AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Trying something a bit new with the formatting here. Instead of writing out the skill name in bolded-brackets each time it's used, I highlighted them that way the first time they appeared in the chapter, and referred to them plainly thereafter. Let me know your thoughts!
Cal let the arrogant challenge go unanswered for a moment as he regarded the noble.
The man's fights in the tournament came to mind. Fists wrapped in orange heat, a fire that burned through the [Life Shield]'s magic itself. It was a power that could melt armor and cook a man from the inside out, and Cal had no way to counter it.
But the fire was only part of his arsenal. Beneath the bloodline was a disciplined pugilist, one whose form was far more technical than Vane’s wild aggression. Still, the hours spent trading blows with the legionary had forged new instincts, hardening his knuckles and honing his defensive timing. He was better with his fists now, faster than he'd been a month ago.
If I can neutralize the bloodline, this becomes a different kind of test. A free lesson. An ideal chance to stress-test my new unarmed Skills against someone better and grind proficiency without risking my life. He reassessed the casual certainty in Kasien's posture. Well. Hopefully without risking my life.
"I'll agree," Cal said, "on one condition. We keep it to unarmed Skills, with weapons and bloodlines out of it."
Kasien stared at him for a beat before letting out a barking laugh. He turned toward Astrin, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder at Cal. "Did you hear that? The kitchen boy you beat when he had his spear now wants to challenge me with only his fists." He shook his head slowly, grinning. "Has he lost his mind entirely?"
She said nothing, her unblinking eyes tracking Cal's every move unnervingly.
Kasien scoffed and turned back to Cal. "Fine. Your terms."
Cal stepped off the walkway, the crunch of gravel under his boots giving way to the silence of the lawn. As Cal moved to the center of the grassy space, Kasien reached around and unbuckled his bronze gauntlets one at a time, letting them fall to the turf. Then he straightened, rolling his neck until it cracked.
The noblemen grinned. "Let's do this."
***
He was fast.
The first [Jab] shot out before Cal had fully settled his stance: a snapping strike. He barely caught it on his raised forearm. The second followed immediately from the same hand, testing his guard's response time, and the third was a [Cross] down the center that Cal slipped, the knuckles grazing his cheekbone.
While Cal circled with his hands up, watching for the telegraphing dip that preceded power shots, Kasien bobbed with the measured cadence of a fighter drilled by thousands of hours of training. His economical and precise footwork cut off angles with small steps, never crossing his feet.
Kasien attacked in a three-beat rhythm, starting with a jab to the nose that forced his guard high. A [Hook] immediately arced around the left side to slam into Cal's guard with a jolt of pain to his shoulder, and the third punch, an [Uppercut], landed clean on his chin and drove him back a step. The impact made his teeth clack together, and for a moment, the world tilted on its axis.
He reset, tracking the distance and feeding the data into [Combat Analysis]. Kasien's jab range was about two inches further than Vane's, his hips generating torque in a refined rotation that stood in stark contrast to the instinctive explosiveness of his garrison sparring partner. Vane fought like a summer storm, loud and overwhelming, filling every available space with fists. Kasien was more like a scalpel.
Kasien sent more jabs in a metronomic rhythm, each strike landing in the identical spot on Cal's guard, drilling into him. The blocks were stacking, micro-damage compounding with each exchange as the ache in his arms deepened.
Then Kasien feinted.
The jab came in high with his left hand. Cal responded to guard exactly how he had the previous four times, his right forearm coming up to fill the lane. Kasien pulled his left back as his right hip drove through in a full-rotation cross that bypassed the raised guard entirely and slammed directly into Cal's ribs.
The impact punched the breath from his chest.
He stumbled back two steps. Pain radiated outward from the strike, acute branching lines that made the right side of his torso want to fold inward. Sucking a breath in through his teeth, he forced his diaphragm to cooperate. Kasien had already reset, guard up, looking every bit like the satisfied craftsman whose tool had performed as expected.
Cal breathed through it and let [Perfect Memory] work. Every session with Vane, catalogued and indexed. Each wrestling match on the dirt yard. Every drill with recruits who hit hard and had more experience. He pulled the relevant threads, the moments where Vane’s excitement would boil over, pushing him past technique and into pure battle lust. This created different kinds of openings. Shorter windows, but wider ones.
He'd been looking for similar tells from Kasien—signals of power shots. That was a mistake. Kasien’s telegraphs would be smaller and faster, integrated into the very pattern of his well-practiced forms.
I need to draw out more… better stop sandbagging so much.
