The announcer's voice cut through the arena like a blade.
"Next—Kael Vortan! Second-year! Stormfinch Raptor bloodline!"
The shift in the crowd was immediate. It wasn't fear—just tension, sharp and purposeful. Stormfinch Raptors were rare. Their bloodline produced Blood Hunters who could turn the space around them into a storm of razor movement.
Wake exhaled sharply. "Of course it's him."
Starke muttered, "He's fast. Very fast."
Orin didn't answer. His pulse was still settling from the last match, but there was no trembling in his limbs. Only focus. Kael descended the stone steps on the far side of the arena with a confidence Orin recognized—not arrogance. Something colder. Someone who expected strength and punished weakness.
Kael stopped ten paces away.
His hair fell in sharp black strands over eyes the color of pale lightning. His build was lean, precise—not bulky like Alder, not fluid like Selise. Everything about him looked coiled.
"Orin Slain," he said. "You put down the first two cleanly."A small nod. "Good. I don't tolerate wasting effort."
Orin rolled his shoulders. "I'll try not to waste yours."
A faint curl touched Kael's lip. Not amusement. Approval.
The announcer raised an arm. "Standard rules apply. Nonlethal engagement. Stop at unconsciousness or clear submission. Begin when the bell tolls."
Kael lowered into stance—not a Blood Surge stance, but something sharper. His weight centered. Heel lifted. Fingers flexed once, then stilled completely.
The bell sounded.
Kael vanished.
No glow. No warning. No wind-up. Just motion—pure, surgical motion.
Orin twisted, the air beside his head splitting with a crack as Kael's fist whistled past. The blow landed on the ground instead with a spark, stone dust scattering.
Lightning flickered across Kael's knuckles.
Stormfinch Raptor speed.
Orin brought an elbow up to guard, but Kael was already gone—pivoting behind him with frightening ease. Another blow slammed into Orin's ribs, fast enough to make his vision flash white.
Orin staggered, catching breath. Kael was faster than anyone he'd fought—faster than Vince at full trait usage, faster than Sonny when he'd ignited his Blessing in practice.
"You're reacting," Kael said calmly, circling. "But you're not reading."
He came again.
Orin ducked instinctively, Kael's leg slicing overhead like a cutting arc. Orin threw a counterpunch—Kael slid past it, palm striking Orin's shoulder, shock crackling along the nerves.
The impact jolted Orin's arm numb.
Wake's voice echoed from the stands. "Orin—don't match his rhythm! Break it!"
Kael pressed forward with a short combination—jab, elbow, palm strike. Sharp. Clean. Lightning-fast.
Each hit pushed Orin further back.
His breaths grew tight. His muscles tightened—not from fear, but the instinct to defend that threatened to lock him into a losing pattern.
He tried a cut-step and countered with a hook. Kael weaved around it with insulting ease, tapping Orin's jaw with two fingers.
"I can hit harder," Kael murmured, "but I'm giving you a chance to adjust."
Orin wiped blood from his lip. "Generous."
"I just prefer a fight worth remembering."
Kael's heel cracked into Orin's guard, numbing his forearm to the elbow. The air buzzed faintly—faint static trailing the movement like feathers brushing the air.
Stormfinch trait.
Speed enhanced by controlled electric discharge.
The kind of mobility Orin wasn't trained for.
He forced himself to slow his breathing. Think. Feel.
Kael blurred again.
Orin pivoted—barely—catching Kael's strike on his shoulder instead of his jaw. Pain burst down his back, but he held his footing.
Kael's eyes flicked with sharpened interest.
"Oh? Better."
He stepped back once. Twice.
Then he inhaled.
Lightning gathered around him—not wild, but precise, flowing into his limbs like threads woven into flesh.
Blood Surge.
Mid-level mastery—controlled, sustained, disciplined.
The static in the arena thickened.
Wake whispered, "That's not good."
Starke muttered, "No kidding."
Kael lowered into a stance Orin hadn't seen before. Aerial weight distribution. Raptor lines of motion. Predator stillness.
He disappeared.
Orin didn't even see the opening step. He only felt the hit—a hammering strike that crashed into his sternum and sent him skidding backward across the stone. Air left his lungs in a violent shock.
Kael didn't let him breathe.
The second hit cracked across his cheek. The third slammed his ribs. Each blow came from a different angle—high, low, side, inside—like Kael had become a dozen versions of himself striking at once.
Electricity trailed every impact, stinging nerves, distorting Orin's sense of timing.
Kael swept low; Orin barely jumped the leg. But Kael's follow-up palm strike caught him midair, slamming him flat to the ground.
Stone split beneath Orin's back.
Kael stood over him—not mocking. Evaluating. Studying.
"You're strong," Kael said. "But you're hesitating. Your body wants to do something—it's trying to. But you're stopping it."
Orin's breath shook as he pushed to one knee.
