The sand barely shifted beneath his feet.
Therion of House Hyllidai walked into the arena like a man arriving late to a meeting he had no doubt he would win. There was no tension in his body, no fire in his eyes — just boring confidence. The kind of silence that came from knowing. Knowing that he had never lost. Knowing that he wouldn't today.
He stopped a few paces away from Darius and finally looked at him — not with disdain, but with calm, analytical detachment.
"I would've liked to face you at your best," he said, as if they were speaking after the battle, not before. "But now… this barely qualifies as a fight."
Darius clenched his jaw. His body was screaming. But his spirit hadn't broken yet.
"Nothing's over until someone gives up."
Therion blinked, as if hearing something mildly amusing.
"You really don't see the gap between us, do you?"He tilted his head."Then I'll help you understand."
He slowly drew his sword.
The moment the steel left its sheath, something shifted. The atmosphere compressed, like gravity itself had thickened.
It wasn't visible — no light, no glow — but everyone felt it, especially Darius. His instincts screamed. His chest tightened. His body recoiled a half-step before he even realised it.
Dion started to pay more attention to this fight, he was watching something extremely good now.
Therion nodded once, almost kindly.
"You still don't fully understand your own body. You don't know how to reach it. That's why you can't even begin to stand beside me."
Then, with total ease, he let the sword drop to the sand.
He raised one hand forward, the other behind him, palm open.
A quiet gesture that said: Come.
He was like a teacher, patiently waiting for his student to come at him.
Darius narrowed his eyes. He saw no arrogance in Therion's face — only certainty. It was worse.
This bastard doesn't respect me at all. Is this the arrogance of a child or something else?
He charged, fist clenched, ready to erase that unchanging face.
But the moment he struck, Therion wasn't there.
The air moved. And so did Therion.
A twist of his body, a sidestep like water. Then two quick strikes.
One to the stomach. One to the liver.
Darius didn't see them — he only felt them.
The air left his lungs. His knees hit the sand. His arms refused to lift.
Therion stepped forward, calm as ever.
"To access the true power of your body," he said softly, "you must first understand every inch of it. Every fiber. Every limit."
Darius wheezed, tried to rise — failed.
"You don't qualify as a rival," Therion continued. "You're simply not there yet."
With no more words, he struck once more.
Everything went black.
And in that final moment, as his body gave out and the world slipped away, Darius thought only one thing:
If a boy could be this strong…
What kind of monsters were the adults?
...............................
As the medics approached Darius' body, laying him gently on a stretcher, Drakos remained frozen. His eyes never left Therion, who now stood calm, arms crossed, the tip of his shoe resting beside his discarded blade.
Drakos exhaled slowly."How can a boy that age access something like this?" he murmured. "He shouldn't be capable of that… not yet."
Beside him, Dion spoke without looking away.
"He's likely approaching the Third Stage."
Drakos turned to him sharply. "That's impossible. He's thirteen."
Dion's voice was steady."His analytical ability must be far beyond any of his peers, perhaps even beyond some of us."
He let the words settle, then continued — not for Drakos, but for those listening silently behind them, and for the story unfolding before their eyes.
"To access even a fragment of the Force," Dion said, "one must understand their body to a terrifying degree. Not instinctively — analytically. He must be able to perceive the precise contraction and release of every muscle. Not just feel pain or strength, but track the exact fibers engaging at any given moment."
He gestured toward the arena.
"Therion can strengthen his body without destroying it because he knows how to move the correct muscle groups — in sequence, in rhythm, with perfect synergy."
Drakos remained quiet.
"He applies pressure where it matters. Relaxes when needed. And, above all, he avoids tearing himself apart by controlling his blood flow, regulating his breathing, slowing his heartbeat to delay fatigue. Not just reacting — governing."
"But how?" Drakos finally asked. "No child understands blood flow or muscular compensation. Not like that."
Dion glanced at him, just slightly.
"He is a genuine genius of his generation, I only now another one that was as good or even better than him at his age......whatever"
He paused.
"I mean to say, they feel it. Through training. Through control. Through silence. Through discipline. Some call it instinct. Others call it meditation."
He looked down at Darius, unconscious now, being carried away.
"But the Force doesn't come from guessing. It comes from knowing. And that boy…" He nodded at Therion. "He knows."
Therion didn't move as Darius was taken away. His eyes didn't follow the stretcher — they were still, focused somewhere else. His breathing was calm. Too calm.
The other cadets watched in stunned silence. A few looked at each other, searching for meaning in what they'd just witnessed. One or two tried to convince themselves it hadn't been that bad.
But they knew.
From the stands, the ephor Dion glanced toward the other judges and Primus captains. Murmurs began to spread. Some nobles leaned closer to speak in hushed tones. Others just stared at the arena, as if the sand itself had changed.
Drakos finally raised his voice.
"Match over. Victory: Therion of House Hyllidai."
His words were clear and sharp, but his expression was tight. He didn't celebrate the winner — he simply acknowledged him.
Therion bent to pick up his sword. He turned without a word and walked toward the exit tunnel.
He passed by a small group of cadets near the entrance. None of them dared speak — except one.
Nestor of House Nikandridai tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"If he'd gone first," he said, half to himself, "we wouldn't still be watching this tournament. He would've ended it in minutes."
The others didn't reply. What could they say?
............................................
Pain.
It was the first thing he felt. A deep, dragging ache in his torso, like someone had beaten him with a hammer and left him in the sun to dry.
Darius opened his eyes slowly.
Canvas ceiling. Dim light. A faint smell of herbs and old wood. He was lying on a padded mat, stripped to the waist, his arms bandaged and his ribs tightly wrapped.
A man sat a few steps away, grinding something in a wooden bowl. Late thirties, lean, with sharp eyes and steady hands — a healer.
"You're awake," the man said without looking up. "Took you long enough."
Darius groaned and tried to sit up. His body protested immediately.
"What… happened to me?" he muttered. "Am I—?"
"You're fine," the healer interrupted, finally setting the bowl aside. "A few bruises. Some swelling. Nothing broken. You're healing fast, actually."
Darius blinked. "So I can train?"
The man snorted. "No. You get up and those ribs open again. You'll be pissing blood before sunset. Rest. Three, maybe four days. Then we'll talk."
Darius leaned back, frustrated, but nodded.
A silence followed. Then:
"What happened in the arena?" he asked. "I remember being hit a few times and then… nothing."
The healer's expression darkened slightly. He crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby table.
"Your opponent," he said slowly, "unlocked a fragment of the Force."
Darius frowned. "The what?"
The man tilted his head. "You don't know what the Force is?"
Darius gave him a blank look.
For a second, the healer just stared. Then he rubbed his temples.
"Spirits save me…" he muttered.
"Well," he said, straightening, "it's not magic, if that's what you're thinking. The Force is… understanding. Of the body. Of how to use it — perfectly."
Darius narrowed his eyes. "Understanding what, exactly?"
"Muscles," the man said simply. "Tendons. Blood flow. Breathing. Every little thing. Most warriors fight with instinct. With willpower. But someone who touches the Force doesn't move by chance — they move by design."
He pointed at Darius's chest.
"Therion moved like that. He knows which muscle fibers to activate. How much pressure to apply. When to relax and when to strike. That's why he hit you so hard without tearing himself apart."
Darius absorbed the words in silence.
The healer went on. "That kind of control lets you move faster, hit harder, and delay fatigue. But only for short periods. And only if your body can take it."
He picked up a small cloth and began cleaning his tools. "If someone tries it too early — without the control, without the knowledge — they tear themselves to pieces. I've seen it."
Darius closed his eyes.
So that's what it was… That's the difference between us.