The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 65: Someone Who Wouldn’t Flinch

Chapter 65: Someone Who Wouldn’t Flinch

The sun had barely risen above the tiled rooftops when Shi Yaozu entered the training pavilion for a second day in a row. Dew still clung to the edges of the wooden beams, and the stone courtyard steamed faintly with the promise of a warmer day.

Zhao Xinying was already there.

She stood at the far end of the pavilion, one arm raised lazily above her head in a stretch, her back to him. The same green robes she always wore had been cinched tighter today, sleeves tied back, exposing her wrists and forearms. A signal. She was ready to fight.

Shi Yaozu stepped closer without a word. Both the man and the demon wanted to get closer to the flame in front of them.

Yesterday had been strange.

Not difficult. Not exhausting.

Just strange.

The presence inside him—still quiet, still watching—had stirred more than once through the night, coiling like smoke through his chest. It didn’t speak. It didn’t scream. But it pressed against his bones like a second pulse. Every instinct he’d sharpened as an assassin told him it wasn’t just in his mind.

Today, he would find out how much of that pulse was his, and how much belonged to something else.

Zhao Xinying turned toward him and smiled faintly. "You’re early," she said, every part of her body soft and pliable.

"I didn’t sleep," Shi Yaozu said, his voice even.

Her eyes gleamed. "Good."

Without another word, she moved.

There was no warning. No drawn weapon. No sound of wind through fabric.

She simply appeared in front of him—an emerald blur of motion—her hand snapping forward, and a silver blade flashing toward his throat.

Shi Yaozu’s body moved on instinct. He ducked, turning his shoulder as he pivoted. The blade should have passed clean over him, but something yanked him still. The collar at his neck.

Her collar.

There was a ringing clang as her blade struck the metal she’d forged around his throat the night before.

He stumbled back a step, breath sharp in his chest.

But she didn’t pursue. Not yet. "That’s twice the collar’s saved your life," she murmured. "You should start keeping count. And don’t forget to think about me every time it happens."

Shi Yaozu straightened. "You said we were training," he protested. The very idea of hurting her in a fight, even a training fight, left a sour taste in his mouth... and an even worse one in his demon’s.

"We are," she replied, her voice smooth even as her body twisted into another strike. "And training means learning what to expect—and what you don’t."

This time, he was ready.

He blocked her elbow with his forearm, using her momentum to pivot around her. His hand moved automatically toward the dagger at his waist—only to remember there wasn’t one. He reached inward instead.

The energy answered.

A blade bloomed from his palm—crude, uneven, but sharp enough.

He slashed low, and she leapt back, her skirts brushing the floor like falling petals.

"We can’t create metal," she said as they circled each other. "But we can manipulate it. The stronger the demon, the stronger the bond. That blade? That’s a whisper. You need to turn it into a roar."

Her movements blurred again, and this time she came at him from the side.

Shi Yaozu met her strike cleanly—his blade clashing with hers, metal screeching against metal. He pressed forward, following up with a feint and then a real strike aimed for her midsection.

It hit.

But it didn’t bite.

The fabric of her robes split—and then stopped.

His blade had caught something beneath the surface. It rang out with a dull, heavy sound.

She stepped back, calm as ever, and pulled her robe aside.

Metal shimmered beneath her skin.

"Armored," she said with a small smile. "Forged straight into the body. It takes practice and a little bit of pain. You have to be willing to feel every shift. But once you do it..."

She turned slightly, letting the light catch the shimmer under her skin. "No one will ever catch you off guard again."

Shi Yaozu didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Now that he knew he couldn’t hurt her, even unintentionally, he launched forward.

She blocked the next attack but staggered a step. Then another. He kept moving, each strike sharper than the last. His breathing even, his muscles relaxed. This wasn’t rage. This was control.

He was an assassin; this was his wheelhouse.

But she wasn’t backing down either.

She flowed like water, redirecting his blows, punishing every overstep with a precise strike to the ribs, the wrist, the thigh.

He took the hits and gave them back.

When he ducked beneath her next swing and swept her legs, she flipped midair and landed low, grinning.

"There you are," she said, exhaling through her nose. "That’s what I wanted to see."

ShiYaozu stood still, chest rising with exertion. Sweat lined his brow. "Why push me like that?"

"Because you were holding back," she said, stepping closer. "I don’t need to be treated with kid gloves. If you are serious about learning about your demon and your powers, you need to let everything out. You have to be willing to kill... kill me, kill someone else. But that drive has to be there in every training session to be effective."

"I don’t take pleasure in killing," he replied quietly.

"Neither do I," she said. "But I take pride in it. And pride doesn’t like being second best."

She stopped in front of him, lifted her hand, and gently tapped the collar at his throat. "You’ll get stronger, Shi Yaozu. I know it. You just haven’t learned how to want it badly enough."

His brows furrowed.

She tilted her head. "That’s the real test of a wrath demon. Not anger. Not rage. Desire. You have to want the outcome so badly it burns your skin to not have it."

"I’ve never wanted anything," he said, surprising even himself.

Zhao Xinying nodded. "Then it’s time you learned."

She raised her hand again.

Metal surged into her palm, flowing from hidden seams in her sleeves, her belt, even the lining of her collar. It spun midair in lazy loops before slamming down to the floor between them, forming a dozen small blades.

"Keep as much metal on you as you can," she said. "Hide it anywhere. Everywhere. You never know when you’ll need to fight, and no one gives you time to go shopping for a sword."

She pointed to her torso. "And when you get good enough... bury it under your skin. Shape it to your bones. Let it become a part of you."

Shi Yaozu crouched and picked up one of the blades. He turned it over in his hand, thoughtful. "I’ll need time," he said.

"You’ll have it."

He looked up at her then. "And when I’m ready?"

Her eyes gleamed.

"Then we’ll see if you can beat me."

He nodded once.

No bowing. No formality.

She didn’t need that from him.

She needed someone who wouldn’t flinch.

And now, maybe, he wouldn’t.