Advancing with three short diagonal steps, Kasien started the jab sequence again. Cal met the first with a parry that deflected the blow outward. His forearm ached less, and the noble's eyes narrowed slightly at the change.
The second jab came harder, transitioning from a probe into a genuine strike. Slipping his head to the inside, Cal’s lead hand rose to meet the attack. His palm caught Kasien’s wrist, and a reflexive turn let him use [Unarmed Deflect] to guide the blow harmlessly over his shoulder. The redirection created a half-second opening for a counter, an opportunity he catalogued and let pass while still building his blueprint of the man's style.
[Your proficiency with Unarmed Deflect (F) has increased to Adept]
Kasien threw a hook. Cal took a single step backward to let the attack fall short, stones grinding under his boot heel as he reset his stance. The manor path. Traction is inconsistent where the gravel is looser. He took note of that and circled left.
Kasien followed, his footwork adjusting cleanly. The three-punch combination came again with a variation. Jab, jab, uppercut, skipping the hook entirely this time. Cal's guard caught the first two, and the uppercut grazed his chin as he leaned back.
Close.
He pushed [Tumbling] into action, letting his weight fall backward deliberately. He rolled across his shoulders in a controlled break-fall that converted the stumble into momentum, coming back to his feet two yards away as gravel sprayed from his boots.
[Your proficiency with Tumbling (F) has increased to Adept]
Kasien paused, one eyebrow lifting a fraction.
[Savant of the Body] threaded observations into muscle memory in real-time, adjustments feeding from analysis into action without conscious thought. Cal bounced twice on his toes, feeling the spring in his legs.
I think I've seen enough.
He broke his circling pattern, driving in low at an inward angle.
Kasien jabbed out to reestablish distance. Cal ducked under it. He drove forward, his back foot pushing off a loose patch of gravel with a quick hop. He planted his lead foot inside Kasien's stance.
The noble's eyes went wide for half a second.
Cal snapped his right elbow upward in a tight [Elbow Strike], the blow catching Kasien across the lower lip with a solid thunk that echoed briefly off the stone walls.
The noble’s head jerked back as he staggered a few steps away, touching two fingers to his split lip. He looked at the smear of red, and another quiet chime resonated in Cal’s mind.
[Your proficiency with Elbow Strike (F) has increased to Adept]
A muscle in Kasien's jaw flexed.
The composed, technical rigor of his guard shifted slowly, a subtle change like ice on a warming river. His shoulders pulled up slightly, narrowing inward, a posture drawing force toward his center. When the jabs came again they were harder, their probing flow giving way to a heavier and more impatient tempo.
There it is.
Cal read the change in the noble's physical tells, seeing the analytical calm in his eyes give way to a hot temper. With more weight behind each combination, Kasien sacrificed the fraction of a second needed for proper setup. His strikes remained good, too well-trained for anger to make them sloppy, but he'd traded their exacting placement for greater force.
A cautious use of [Jumping] cleared a sweeping kick, the hop carrying him just above the attacking leg.
[Your proficiency with Jumping (F) has increased to Adept]
He landed lightly, his feet immediately mobile. As Kasien drove forward to press the perceived advantage, Cal pivoted adeptly and let the charge carry past. A slap against the noble’s shoulder as he moved through redirected the momentum, forcing Kasien’s lead foot onto an unstable spread of gravel.
While his training prevented an outright fall, the sudden loss of traction forced Kasien to stumble, and his guard dropped for a critical half-second as he fought for balance. Cal didn't waste the opening. He flowed from the pivot into a spin, his rear leg snapping around in a vicious [Roundhouse Kick]. His shin connected with Kasien’s ribs with a loud thud, driving the air from the noble’s lungs in a choked gasp. The force knocked Kasien off his feet, sending him sprawling sideways onto the gravel path.
[Your proficiency with Roundhouse Kick (F) has increased to Adept]
He pushed himself onto one knee, stones digging into his palm. A dark flush crept up his neck, and his eyes burned with fury. "Stop. Moving," he growled, the words clipped and dangerous as he rose.
"I'll take that under advisement," Cal said, his own ribs aching in sympathy.
Kasien came forward again, his controlled form dissolving. This time the combination was a relentless barrage of hooks and crosses that drove Cal backward in a straight line. He blocked two of the strikes and deflected a third, but a glancing hook still caught his shoulder and spun him sideways. Cal used the forced rotation, transitioning smoothly into a fluid roll that carried him off the direct attack line before he came up on one knee, ready to push back to his feet.
