Amukelo stood near the edge of the arena, arms folded, posture relaxed but his mind alert and sharp. His eyes followed Bral and Idin closely—he was studying everything. The way Bral moved in wide arcs, trying to control the space, and how Idin kept himself coiled like a spring behind his shield, waiting for openings. It was clear that Bral favored range and aggression while Idin was more grounded, reactive, and precise.
Amukelo watched with the same attention he used in his own spars—measuring distance, imagining how he'd counter if he were in either of their positions, thinking through every strike and block. That was the key to getting better. Not just training, but thinking through the movements, questioning them, learning the why behind the how.
Then the second round began. Bral rushed again. But Idin had learned from the last exchange. He didn't give Bral time to circle back. Instead, he pivoted into a low, quick bash with his shield, unbalancing Bral just enough to land a clean strike across his side. The crowd clapped and murmured among themselves. Dainor raised his hand and announced Idin as the winner of round two.
Amukelo nodded slightly to himself, noting how fast Idin adjusted. "He's reading Bral better now," he thought.
But then the rhythm was broken. From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement near the entrance. At first, he didn't think much of it—people were coming and going more frequently now that the spar was underway. But the crowd shifted subtly. The whispers started. "Hey… is that Padrin?"
Amukelo's focus snapped to the figure entering through the double doors. It was him.
Padrin walked in without fanfare. Same calm posture, same unreadable gaze. He looked just a bit different than before—not in appearance, but in the way he moved. Sharper. More honed. He carried himself like someone who expected to be noticed, but didn't care if he was.
Amukelo's eyes narrowed slightly, watching him from across the room. They hadn't really seen each other since their evaluation match. Occasionally, he spotted him across the training facility, but they never interacted since.
Padrin's gaze scanned the arena—slow, deliberate—and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Amukelo felt a strange mix of recognition and challenge in that glance. It was brief, but heavy. Then Padrin looked away just as casually, turning to Dainor and whispering something.
Amukelo frowned slightly, trying to read their lips, but the distance made it impossible. Dainor gave a small nod in response, and Padrin stayed where he was, arms behind his back, silently observing.
"Tch…" Amukelo looked back to the fight, suddenly annoyed with himself. He'd missed the entire third round.
Just as he focused again, Dainor raised his voice. "Third round to Idin."
Amukelo exhaled, cursing his lapse in attention. He wasn't sure why Padrin's presence rattled him, but it did. Not in a threatening way, not exactly, but enough to make his thoughts drift.
Then the fourth round began.
This time Bral wasted no time. He launched into a full-thrust from the longest possible range, using the length of his longsword to try and force Idin into a mistake. Idin blocked it effortlessly with his shield—the angle was just too predictable.
But Bral wasn't trying to land the strike. He was trying to bait the reaction.
Just like the first round, he stepped back, hoping to draw Idin in and repeat the sweep underneath the shield. His stance widened slightly as he prepared for the counter, his sword ready to glide low.
Only this time, Idin didn't bite the same way.
He advanced with a strong, calculated step. When Bral moved for the low sweep, Idin dropped his shield at the perfect angle and stomped—hard—right onto Bral's blade, trapping it in place.
The sudden pressure locked Bral's arm for just a fraction of a second. But that was all Idin needed.
He brought his broadsword down in a clean, diagonal thrust that cut through the space between Bral's shoulder and chest. Bral flinched, realizing too late he couldn't block or step away in time.
Dainor raised his hand. "Fourth round to Idin. That's three victories. Match over."
Applause followed. Even among the crowd, there were impressed nods. It was a clever adjustment—perfect use of pressure and positioning.
As Idin and Bral stepped off the sparring area, they made their way back toward Amukelo with slow, relaxed strides. Bral let out a long exhale, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat. His grin was crooked and begrudgingly impressed.
"Ahh… you got me there," Bral said, nudging Idin lightly with his elbow before turning to Amukelo. "I really thought I'd bait him on that fourth match. The angle was clean, spacing perfect. But that stomp…" he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Didn't see that one coming. Gotta admit, he's still sharper than me."
Idin gave him a sidelong glance, that relaxed confidence always in his posture. "You almost had it, but yeah, that little trick with the footwork did the job. Besides, you didn't get to use your scrolls." He shrugged modestly. "If this was a real fight and not a spar, things could've gone differently. You're not half as annoying when you're throwing fire at me."
Bral chuckled and gave a slow nod. "True. I'll get you next time though."
They both turned to Amukelo, who hadn't said anything. His focus was drawn again to Padrin.
"Oh…" Bral said, noticing where Amukelo's gaze had drifted. "That's Padrin, right?"
Amukelo gave a small nod, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Yeah. I guess he came to watch."
Bral's grin widened into something more boyish, even a little reverent. "Man… talk about pressure. I've heard the rumors—he hit Gold Rank recently."
Amukelo blinked, glancing sideways. "Already? Wasn't he Silver Five when we got here? And didn't you said that there is a massive gap between a Silver Rank Seven and a Golden Rank One?"
Idin crossed his arms, tone firm. "He was. That's why everyone's talking about it. And yes, there's a huge jump between Silver Seven and Gold One. You don't just jump that gap by being lucky."
Amukelo looked back at Padrin, who was still standing silently beside Dainor, speaking in hushed tones. Amukelo remembered their fight like it happened yesterday—the ease with which Padrin moved, how he never rushed, never forced an opening. His movements were effortless, as if he always knew exactly what Amukelo would do next.
Then Dainor turned from Padrin and started walking toward them. Padrin followed.
All three of them straightened reflexively. Amukelo dropped his arms from his chest, Bral tilted his chin up, and Idin stood square, nodding respectfully. Dainor gave them all a warm nod, his expression one of calm pride.
"That was a strong set of matches," Dainor began, his voice carrying that measured tone he always had—serious, but not stiff. "You've come a long way from when I first saw you. Your coordination, timing, awareness—it's all sharper."
Then he looked at Bral and Idin in turn. "But don't get too comfortable. You've both developed strong habits, but you're also predictable. That's the next wall you need to break through."
He pointed at Idin first. "You used your first-round failure to set up your final strike. Good. That's tactical awareness. Most fighters don't adapt mid-match. That's what makes you dangerous."
Then he turned to Bral. "And you, Bral. You control range better than most fighters your level. But when your spacing fails, you lose clarity. That's where you'll need to grow. With personal training, we'll tighten those gaps."
Both nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the critique without argument. It was why they were here.
Then Amukelo leaned forward slightly, unable to keep the anticipation from his voice. "So… who am I going to fight first? Bral or Idin?"
Dainor's lips curved into a subtle smile, the kind that said he had been waiting for the question.
"Well," he said, drawing it out slightly for effect. "What would you say to a different opponent?"
Amukelo blinked. "A different opponent?"
He looked over at Bral and Idin, who both shared a look of mild confusion.
"Weren't we supposed to spar each other?" Amukelo asked, his brow creasing slightly.
Dainor raised a hand and gestured to Padrin who stood behind him. "You were. Until this young man stepped forward and offered to spar with you instead."
Amukelo's eyes widened. "Him!?"
Beside him, Bral let out a loud, exaggerated groan. "Oh, come on! This damn kid gets to fight him again?"
Amukelo barely registered the comment. His heart had already started to beat faster.