The old man's words still clung to the air: "Leave."
It wasn't a shout, nor a command. It was colder, sharper, a dismissal born of someone who did not bend to titles or rituals.
Oisla did not move. His eyes narrowed, studying the man's stance, the rhythm of his breath, the way his muscles coiled even at rest. This wasn't just strength. This was discipline etched into flesh.
"You're not just an old warrior," Oisla said slowly. "You know more. You've studied the dark arts."
The old man stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but Oisla saw it. His gaze sharpened, cutting across Oisla's face like a whetted blade. "How do you know that?"
"Because your movements don't belong to this age," Oisla replied. His voice was calm, his tone steady, almost unnervingly sure for someone so young. "Your body is tempered, yes, but it's the stillness around you. The way the air folds when you strike. That's no mere strength. That's control of what should not be controlled. Only those who've touched the forbidden arts walk with shadows at their back."
For the first time in what must have been years, the old man's expression cracked. Shock rippled through his gaze.
"You…" His voice trailed, gravel caught in his throat. Then softer, as if testing the weight of the words: "You have the eyes."
The words were heavy. They didn't just describe sight—they branded Oisla with something eternal.
Oisla didn't flinch. He knew instinctively that this phrase would follow him for the rest of his life, echo from mouths of strangers and enemies alike. He didn't fully understand it yet, but he accepted it, letting the silence carry its weight.
The old man drew in a long breath, then set his jaw. "Eyes or not, you don't belong here. Power isn't for the reckless, boy. Go back to your throne of borrowed fear before it buries you."
"Borrowed?" Oisla tilted his head. "The tribe bends because they see strength in me. If you think it borrowed, then prove it false. Duel me."
The old man blinked, then let out a sharp laugh—harsh, bitter. "You want to challenge me? You wouldn't last a heartbeat."
"Then test it." Oisla's gaze didn't waver. "One condition. The duel ends the moment one of us loses his sword. Nothing more, nothing less."
The old man stared, searching Oisla's face for fear, doubt, anything he could crush. But there was none. Only calculation, cold and clear.
"Very well," he growled. "But when you lose, I'll throw you into the sea myself."
The clearing darkened as the sun slid behind the cliffs, leaving streaks of crimson across the horizon. The old man retrieved two wooden swords from inside his hut—simple, heavy, scarred from years of use. He tossed one to Oisla without ceremony.
Oisla caught it, testing the weight. Too heavy for speed, too dull for finesse. But it didn't matter. He wasn't planning to win by strength.
They stood opposite one another, the sea roaring below like a crowd unseen. Campung remained at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, his face unreadable but his eyes fixed, knowing something profound was about to unfold.
The old man lifted his sword into a stance that was both relaxed and lethal. His body radiated experience, movements honed over decades.
Oisla raised his own, his posture clumsy in comparison. His feet weren't steady, his grip too tight, his body betraying the inexperience of youth.
But his eyes—his eyes did not blink. They tracked every twitch, every flicker of muscle, every breath of wind that shifted across the old man's chest.
"Begin," the old man said.
He moved first.
It was like thunder striking. The wooden blade cut through the air with such force the wind itself seemed to bend. Oisla staggered, parried barely in time, his wrists screaming under the impact.
"You'll break," the old man barked, striking again.
Another blow. Then another. The air rang with crack upon crack as wood clashed, sparks of pain jolting up Oisla's arms. His feet slid, his breath hitched, his body clearly outmatched.
But his eyes never left the old man's.
He predicted the rhythm, the angles, the shifts in stance. He saw the old man breathe in before each strike, the slight twitch of a shoulder, the way his weight pressed into one leg before unleashing fury from the other. Each movement was read, anticipated, mapped in his mind even as his body lagged behind.
"You think prediction will save you?" the old man snarled, driving him back. "A mind is nothing without strength."
"Maybe," Oisla gasped, blocking another brutal swing. "But a mind doesn't tire."
The old man struck low, feinted high, spun with impossible speed for his age. Oisla faltered, his wooden sword knocked wide, his shoulder nearly split open if not for his last-second lurch. Pain roared through him as the strike grazed past.
And then—it happened.
Oisla let go.
As the old man swung again, Oisla loosened his grip deliberately, letting his sword fly from his hands. The wooden blade clattered uselessly onto the ground. The old man's strike connected with air, momentum carrying him forward.
Before he could recover, Oisla's empty hand darted in like a viper, seizing the old man's wrist. His other hand shot to the hilt of the old man's own sword and wrenched it free with shocking precision.
In the span of a heartbeat, the duel was over.
Oisla stood, battered and breathless, holding the old man's weapon in his hand.
The condition was clear: the duel ended the moment one of them lost his sword. And now, the old man stood empty-handed, staring at his own blade leveled against him.
The silence that followed was crushing. The sea crashed below, the gulls cried above, but here in this clearing, there was only the sound of two men breathing.
Slowly, the old man's gaze lifted. For the first time, there was no disdain, no scorn, no mockery in his eyes. Only something else—something heavier.
"You…" His voice cracked, softer than before. "You don't fight to be the strongest. You don't care if the world calls you weak. You cheat, you bend rules, you twist the board… because all that matters to you is winning."
He took a breath, a long, trembling breath, and for the first time in his long life, he lowered his head.
"I have never bowed to another. But today… I bow to you. Take me, Oisla. As your disciple."
Campung's eyes widened from the edge of the clearing. Even he, who trusted Oisla deeply, felt the weight of what had just occurred. This wasn't just a victory. This was submission from a man who had never bent before, a warrior who carried decades of scars and shadows.
Oisla lowered the sword slowly, his gaze steady. "I don't want disciples. I want companions. Men who will help me conquer the world."
The old man's lips curved faintly, for the first time not in scorn but in something dangerously close to respect.
"Then you shall have me," he said. "Not as a teacher, nor as a master, but as a shadow that follows the eyes."
That night, when Oisla left the cliffside hut, the sea was calmer. The wind carried whispers of something larger, as though the world itself had shifted.
The old man, once untouchable, had bent. And with his bending, a legend was born—not of strength, but of vision.
The phrase would echo in the days to come, through friend and foe alike:
He has the eyes.