The courtyard buzzed with anticipation as the next round began. Eryndor's first victory had left whispers in the air, but nothing had prepared his cousins for what came next. One by one, his opponents stepped forward—stronger, faster, more confident than the last.
The second match began with a lean cousin, known for his speed and agility. He lunged at Eryndor immediately, a flurry of punches aimed to overwhelm. But Eryndor moved as if guided by some invisible rhythm. His feet shifted, body twisting, and he flowed around each strike, the faint pull of wind guiding his movements.
This… this is Eightfold Flow, he realized mid-motion. Each step and pivot mirrored the patterns his grandfather had drilled into him for years—defense flowing into offense, offense dissolving into evasive motion. The difference now was the addition of his affinities.
Lightning sparked along his fingers as he deflected a punch, a subtle current jolting through his cousin's arm. At the same time, the wind carried his movement forward, allowing him to sidestep into a position behind his opponent. A gentle push, almost imperceptible, and the cousin tripped, sprawling onto the stones.
Gasps ran through the spectators. His cousins' confident smirks had faltered into surprise.
The third match was more dangerous. A taller, broader cousin, known for brute strength, charged like a battering ram. Eryndor's eyes narrowed. This is different… heavier, slower, but powerful. He adjusted his stance, letting his body flow into the first fold of the Eightfold Flow: rooted stability. Each blow he absorbed fed into his next motion rather than stopping him. Lightning flared faintly as he parried a punch; a gust of wind redirected his momentum into a spinning kick that sent the large cousin staggering backward.
By the time the match ended, Eryndor was breathing steadily, untouched by the brute's most dangerous strikes. The courtyard was silent for a moment before whispers of astonishment began spreading.
Eryndor stepped back, letting the wind settle around him and the sparks in his hands fade. His mind raced. Every match was teaching him more than mere victory—it was teaching him how to blend his martial training with his elemental affinities. Eightfold Flow was the skeleton; lightning and wind were the muscles, the movement, the instinct.
As the rounds continued, Eryndor began to combine techniques more fluidly. Pulse Step allowed him to dodge almost imperceptibly; Nerve Ignite subtly disrupted his opponents' muscle control mid-attack; Gale Feint shifted his position in the air, letting him strike from angles they couldn't anticipate.
By the fifth match, even his strongest cousins hesitated before approaching. Eryndor's movements were no longer just defense and attack—they were anticipation, adaptation, improvisation. Every strike told a story: years of grueling martial training, months of elemental awakening, and the memory of survival from Kael's alley.
When the round finally ended, Eryndor's father stepped forward, gaze sharp but unreadable. "Enough for now," he said. The family members murmured among themselves, some impressed, others wary.
Eryndor wiped sweat from his brow, letting the faint electric tingle in his fingers settle. Lyanna, watching from the edge of the courtyard, smiled slightly. She didn't cheer—not yet—but her eyes glimmered with pride.
Eryndor flexed his hands, feeling the subtle hum of his dual affinities and the flow of his body. This was only the beginning, but already, he could feel the storm within him growing stronger.