Amukelo lowered into his stance as Dainor raised his hand. His breaths were quick but steady, his chest rising and falling under the effort of keeping up with someone like Padrin. He didn't even try to predict how this round would go. Instead, he let himself focus—on the ground beneath his feet, the pressure in his grip, the angle of Padrin's blade, the rhythm of the air.
"Begin."
Padrin moved first.
His speed hadn't dropped a single step since the last round. In fact, if anything, he was faster—sharper, more focused. Amukelo met his charge, timing the moment to clash with as much force as he could muster. Their wooden blades met with a loud crack, the tension in the air humming like drawn wire.
Amukelo leaned in, putting his shoulder into the lock. If Padrin wanted to throw him off-balance again, it wouldn't come easy this time.
But Padrin didn't force the deadlock. Instead, he let the blades slide past one another, his weapon slipping off with a whistle as he side-stepped like water slipping around stone. His momentum didn't falter. With barely a breath between, he spun and swung again.
Amukelo saw it—barely. He threw himself a step back, his arms struggling to recover his blade. The angle was off, his balance uncertain, but he raised his weapon in time. Their swords clashed again, but the guard was weak, the force misaligned.
Padrin didn't waste the chance.
He ducked low with a smooth motion, dropping beneath Amukelo's line of defense, and swept his blade up in a sharp, clean arc that caught Amukelo just beneath the ribs.
Dainor's voice rang out. "Padrin. Winner of the fourth round. Winner of the match."
Amukelo stayed frozen for a second, breathing heavy, sweat rolling from his brow as the hum of the crowd returned around him. He looked down, trying to analyze where exactly he lost that last moment. His knees ached from the effort, but his body was still charged, adrenaline refusing to let him collapse.
Padrin approached him with a calm smile, extending a hand. "You almost had me in that third round," he said, voice steady but sincere. "You've improved a lot since our last spar. You're good."
Amukelo blinked at him for a moment, caught off-guard by the praise. He wasn't sure if it was modesty or just disbelief that made it hard to answer. He nodded slowly and shook Padrin's hand. "Thanks…" he muttered.
Dainor joined them, arms crossed and a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Those were good matches," he said plainly. "Much less one-sided than I expected." He looked at Amukelo. "You've grown, and not just in rank."
Then he turned to Padrin. "So? What do you think? Is he strong enough to be your training partner?"
Padrin rubbed the side of his neck, glancing briefly at Amukelo before answering. "He's still weaker than my previous partners," he said honestly, but without judgment. "But they were stagnant. I outgrew them, and they stopped pushing me. I can't promise anything yet… but I hope he can catch up fast. If he does, I think it might be worth the while."
Dainor nodded. "Fair enough. If you two are paired, we'll align your training sessions accordingly."
Padrin held up a hand. "One thing—my guild duties come first. I can't drop a quest or a mission for a class. If there's overlap, you'll have to work around that."
"Of course," Dainor said. "Give me your free days, and I'll structure around them. Should be manageable." Then he turned to Amukelo. "And you? Fine with that arrangement?"
Amukelo's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "If he's really going to be my partner…" he said, still trying to process it. "Yes. Absolutely."
Dainor nodded, satisfied. "Then I'll draft the schedule."
Just then, Bral and Idin stepped forward, both of them grinning wide. Bral leaned on the wooden sword he'd been using earlier, his grin growing smug. "Hey, master," he said. "Any chance you can sync our new class times too? Would be a shame if we couldn't do quests together anymore just because we're on different training tracks."
Dainor raised an eyebrow. "Not all classes will be at the exact same time," he said. "Each instructor has their own workload. But I think I can place your sessions on the same days. So that whenever you have days off, you have them at the same days."
Idin nodded, satisfied. "That works for us."
Bral smirked. "And it gives Amukelo here time to keep sparring with our prodigy," he said, gesturing toward Padrin. "Maybe next time, you'll even get two rounds off him."
Amukelo rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips now.
Padrin looked between them, then back at Amukelo. "Looking forward to seeing how far you can go."
As they waited near the front desk, the hallway still buzzing with voices from other training groups, Bral leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and let out a long breath. "I can't believe he's going to be your training partner," he said, glancing sideways at Amukelo. "I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of jealous."
"I mean," Bral shrugged, "we were all supposed to be in this together. Then suddenly, you get promoted to train with the golden boy of the facility."
