Chapter 51 – The Essence of Combat
Varos's words lingered in the air.
"You shouldn't be here."
But Lyrian didn't back down. He took a step forward, his gaze unwavering.
"I need to learn," he said. "I need to become stronger."
Varos studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned away, walking toward a small wooden table where a single candle flickered.
"Strength?" he mused. "Is that all you seek?"
Lyrian clenched his fists. "I lost completely yesterday. I want to know why. I want to understand what I'm lacking."
Varos was silent for a long moment. Then, he pulled out a chair and sat, his sharp eyes locking onto Lyrian's.
"Tell me," he said, "what do you think combat is?"
Lyrian frowned. "Combat is… fighting. Strength against strength. Skill against skill. Whoever is better wins."
Varos let out a quiet chuckle. "A common belief," he said. "But flawed."
Lyrian's brows furrowed. "Then what is it?"
Varos leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Some say combat is about power—the ability to dominate your opponent through sheer might. Warriors who think this way train their bodies relentlessly, pushing their limits to wield devastating force. And yet, history is littered with the corpses of the strong."
Lyrian listened intently, absorbing every word.
"Others say combat is about speed," Varos continued. "That the one who strikes first holds the advantage. They refine their reflexes, learning to predict, to move faster than the eye can follow. But even the fastest can fall to a single well-placed strike."
His voice was calm, yet it carried weight.
"There are those who see combat as a game of intelligence. Strategy. Control. They study their opponents, analyze weaknesses, manipulate the battlefield. And while knowledge is a powerful tool, it does not guarantee survival. A brilliant mind can still be shattered by brute force."
Lyrian remained silent, his thoughts racing.
Varos's gaze sharpened. "Then there are those who believe combat is an art—a dance of movement, precision, and skill. They train endlessly, perfecting their techniques until their every motion is flawless. But artistry does not protect you from a blade driven into your heart."
He leaned back, letting the words sink in before speaking again.
"The truth is, all of these things matter—power, speed, strategy, skill. But they are not the essence of combat."
Lyrian's fists tightened. "Then what is?"
Varos's eyes met his, unwavering.
"The essence of combat," he said, his voice carrying an undeniable finality, "is to kill."
Silence.
The word echoed in Lyrian's mind.
"Kill or be killed," Varos continued. "That is the true nature of battle. No matter how strong, fast, intelligent, or skilled you are, if you hesitate… you die."
Lyrian felt a chill run down his spine. He had fought before—he had bled, struggled, pushed himself to the limit. But hearing it spoken so plainly, so absolute…
Varos stood, his presence overwhelming. "You seek to learn how to fight. But are you prepared to learn what it truly means to fight? To understand that every battle is a gamble with life itself?"
Lyrian swallowed hard but didn't look away.
"I am," he said.
Varos studied him, as if searching for doubt. Then, for the first time, a small, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.