountered.

From Jingliu’s perspective, the battle unfolded in perfect clarity, her mind existing within a state of absolute stillness as her blade moved in accordance with principles that had long since transcended conscious thought. Each clash of steel provided information, not through sight, but through sensation, the vibrations traveling through her weapon painting a complete picture of her opponent in a way that vision never could.

And within that clarity, a stray thought surfaced.

Unbidden.

Irrelevant.

Yet present all the same.

’This boy... it is a boy, correct?’

The assessment formed naturally, her awareness cataloging details even as her mind remained focused on the blade, noting the structure of his body, the distribution of weight, the subtle differences that defined his form.

’Yes. The proportions align. Though the waist is somewhat slender, the hips lack the necessary weight, and the shoulders are sufficiently broad. There is also an absence of... certain distractions.’

The thought faded as quickly as it had come, dismissed as unnecessary.

What remained was something far more significant.

’This boy... is utterly insane.’

There was no other way to describe him, no other framework that could properly encapsulate what she was experiencing. His mind was fluid in a way that defied conventional structure, his adaptability bordering on the formless as he devoured her techniques in real time, integrating them into his own style even as they clashed. It was not mere talent, nor was it something that could be attributed solely to an Aspect.

It was something intrinsic.

Something dangerous.

At the same time, she noted the abnormalities in his physicality, the unnatural strength that pushed him beyond the expected limits of his Rank, suggesting influences that extended beyond simple mastery. Whether he was deliberately restraining himself out of respect for the duel or whether his true capabilities lay hidden beneath layers she had yet to perceive remained unclear, but the possibility alone was enough to mark him as someone worthy of attention.

Through the continuous clash of their blades, she understood something else.

This boy was incomplete.

Not in skill, not in potential, but in self.

He carried too many desires, too many conflicting emotions that anchored him to a state of constant movement, preventing him from ever reaching the stillness required for true transcendence. His identity was built upon those contradictions, upon the tension between what he was and what he could become, and as long as that remained the case, he would never achieve Muga.

Not that he needed to.

His path was different.

Unique.

Something that could not and should not be forced into the same mold.

Yanqing, however, was another matter entirely.

She could already see the potential within him, the simplicity that lay beneath his complexity, the capacity to reach something even beyond her own state given enough time and guidance.

Centuries, perhaps.

But not yet.

With one final clash, their blades separated, the force of it sending a shockwave across the island as both combatants stepped back, the tension lingering in the air like a drawn breath that had yet to be released.

Jingliu inclined her head slightly, her concealed gaze settling upon Sunny with something that could almost be considered approval.

”You have taken inspiration from Yingxing and reshaped it into something of your own, despite the inherently self-destructive nature of his path. That is commendable, young Serpent.”

Sunny blinked behind the Weaver’s Mask, the title catching him off guard as his thoughts stumbled briefly.

’Serpent? Who the hell is Yingxing?’

His grip on the odachi tightened slightly as his gaze flickered toward the blade, a fleeting suspicion surfacing that she had somehow discerned its true nature, though how she could have done so remained unclear.

Jingliu turned her attention toward Yanqing next, her tone shifting into something more instructive.

”As for you, I can now see where that misguided notion originated. You cannot replicate what you do not understand, and attempting to imitate this young man’s mindset will only hinder your progress.”

Sunny blinked again, the realization settling in with a certain weight.

She had understood all of that.

From a single exchange.

He stared at her for a moment longer than necessary, the conclusion forming with quiet certainty.

’What a monster...’