Kasien threw a hook meant to finish it.
Cal saw the punch coming, a looping overhand right telegraphed by the dip of the man's shoulder. Ducking under it, the displaced air brushed his skin as the knuckles whistled past his ear. The miss only stoked the noble's anger into a brighter flame. The technical exchange was over.
Kasien exploded in a torrent of unrestrained violence. A fast [Front Kick] slammed into Cal’s stomach, forcing him back. Before he could reset his footing, Kasien was on him, closing the distance with a vicious elbow strike that glanced off his forehead. Cal lurched into a [Clinch], and a knee drove hard into his thigh. He pushed off, creating space, but Kasien flowed with him, a roundhouse kick hammering into his upraised arm, then another. The pressure was suffocating, a constant battering that barely gave him time to react. His arms grew heavy, his footing on the loose gravel became a constant concern, and his defense started to fray under the sheer volume of attacks.
Then, through the haze of pain and pressure, [Combat Analysis] delivered a moment of chilling realization. Kasien feinted a jab, a move Cal had seen and deflected a dozen times. But this time was different. His mind raced backward, connecting the dots of the last exchange with lightning speed. The kick to his left leg that forced him to shift his weight. The repeated hooks that conditioned him to raise his right arm high. An elbow that made him instinctively duck his head. Each strike had been a piece of a larger puzzle, a sequence of moves designed to herd him into this exact defensive posture.
This whole sequence was a trap.
The feinted jab pulled his guard up and out of position. His stance was already compromised. The final blow, a full-rotation cross aimed at the opening he’d just exposed in his ribs, was already in motion. A perfect checkmate.
As the fist traveled the last few inches, the air around Kasien's knuckles ignited. A searing orange light flared into existence, wrapping the strike in a corona of fire. The punch connected, and a wave of heat burned through his acid-pitted leather, bypassing the weakened groveback plates. The flesh beneath felt as if it had been pressed against a forge brick. His knees buckled. He lurched back three hard steps, one hand clamped to his side, breathing in shallow, forced increments.
He looked down.
The leather around the new burn was blackened and brittle. He touched the edge, and flakes crumbled away under his fingertips, exposing the damaged surface beneath. Old acid scarring from the tendril's blood ran along the same panel and the two different damage sources in one location had turned a compromised piece of armor into something barely held together.
I really need to scrap this thing and buy some better gear, he thought idly.
Across the courtyard, Kasien stood still. The heat had drained from his face, leaving his expression stiff and uncertain. He drew himself up slowly, his shoulders squaring as if suddenly aware of his audience. The embarrassment was visible despite his best efforts, in the tight set of his mouth and the deliberate restraint of his hands. His eyes met Cal's.
"I admit…" Kasien said, the words being dragged out of him. "I thought your place in the tournament finals was a fluke. Now I see that your strength was earned. Good fight."
Cal held the man's gaze, reading the effort it had cost him to say it, and nodded once. "You too."
Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. The Mycari woman stepped forward from the garden wall, gliding silently across the white gravel. She carried a small ceramic pot in both hands. As she drew closer, the scent of cool herbs reached him first, something green and faintly minty that cut through the smell of burnt leather.
She stopped a foot away and held the pot out, her features calm and open. "A remarkable display," she said in a soft voice. "I am Lyraethis. This will soothe the burn."
Cal looked at the pot, then let his [Spiritual Perception] brush it lightly, expecting some deceit. What he felt gave him pause.
It seemed genuine.
Looking up into her face, he met the large amber eyes regarding him patiently. For Cal, the Mycari were an equation with a predictable result: violence. From the first alley beating to the moment he left Narbok bleeding on the tournament sands, their animosity had been absolute. They saw his rounded ears as a brand of corruption, a dilution of their stolen heritage. He weighed that brutal experience against what his [Spiritual Perception] was telling him now, and he struggled to reconcile the woman's sincere offer with Thal's lifetime of violence and his own reality.
He opened his mouth to speak.
"My turn."
The words came from behind Lyraethis.
Astrin Kaelix emerged from the shade near the table, her hand resting on the pommel of her sheathed longsword. Her eyes retained the predatory focus they'd held since she first looked at him. She stopped beside Lyraethis, and the Mycari woman's outstretched arm remained suspended uncertainly between them, the small ceramic pot still waiting.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Happy Friday everyone! I'm so glad we've made it to the end of a long week. I hope you enjoy the chapter and have a great weekend.
Tune in Monday for Cal's rematch with Astrin!
Cheers,
Jon