The alley cracked under their movements, stone breaking where fists and feet collided. Sparks flashed, gusts scattered dust into the air. Kael's mask gleamed faintly in the chaos as he pressed forward, each strike honed to kill.
Eryndor ducked beneath a sweeping elbow, sliding low with Pulse Step, and shot upward with a lightning-coated palm. Kael blocked, his arm twitching from the jolt, yet his balance never faltered.
The fight burned hot, but in its rhythm, a truth unfolded.
In this world, magic was not equal. Every person who awakened their affinity was measured, ranked—not just by power, but by potential. The system was simple but merciless:
Spark Tier — the weakest, those whose affinity flickered like a candle. Ember Tier — a steady flame, capable of small spells and techniques. Inferno Tier — where magic became a weapon, wielded with force. Tempest Tier — affinities given form, reshaping the battlefield. Aether Tier — the rare pinnacle, where one's element bent like an extension of the soul itself.
Most spent lifetimes clawing their way up these ranks, their growth stifled by limits they couldn't cross. Some never climbed at all.
Eryndor's lightning crackled across his fists again, brighter, sharper than moments ago. He wasn't climbing by steps—he was leaping. Each strike made him faster, each clash taught him something new.
And behind that growth was another truth—one born before magic.
His grandfather's lessons.
The old man's voice still echoed in his mind: "A strike without balance is wasted effort. A stance without intent is an open grave. Your body is your first weapon. Learn it. Trust it. Only then can you wield anything else."
For years, Eryndor had trained in silence, mastering a martial form his grandfather called The Eightfold Flow—a style of seamless transitions, shifting between offense and defense like water through stone. Its foundation was simple: adaptability. A stance never rigid, a strike never wasted.
But training in courtyards and sparring against family was nothing compared to this. Kael was no partner—he was a predator. Each blow carried intent, each movement honed by blood and survival.
And yet… Eryndor was keeping up.
Not because his technique was perfect, but because his instincts fused with lightning and wind. The Eightfold Flow taught him to adjust—now the wind carried those adjustments farther, lightning sharpened them deadlier. He was improvising, bending lessons into weapons, making them his own in the heat of combat.
Kael blocked another flurry of strikes, his cloak scorched, his movements tighter now. The masked fighter spoke evenly, though his breath came heavier. "You're untrained in magic, yet you fight as if you've always wielded it. What are you?"
Eryndor's grin widened, lightning crawling across his shoulders, wind tugging at his stance. "Me?" His tone dripped with pride. "I'm the one you're about to lose to."
And with that, he launched forward—martial arts flowing like a river, lightning sparking like a storm, wind guiding each motion as if the world itself had joined his fight.