Eryndor spun through the air, wind swirling around him, lightning arcing from his fists. For the first time, he landed a clean hit on the previous first-rank, a sharp crack of impact echoing across the courtyard.
The figure staggered back slightly, then straightened, his calm expression shifting into something sharper, more intense. He finally spoke, his voice low but commanding:
"I am Dorian Veynhart," he said, almost casually, though every word carried weight. "And I've been waiting for a challenge worthy of my skill."
Eryndor's chest heaved, the taste of adrenaline sharp in his mouth. Lightning hummed along his forearms, wind tugged at his coat, and Eightfold Flow instinctively adjusted his stance.
Dorian moved with impossible speed. Each step, each shift, was calculated and lethal, a storm of martial precision fused with elemental mastery that pushed Eryndor to react before he even fully processed the attack. Lightning crackled along his fists as he blocked, dodged, and countered—but Dorian was relentless.
Every strike, every kick, every pivot forced Eryndor to adapt, to anticipate, to integrate his Ember Tier abilities into fluid martial choreography. Gale Feint carried him across the battlefield, Arc Lash crackled at his knuckles, yet Dorian matched him blow for blow.
A spinning elbow struck across Eryndor's ribs, a knee slammed into his side, and a palm strike rocked his chest. The force of the attacks was unrelenting, and though Eryndor's body moved in perfect flow, the sheer intensity began to overwhelm him.
Finally, a massive overhead strike—a combination of raw speed, precision, and elemental energy—caught Eryndor off guard. His vision blurred, his body slammed into the stone ground, and he went limp.
Yet even as his consciousness faded, something extraordinary happened. Eightfold Flow activated unconsciously. Muscle memory, instincts, and the rhythm of his martial training took over. His body subtly shifted mid-collapse, landing in a defensive crouch, maintaining a form that protected him from further harm. Even unconscious, the flow of combat continued through him.
The narrator's voice observed quietly, explaining:
What Eryndor experienced was a martial trance—a phenomenon rare even among seasoned masters. When a practitioner of Eightfold Flow is pushed to the absolute limits, their body can operate independently of the mind, guided by instinct, training, and internalized rhythm. Every strike, every dodge, every subtle adjustment flows automatically. The mind rests, but the body continues the fight. This is why, even in unconsciousness, Eryndor's form remained controlled, balanced, and defensive.
This trance is triggered when extreme stress, exhaustion, and the fusion of elemental and martial mastery converge. In Eryndor's case, the Ember Tier affinity amplified the effect—lightning coursing through his body, wind guiding every movement, and Eightfold Flow dictating the sequence of strikes and counters. He had crossed a threshold few ever reach, even without awareness.
Dorian stepped back, arms crossed, studying Eryndor's still form. "Interesting," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Most would have broken long before this point. You… are not ordinary."
Students in the stands whispered, awe-struck, as Kael lowered his gaze, noting the phenomenon quietly. Eryndor's body might have been unconscious, but his mastery, potential, and adaptability had already spoken volumes.
The battle was over for now—but even in defeat, Eryndor had revealed the rare spark that would define his path at Stormcrest Academy.