Bari's eyes pierced Cormac the moment he stepped into the circle. His vision unravelled every fibber of the man's body within a second. He saw the tension of each muscle, the subtle imbalance between left and right arms that betrayed his dominant hand, the rhythm of his breath, even the faint impulses that flickered across his nervous system.
Strength, speed, and intent.
Cormac was an open canvas. Every detail laid bare. Nothing, and no one, could escape his sight.
And yet, Bari felt underwhelmed. This was supposed to be a legacy, someone twice his age with a better physicality and memories. And though his body surpassed Bari's in raw strength, his form and technique seemed no greater than his own — if not slightly inferior. Which was surprising considering he had a decade more to hone his skill. But Bari could not judge him too harshly, however. After all, what man could stand equal against someone who wielded the sight of the divine? Someone who could know your name before you even offered it?
That was another thing. For above Cormac's head, his runes flared before Bari's vision:
Name: Cormac
True Name: —
Rank: Dreamer
Soul Core: Dormant
Memories: [Armour of Valor], [Great Bag], [Gloves of Hamish], [Spear of Pain], [Ring of Valor]
Echoes: —
Innate Ability: [
Attributes: [Hardened Scales], [Honourable], [Strength of Two]
Aspect: [Wyvern's Tale]
Aspect Rank: Transcended
Aspect Abilities: [Wyvern's Snout]
He could only see the names of his opponents runes, not descriptions, not yet. But even that was enough, his eyes dissected his opponents names and fed him the likelihood of they were supposed to do.
Dax once said knowledge was power. Bari was inclined to agree. As he thought this a small smile appeared across his face faintly.
Cormac did not share the sentiment. He lunged forward with a sudden burst of speed, fast enough to blur before ordinary eyes. But Bari's eyes were anything but ordinary. They caught the twitch of muscle before the dash, the shifting balance of his weight, the subtle exhale that fuelled his momentum. Bari was already moving as the attack began.
A diagonal cleave screamed for his chest — sharp, disciplined, lethal. Bari stepped back half a pace, sword flicking upward in a clean parry. Sparks sprung life like fireworks as steel rang against steel. The force numbed his hands, but Bari's piercing gaze never wavered.
Cormac's arms opened wide from the deflection and Bari took advantage as his blade lashed out, a precise slash across the cheek.
But instead of flesh yielding, the steel screeched. His blade slid uselessly across skin as hard as tempered metal. Sparks danced along Cormac's face, leaving no mark behind.
[Hardened Scales].
Cormac's attribute, Bari noted it calmly. Another layer of defence. Another puzzle to solve.
Cormac recovered instantly, boots sliding back across stone. Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed by a quick frown as sweat beaded on his brow.
Bari remained still, blade low, crimson gaze unyielding. He had seen this reaction before — the dawning realization of someone who thought strength alone would carry them.
***
Cormac's POV
When Cormac had heard the name Will-Born being called, his blood quickened. He had stepped into the circle determined to test the boy — to measure the so-called heir of the Immortal Flame.
At first glance, the target seemed underwhelming. Small frame, black hair tipped in white, with eyes too sharp for a child.
His features were lean, sharpened. In his right ear, three crystal droplets caught the light in the room, refracting it into countless shards that reflected the crimson of his eyes… The eyes that locked on to him the moment he stepped forward. The eyes that sent shivers down his spine.
Red. Layered in concentric rings that pulsed like ripples in a pond. They did not shine outward — they drew inward. A gaze that stripped him bare, peeling away strength, soul, even thought.
Cormac felt his spirit lurch, as though every secret had been dissected. He hated it. That cold sensation of being known too deeply.
He snapped from the trance and lunged, determined to end the fight swiftly. If he could crush the boy in one strike, all unease would vanish.
But the boy moved before he did. As though reading his very intent. The parry, the cheek strike — had it not been for his attribute, Cormac would have bled already.
Rage simmered under his composure, before he snuffed it out, confused as to why it came about in the first place. He considered himself level headed, so why was he angry? Was this his doing? His aspect maybe? No. That was his eyes, he was certain. Deciding not to give it too much thought, he pressed forward again.
***
Steel clashed in the circle.
Cormac unleashed a storm, blade whipping in a blur of precise arcs, his speed several times Bari's. But Bari's perception painted every motion in slow clarity. He sidestepped with an inch to spare, ducked beneath a cleave, let another strike whistle past his ear, each movement effortless.
Cormac's strength was overwhelming, enough to crush a lesser opponent in moments. But it did not matter. Speed meant nothing if every motion was anticipated.
Bari countered, slashing again and again at the same spot on Cormac's wrist. Not enough to break through the scales, but enough to grind, to punish, to remind him that every overextension was his own mistake.
Cormac snarled, grip loosening until the blade slipped from his right hand. He caught it with his left, refusing to relent, pressing forward in fury.
Bari stepped into his guard, blade flashing toward his throat — and this time, Cormac barely twisted aside, the edge kissing skin and leaving the faintest line of blood.
The crowd gasped.
Cormac pushed harder, refusing to back away. His strikes came heavier, wilder — sweat flying with every blow, boots thundering against the arena floor. His blade was no longer elegant, it was a hammer, each arc meant to crush.
Bari slipped between the swings like a shadow, but the pressure mounted. Each step he gave was measured, deliberate — and yet, the distance to the arena's edge kept shrinking. The crowd murmured, sensing the shift.
Steel clashed again, and Bari staggered back two paces, his short sword shivering under the weight of Cormac's power. Another step. Another. His heels scraped against the chalk boundary line, and for the first time, the boy's body tilted dangerously close to being forced out.
Cormac's eyes burned with triumph. He pressed harder, blade howling in a storm of arcs, a rhythm of fury and strength that demanded Bari yield.
And yet — Bari's eyes remained calm. Still, unblinking. Watching. Waiting.
Cormac raised his sword high, veins straining, body coiled for the finishing blow. He brought it down in a savage overhand strike, every ounce of strength and fury channelled into a single cut.
That was the moment.
Bari's feet shifted, weight sliding to the side at the exact instant the blade descended. The steel slammed into the floor, sparks hissing as stone cracked beneath its edge. Cormac's form opened wide — too wide.
Bari's short blade snapped upward, clean and precise, halting just beneath the older boy's throat.
The fight froze.
Cormac stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw. His pride burned hotter than his exhaustion, but his arms refused to move.
Steel hovered at his throat. The boy's red eyes never blinked.
The duel was over.