<b>“You fight like a scribe,”</b> Rheon said, dusting his sleeves. <b>“Copying forms without understanding their soul.”</b>


    Towan pushed upright, his mind racing. Rheon’s counters weren’t just skilled; they were <i>intimate</i>. As if he’d dissected Towan’s style thread by thread.


    <b>“Again.”</b>


    This time, Towan feinted—a jab followed by a low sweep. Rheon pivoted, his footwork a mirror of Towan’s master’s <b>Mountain Root</b> stance… but twisted, like a reflection in cracked glass.


    <i>“(That stance… Master hated it. Said it left the kidneys exposed. But Rheon adjusted it—)”</i>


    <b>“Focus,”</b> Rheon snapped, seizing Towan’s wrist. His grip lingered a heartbeat too long, calluses rough in the exact spots where Towan’s master had borne scars from decades of combat.


    <i>“(No… coincidence?)”</i>


    Rheon released him with a shove. <b>“You rely on memory, not instinct. A fatal flaw.”</b>


    The training grounds buzzed with a restless energy, students perched on nearby platforms like crows awaiting carrion. Their whispers coiled around Towan—<i>reckless, arrogant, doomed</i>—but he shut them out, his focus narrowing to the man standing across the arena. Rheon’s stillness was unnerving, his hands loose at his sides, eyes half-lidded as if this were a meditation, not a duel.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    <i>“(Something feels off…)”</i>


    Towan retreated, his boots scuffing the sand-strewn floor. The air tasted of ozone and anticipation. Rheon didn’t pursue. He never did.


    <i>“(None of Master’s techniques are working. They always worked before…)”</i>


    His fists clenched, Essentia prickling beneath his skin like static. Across the arena, Rheon tilted his head—a subtle, infuriating gesture that mirrored his master’s habit of dissecting mistakes without words.


    <i>“(Is he—? No. Focus.)”</i>


    Towan closed his eyes, drowning out the jeers and gasps. The world sharpened: the rasp of his breath, the ache in his overworked channels, the <i>wrongness</i> of Rheon’s Essentia—cold where his master’s had been wildfire, calculated where his master had been chaos.


    <b>“Take your time, Towan.”</b> Rheon’s voice cut through the noise, calm and weighted. <b>“I’ll wait.”</b>


    A challenge. A taunt. A <i>lesson</i>.


    Towan’s Essentia surged.


    He pushed beyond his limits, forcing energy through every node until his capillaries burned. The air around him warped, a silver aura erupting like liquid mercury—dense, volatile, alive. Students recoiled, shielding their eyes as the ground beneath Towan’s feet cracked, sand rising in slow-motion arcs around him.


    <i>“(So he’s burning all of his energy…)”</i> Elliot observed, his analytical mind already mapping the risks. His brother’s Essentia threads glowed too bright, too <i>thin</i>—a dam about to burst.


    Towan opened his eyes, the world now edged in searing silver. His smirk was all teeth, a mask for the agony lacing his veins.


    <i>“(I’ve got one shot. Make it count.)”</i>


    Across the arena, Rheon finally moved—not to attack, but to adjust his stance. His right foot slid back, fingers curling into a loose guard.


    The crowd fell silent.


    Somewhere, a crow screamed.