The New Year was closing in fast.
At Taisha's request, Andrew reworked my training. Less brute force—more flexibility, mobility, speed. Endurance stayed. Of course it did.
After nearly a week of what felt like pointless freezing in the middle of an empty field, something finally clicked.
I stopped focusing on my body.
Started listening to everything else.
"Hey—!"
I knocked a stick out of the air just before it smashed into my face and shot Taisha an annoyed look.
"I told you not to open your eyes," she said calmly.
"I would've lost them if I didn't!" I snapped.
"First rule."
…Right.
I exhaled and shut my eyes again.
My body was a mess—fresh bruises layered over old ones, cuts, scrapes. At some point, branches weren't enough for her anymore.
She switched to stones.
Hurts like hell.
Works even better.
With my eyes closed, I was catching eight out of ten now.
"Good," she said. "Tomorrow we move to daytime training. At dawn, we begin striking."
And just like that—
whatever free time I had left disappeared.
Taisha even told Clyde not to summon me.
And somehow—
he listened.
Didn't argue.
Didn't push.
That alone was unsettling.
The worst part?
She made me train in the busiest area of the academy.
Eyes closed.
Stones flying.
People watching.
The first few days were unbearable.
Every laugh. Every comment. Every whisper.
It all got under my skin.
And the noise—
constant, overwhelming.
On the third day, I tried blocking it out with my power.
Big mistake.
She beat me with a stick.
Twenty hits.
Right there. In front of everyone.
Robert saw it too.
That made it worse.
I thought things would ease up once I hit eight out of ten.
They didn't.
She blindfolded me.
Let me move—but only within one step in any direction.
Nothing more.
And she threw in ways that forced my body into angles that felt outright wrong.
Twisting. Bending.
Like I wasn't built for it.
But the results came fast.
During sparring, I could feel it.
Cleaner movement. Faster reactions.
Better timing.
Still—
I hadn't touched her.
Not once.
One day left before my first duel.
The one Taisha signed me up for.
Two days until break.
I wasn't going home—but the idea of freedom still felt… good.
"So," Robert grinned over dinner, "ready to get your ass kicked?"
"Get lost," I muttered. "I don't even want to do this."
"Too late. No backing out now. Don't worry—I'll try not to break anything important."
"Who goes first?" Matthew asked calmly.
Three fights.
Back-to-back.
"You decide. I'll go last," Robert smirked. "After me, there won't be anything left anyway."
"Don't be so confident."
Taisha.
She appeared beside the table without a sound.
"That one," she pointed across the hall, "first."
Then at Robert.
"Second."
Then at Matthew.
"Third."
"As you say," Robert said easily. "Though Matthew might as well skip it."
Taisha didn't answer.
Just looked at him.
Then walked away.
"See?" Robert snorted. "Even your teacher agrees."
"She just doesn't talk much."
The duel was set for five.
Matches always took priority—students were pulled from classes if needed. The stadium filled fast whenever something interesting was happening.
And this—
was interesting.
I stood near the lower stands, tugging at my jacket.
Too many people.
Way too many.
Duels usually drew a few dozen spectators.
This?
Felt like the entire academy showed up.
I spotted Andrew. Miror.
Even several other instructors.
On the elite side—the council chairman, Theodore beside him.
Clyde too.
Of course.
Kristina caught my eye and waved.
"Take it off," Taisha said.
I didn't argue.
Pulled off my jacket.
Stepped forward.
The referee took one badge from each of us.
"One rule. No killing. Ten steps."
We counted.
Turned.
"Begin."
He rushed me immediately.
Staff in hand.
Long reach.
I had nothing.
No weapon.
Didn't need one.
I moved.
Just like Taisha drilled into me.
Watch. Read. React.
It worked.
Faster than I expected.
I slipped past a strike—
closed in—
struck.
The staff flew out of his hands.
Murmurs from the stands.
Disapproval.
Didn't matter.
He hesitated—
just a fraction.
Then came again.
Bare hands this time.
One punch barely missed.
The air alone told me—
that would've knocked me out.
I kept moving.
Smooth. Controlled.
Like a rhythm.
Until he slowed.
That was enough.
Low kick.
Knees.
Grip—pressure points along the neck.
He dropped.
Didn't get up.
"Winner: Alan Holivan!"
Two badges.
Five minutes.
That's all I got.
Then—
Robert.
"You've gotten better," he said, grinning. "But I've got more stamina than you."
We stepped apart.
Ten paces.
He didn't rush.
Watched.
Waited.
Like a predator.
That look—
cold.
Focused.
Uncomfortable.
We tested each other.
Short exchanges.
Distance again.
Then—
something new.
From his hand—
power formed.
A spear.
I barely dodged.
It stretched—
longer—
almost hit my stomach.
I twisted away—
another one already coming.
Bent back so far my spine screamed—
nearly hit the ground.
He pulled them back—
raised both hands—
and unleashed a barrage.
Smaller spears.
Faster.
Endless.
No pause.
They forced me to move—
twist—
bend—
push past limits.
If I kept dodging—
I'd collapse.
So I stopped playing safe.
Let one hit.
A sharp slice across my forearm.
Pain flared—
ignored it.
Dropped low—
and lunged forward.