"Something?" he asked.
Kael stepped back, giving space. "Your instinct. You're fighting like you think you should. Not like you were meant to."
The murmurs in the crowd grew.
Wake gripped the railing. "Orin… just breathe."
Starke hissed softly. "This isn't good."
The pressure in Orin's body built like heat under skin. Like something pacing behind his ribs, restless, clawing—not violently, but insistently. A pull toward movement he recognized and feared.
Not transformation—not fully.
Just release.
His breath deepened. The sound of the crowd softened. His heartbeat slowed… then sharpened.
The world tilted—then clarified.
Colors brightened. Edges crisped. his body loosened as if waking from a half-sleep. His hands opened and closed, strength pulsing through tendons.
A low hum rolled through him—not heard, but felt.
Kael's brows lifted. "There it is."
Orin stepped forward.
Not planned. Not rehearsed.
He slipped into a movement he hadn't used since childhood—one Vince taught him on the roof behind the inn. A loose, rolling momentum. A feint disguised as clumsiness. A sudden spring. A deceptive sway.
Vince's style—wild, playful, with teeth hidden behind laughter.
He flowed sideways, dipping low, letting his weight shift unpredictably.
It was not human footwork.
It was closer to a Cliffscale Ape—a creature famous for using gravity as a toy, not a rule.
Gasps rose in the arena.
"What—what stance is that?"
"He's bending like his spine's liquid—what is he doing?"
Yoren leaned forward. "Movement like that… the misdirection… the burst angles… that's Cliffscale Ape behavior."
Another instructor whispered, "But his aggression… the ferocity in his eyes—that's Vrexus patterning."
Orin didn't hear any of it.
He was moving—light, fluid, on instinct, but guided by memory. A roll under Kael's jab. A flip backward over Kael's leg sweep. A sudden drop to hands and feet, darting sideways like an animal evading a pounce.
He struck from below, palm slamming into Kael's ribs.
Kael staggered.
Electric sparks scattered.
"Oh?" Kael's eyes widened. "Interesting."
He surged again, lightning wrapping his arms. His footwork sharpened. His strikes came harder—one, two, three, four—aiming to crush Orin's newfound rhythm.
But Orin flowed under them.
Kael struck; Orin bent backward, spine arching like a drawn bow. Kael elbowed; Orin rotated sideways on one hand, spinning away. Kael launched a knee; Orin used it, catching it lightly and flipping overhead, landing behind him in a crouch.
Kael froze.
"…You weren't moving like this earlier."
"Neither were you," Orin said.
Kael grinned—the first real smile he'd shown. "Good. Don't disappoint me now."
He charged.
Orin met him.
The clash exploded with motion. Kael struck with surgical precision; Orin slipped, rolled, twisted. Sometimes he dodged by an inch. Sometimes he let hits glance off instead of taking them full-on.
He wasn't matching Kael's speed exactly.
He was predicting it.
Feeling the motion a heartbeat before it appeared.
Kael's Blood Surge crackled, lightning rippling across his arms.
Orin's body answered—not with light, but with instinct. Animalistic angles. Feral footwork. His eyes glowed faintly—silver-blue catching the arena light like moons behind smoke.
His nails lengthened—not claws, but sharper, grown under stress, glinting faintly.
He caught Kael's forearm mid-strike—the electricity stinging but not stopping him. Kael twisted, trying to break the hold.
Orin didn't let him.
He stepped inward, letting Kael's momentum pull him off balance. With a sudden shift—precise as a trap snapping shut—Orin's hand shot upward, fingers hooking across Kael's cheek and jaw.
Gasps erupted.
Kael's eyes widened. He tried to break free.
Orin pivoted.
He used Kael's speed against him—snaring his face, rotating sharply, and slamming him into the arena floor with a crack that echoed like breaking stone.
The impact shook the arena. Dust erupted.
Kael lay still.
The lightning around him flickered, then vanished.
Silence flooded the space.
Then—
"Combatant Kael—unconscious!"
The announcement hit like thunder.
The arena exploded into noise.
"What in the—? How did he—?""Is he a mid-tier Blood Hunter? No—high tier—has to be—""Did you see his eyes?""What bloodline is that?""That wasn't human movement—"
Yoren stood with a face that couldn't decide between alarm and awe.
Wake muttered, breath unsteady, "Orin…"
Starke whispered, "He wasn't kidding. He's different."
Orin stood over Kael, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles—not from claws, just skin torn from impact. His eyes slowly dimmed back to normal. His breath steadied.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he stepped back, shaking the tremor out of his hand. He didn't look at the crowd. Or at Kael. Or at anyone.
He only breathed—deep, steady, grounding himself.
Inside, his heartbeat finally slowed.
Whatever stirred in his blood…Whatever woke for that moment…
It was quiet again.
But not gone.
Never gone.
The evaluation was done.