Chapter 25 – Eterna Divide.
The silence was broken.
"Begin." Bravira's voice, absolute.
Damon didn't move. He focused.
The suit on his opponent, Ragnar, flared—orange hair falling forward to shadow his eyes, stance low and coiled. His armor gleamed like molten steel, pulsing faintly with Blaze‑Stage power. Faster. Stronger.
The first punch came fast.
A blur of armored steel aimed at Damon's center.
Damon crossed his arms in an X, bracing for impact.
The blow landed hard, sending him flying backward—but his feet scraped against the floor, sliding, grinding, slowing. He stopped just short of the wall, boots smoking from friction.
Every strike he dodged wasn't survival. It was knowledge. Every feint was like a lesson carved into his bones.
Ragnar didn't wait.
He charged in, fast—almost as fast as the demon Damon had fought.
Damon could keep up. Barely.
He ducked, twisted, parried. His hands lit with unstable light Eterna, glowing faintly but not yet weaponized. He couldn't manipulate light—not yet—but it shimmered across his knuckles like a torch.
He struck back, not to win, but to learn.
A quick jab to the opponent's back.
A dodge.
Another feint.
Cythera had said it clearly: study your opponent.
From the viewing platform above, Bravira scoffed.
"Isn't this the boy that beat the demon?"
Varnex replied, unimpressed.
"Yes. But he's got no spark in him."
Thorpax folded his arms.
"I thought he was supposed to be a fighter, but—"
He stopped. Watching Damon dodge again, Ragnar stumbling slightly.
Damon had an opening. He didn't take it.
Draven's calm voice cut through.
"He's reading an opponent stronger than him."
Cythera nodded.
"That's what I asked him to do. But he should be aiming to finish now. Or he'll get beaten."
Damon moved.
He jumped, using Ragnar's shoulder as leverage, launching himself into the air.
Ragnar smirked.
"You're in the air. You can't move as you please."
Of course not, Damon thought.
Ragnar raised his hand, charging an energy blast—a pure, spherical orb of Eterna energy, aimed at the exposed target.
Damon crossed his glowing hands in front of him, bracing.
The blast hit—but he caught it.
The impact still sent him flying, but the damage was minimised.
Smoke and light filled the space between them.
The spectators leaned forward.
Damon was gone.
"I win," Damon said.
The light cleared.
He was standing in front of Ragnar, calm, eyes locked.
Ragnar staggered, drained from the sudden expenditure of power.
Damon struck—a clean hit to the gut.
Ragnar flew backward, crashing hard.
He didn't get up.
Damon turned his back.
Ragnar stirred, rushing forward in desperation.
Damon dodged, effortless.
They passed each other, side by side.
Before Ragnar could collapse from his own failed strike, Damon turned and slammed a punch into his back, driving him into the ground.
Silence.
Defeat.
All five tutors were stunned.
Bravira's arms folded, her eyes narrowed—not in fury, but in confusion.
She slammed her fist into the glass they watched through from above, the floor vibrating beneath her boots.
"Did you see what he did there?"
Varnex tilted his head, blinking slowly.
"I don't understand it either."
Draven murmured, calm as ever.
"He compressed the blast. Didn't block it—pressed it into his palms."
Cythera's gaze was steady, unreadable.
"Smart. He knows our laws of conservation. That's not brute force. That's control."
Thorpax smirked.
"I was about to ask if Bravira taught him that. Guess she didn't."
Bravira's eyes flared.
"I know the laws of conservation!" she roared, boots cracking the floor again.
Ragnar stirred.
He rose slowly, one knee down, head bowed.
The back of his fist pressed to his forehead—a soldier's gesture of respect.
"It was an honour," he said, voice low, reverent. "To be the first to fight the prince."
Damon blinked, his calm expression flickering into surprise.
He shifted slightly, unsure, as Ragnar stood and extended his hand—not for a shake, but for a bow.
"What's your name?" Damon asked, voice soft.
"Ragnar," the soldier replied.
"Ragnar, shake my hand."
"I cannot shake the prince's hand."
"Just shake it."
"I cannot."
Damon stepped forward, trying to force his own hand through the suit's stiffness.
Ragnar dashed away, light on his feet.
Damon murmured, half amused, half annoyed.
"It's just a handshake…"
He had fought for respect, but even now, tradition kept him at arm's length.
Bravira's voice cut through the moment.