Idin chuckled beside them. "He's not wrong. You're already ahead of us. If you keep training with Padrin, the gap's only going to widen."
Amukelo opened his mouth to argue, but Idin cut him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But you deserve it," he said, with a rare softness in his voice. "You've earned it. You've worked harder than all of us, and you've got these dreams—big ones. Honestly, it's kind of inspiring."
Amukelo smiled, a genuine one, wide and filled with gratitude. "Thanks. I'll do my best to keep up with him... and with you guys too."
Not long after, one of the facility assistants brought over three folded parchment papers with their names written neatly on them. "Your schedules," she said quickly, handing them off before hurrying back to the counter. They each unfolded their own and began scanning through the dates and times.
"Looks like our sessions line up," Bral said, nodding as he traced the ink with his thumb. "Not always the same hour, but at least we're free around the same days."
"That'll help with questing," Idin added. "Good."
Then, folding the paper and slipping it into his jacket, he looked at the two of them. "I'm going to head off. I want to do the final touches on that ring I've been working on."
Bral tilted his head. "You're still making that thing?"
Amukelo looked surprised too. "Seriously, Idin. You mentioned it like three or four months ago. What's taking so long?"
Idin gave them both a look that made it clear he was used to this. "I had to start over a few times. I wanted it to be just right. I kept finding flaws, or the design didn't come out how I imagined. But now it's nearly finished. Just need to engrave something on the inside."
"What are you going to write?" Bral asked.
Idin paused, thoughtful. "Something personal. Between me and my sister. I'll show it to you once it's done."
The three of them nodded and exchanged their brief goodbyes, with Bral and Idin heading off down the corridor while Amukelo stayed behind.
Once he was alone, Amukelo checked the time and made his way back to the inn. He moved with purpose, but his thoughts were scattered. He was supposed to meet with Pao soon.
As he entered his room, he glanced toward the corner where his suit hung neatly, still in pristine condition from the last time he wore it. He approached it, fingers grazing the fabric. He debated whether to go for it or wear something simpler—more casual. But something about the memory of the last time, the way Pao looked at him when she saw him dressed like that, nudged him in a direction.
He changed.
Straightened the suit, combed his hair, even adjusted the sleeves with a quiet breath. It wasn't vanity—he just didn't want to come across like he didn't care. It was a strange kind of nervousness. Not like facing monsters or sparring matches. It was lighter. Excited, even.
By the time he reached the plaza where they had agreed to meet, the sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm gold over the rooftops and market stalls of Llyn. He looked around, scanning the gathering of townsfolk and late shoppers, and then spotted her.
But his steps slowed as his brow furrowed. Something was off.
Pao was standing near a flower stall, arms slightly crossed, body angled away from a man who was talking far too close to her. Amukelo couldn't hear what was being said yet, but he didn't have to. Her expression said it all—discomfort, frustration, a hint of fear masked behind her usual controlled demeanor.
She said something, her voice firm but not loud. "Leave me alone. I am not interested."
The man—a stocky, older guy in a wrinkled suit—reached slightly toward her, as if to grab her attention again.
Amukelo didn't wait.
He moved fast across the plaza, his steps quick and sharp, people shifting aside as they sensed the tension. "Hey, hey, hey!" he called out, closing the distance. "What's going on?"
Pao turned, relief flooding her features the instant she saw him. She didn't hesitate—she stepped right to him, gripping his arm, holding it tightly as she spoke. "This man is bothering me."
Amukelo looked at her first, making sure she was okay, then turned his eyes toward the man. They were sharp, unreadable.
The man's face wrinkled in confusion, but his eyes narrowed. "Come on, I was just—"
Amukelo's tone dropped cold. "Get away from her."
The man raised a hand, attempting to deflect the tension with a smug laugh. "Oh, come on, I just wanted to—"
"Huh…?" Amukelo tilted his head slightly, but there was no smile on his face. No warmth. "I already told you. Don't even speak to her."
There was no shouting. No anger in his tone. Just pure, focused fury hidden behind his calm words.
The man's eyes widened. His smugness vanished in a blink as he took a step back, nervous now, realizing he might have stepped far past a line. "Tsk… What's wrong with him?" he muttered under his breath before turning around and walking off quickly, muttering curses to cover his shame.