"Come up here, Damon. Explain what you just did."
Damon walked toward them, his steps slow, deliberate.
The light on his hands had faded, with a cut on his face and slight blood in a straight line on his cheek.
"I was studying him," Damon said.
Draven folded his arms, smirking.
"That, we figured out. But the tigress here doesn't seem to understand."
Bravira growled under her breath.
Damon continued, eyes calm, voice steady.
"Energy can't be destroyed. But it can be broken apart. Spread thin. Made harmless."
Thorpax nodded.
"Dissipated."
"Exactly," Damon said.
"I focused. Compressed the blast into a tighter sphere. Then let it burst outward—harmlessly diffused, and I took advantage of the couple seconds it blinded him."
Cythera tilted her head, her voice quiet.
"But how did you know your hands wouldn't be destroyed?"
Damon looked down at his palms, flexing them once.
"I covered them in light. And… a little bit of instinct, I guess."
Varnex chuckled.
"I guess you're steadily unlocking your father's experience."
Damon didn't reply.
He just folded his arms, the mark across his chest glowing faintly.
His eyes were calm—but deeper now, as if he had seen something none of them could.
Cythera walked forward, her steps light but deliberate.
Her voice was calm, steady.
"You did well. None of us expected you would be able to beat a Blaze Stage warrior."
Damon shook his head, the faint glow of his scar catching the light.
"I only beat Ragnar because I was smarter. A Blaze‑Stage warrior is still stronger than me."
Cythera's gaze didn't waver.
"You'll be training while you're learning in school. You'll be fine."
Damon turned his eyes downward, across the barrier to the other side of the training hall.
Nyra was already at work, her hands alive with fire manipulation, aiming blasts at a tall device that measured how high her power output reached.
His voice carried across the silence, curious, edged with thought.
"Why are there people in suits on one side, and people in normal clothes on the other?"
Commander Laros stood tall, his exosuit humming faintly, the crimson visor reflecting Damon's face. His voice carried the weight of steel and discipline as he spoke, not to lecture but to carve truth into the air.
"There are two kinds of knights in Woewyn. The Natural Knights, and the Suited Ones."
Damon's eyes narrowed, his fists still faintly glowing, listening.
"The Natural Knights," Laros continued, "are born with Eterna flowing through their veins. They fight with their bodies, their instincts, their raw connection to the world. They channel power without aid, without armor, without machines. Their strength is discipline, their weakness is fragility. They burn bright, but their flame can be snuffed out if they are reckless."
He shifted, the silver lines across his suit pulsing as if to punctuate his words.
"The Suited Ones are different. We are forged. Our bodies are encased in exosuits that amplify Eterna, channel it into weapons, shields, blasts. We are not born with the same raw connection. We are engineered to endure. To strike harder. To survive longer. But the suit is both our strength and our cage. Without it, we are weaker than the Naturals."
Damon tilted his head, his scar faintly glowing, his mind tracing the words.
"So Naturals are pure. Suited are enhanced."
Laros nodded once, slow, deliberate.
"Exactly. Naturals fight with what they are. Suited fight with what they wear. Both are necessary. Both bleed for Woewyn. But only one can stand at the front when the kingdom calls."
His visor dimmed slightly, the hum of his suit lowering as he leaned closer.
"You, Prince Damon, are neither. You are something else. And that is why we test you."
Damon turned toward the barrier, his eyes following Nyra as she worked with fire, her blasts striking the tall device that measured power output. "Can I go to her side?" he asked, voice steady but edged with curiosity. "I want to learn how to manipulate light from the soldiers first."
Bravira's gaze sharpened, her tone clipped but not unkind. "People who use light are rare. But you're lucky—there are three of them here who are somewhat experienced, in the Natural Base, they'll be your initial teachers."
Draven leaned back, folding his arms, his voice calm but probing. "Do you not have other plans for the day?"
Damon lifted his hand in a small gesture, his scar faintly glowing as he answered. "I don't have any plans really. I'm a prince of a kingdom I barely know. Besides… I'd like to train with my sister."
Thorpax's heavy frame shifted closer, his voice dropping low, almost a growl. "You should go," he said, then leaned in, whispering into Damon's ear with eerie weight. "I suggest you do some strength training."
A chill ran down Damon's spine, cold and sudden, but he walked forward anyway, his steps carrying both determination and eagerness. The chill wasn't fear. It was recognition — the weight of strength demanding to be earned.