Kaelen hurried at full speed, and Leonel was spot on with his prediction. There was no delicacy, no reckoning. It was a straightforward smashing with his sword held high for a fast, sweeping chop of a powerful strike intended to stop the fight in one move. Sand is flying behind him.
A few of the spectators were shocked, that's what they thought was going to happen, a quick and brutal end.
However, Leonel's world didn't stop or slow down. Rather, it became extraordinarily clear.
He noticed the strain in Kaelen's shoulder that was leading the way. He heard the sharp and uneven breathing. He saw that the large unprotected arc of the swing was for hitting the ground.
He wasn't there to meet the blow. Besides, he didn't strike the attack. He only took one light step to the side with his body turning with an effortless ability that was quite against his age, and thus, he out-maneuvered the attack.
The blade of Kaelen's just passed him in the air, with the result of him almost falling on the ground because of the force he was carrying with his movement.
The stands were full of surprise of what they had just seen. Kaelen collected himself, scowling, heat was rising on his face from both the inside and the embarrassment. He whipped his head and charged again, slashing rapidly on a diagonal.
At that moment, Leonel lifted his blade. This time, he put no strength in the block, just enough to help the deflect. The sound of wood hitting wood was not loud, but it was a powerful impact's sound.
What was happening was a rejection. A redirect. He was fine with it as he had to throw her further off-balance; in this case, the direction of the blow, besides the deceptiveness of the move, she was confused the most.
Leonel took a moment to consider his cousin's eyes now. Confusion was there, the replacement for the previous smugness. The script that was supposed to be followed was not.
Now, Leonel thought.
He didn't do it. No announcement, no grand wind-up. He only shifted his weight; his Essence core responded, connecting a line of power from his arm to the ground. He brought down the Skyfall Slash.
It was a flawless, straight-down motion. It was not the full, terrible power he had been holding back, where it would have resulted in the breaking of Kaelen's sword and possibly injuries to his arm but it was a very controlled, undeniable demonstration of force.
CRACK....
Was it the loud sound when his blade met Kaelen's? The jarring energy ran up Kaelen's arms, and the moment the yell of pain and surprise left his mouth, with a great force, his practice sword was ripped out of his hand, hitting the ground with a thud. It rolled a bit and stopped.
This time, the crowd's reaction was a louder gasp.
But Leonel was already out of place. As Kaelen stood in disbelief and tried to figure out what had happened with his numb hands, Leonel merged with the Gale Shadow Strike.
His body was no longer recognizable as human and was a fan of motion. There was a minimal sound of air being displaced, a very small change of the shadow around his feet, and then he was not here anymore, his practice sword stopped a few millimeters from Kaelen's unguarded neck.
Not a sound.
Stun silence.
Then the whole audience shouted.
The applause had changed. It was not good-mannered or controlled. It was at a loss, thrilled, vibrant with the energy of witnessing something beyond the ordinary. The people who were whispering before about the 'Duke's young son' were now talking about
"Did you see that?"
"The control..."
"That was the Gale Shadow! A child!"
"He's just an Initiate! How is that possible?"
Leonel did not pay attention to any of it. The residual energy of the moves still pumping through his veins, he put his sword down.
He saw Kaelen, whose face was as white as a sheet and shaking, not from pain, but from the overwhelming psychic shock of the defeat. Leonel made a small, polite bow.
The referee, a little bit of a dazed look on his face, eventually came to terms with what he saw and spoke:
"Winner… Leonel Graythron !"
Leonel didn't care. He left the stage towards the competitor's area. The crowd didn't see him turning to them. He didn't look for his mother's smile of approval. He just kept looking ahead, his face a serene, unreadable mask.
Though outside, his only quiet, unspoken thought kept repeating itself over and over again.
The air was so thick in the great hall, you could almost taste it. It was the flavor of ancient stone, nervous sweat, and the sharp, clean smell of steel that had been oiled.
Dust particles seemed to be dancing on the beams of sunlight that were coming through the tall windows, and the sand of the arena looked very bright because of it.
Every sound, such as the rustling of silk, the clinking of a scabbard, a nervous cough, could be heard, and the sound was coming back and getting louder because of the old acoustics of the place.
Leonel was in that ray of light, and he felt his neck getting warm.
He was no longer the amazed five-year-old boy when he first held a practice sword.
The years had done away with the softness of his face, and what was left were more defined features and a green eye color that was very calm and, perhaps, a little bit intimidating.
And those people who were expecting a boy's restless energy would be surprised. His fingers were very close to the hilt of his sword, but they were not gripping or tapping; they were just… connected.
It was something he had developed over time, always being slightly conscious of his weapon, as if it were his own heartbeat.
On the other hand, the person of Zellan Darius Ironwood, opposite to Leonel, was totally different.
When Leonel was the embodiment of calm, Zellan represented enormous potential. Like a young bull he was, His shoulders were wide and heavy, his arms were very muscular, and the muscles were the result of long hours but not of an exercise of skill and agility, rather of pure weights.
The metal was less a sword and more a piece of a tree trunk that had been made of hardened oak; its edges were not sharp, and its purpose was quite obvious: to break, to smash, and to overwhelm.
The voices of the crowd were like a breathing thing, and they adored Zellan. They were charmed by his brute strength, the simple power he had. Their hushed talks were a current moving toward him.
"See how huge he is... the Graythron boy doesn't have a single chance."
"Zellan is already a mid-stage Initiate. In his last fight, he broke the opponent's guard in three blows."
"This won't take long."
Leonel was letting this uproar go past him as if it were a river that splits around a rock. He was not conceited. He was aware of Zellan's strength and that it was real and formidable.
However, he had made the arena his teacher a long time ago, which isn't just a place for testing one's power but also a place for playing perception games.
Right now, everybody sees him as the one with the least chance of winning. It's a mask he had rubbed to a brilliant shine.
He pulled the air into his body slowly and deeply. The atmosphere seemed to be very energetic; it was like the moment before a lightning strike. This was definitely not just the quarterfinal match.
Far up on the Elders' Podium, the atmosphere was totally different. It was colder. The common hall's excitement could not reach there; instead, it was replaced by a heavy, silent, but still very much present, analytical mood.
This is where the architects of the Graythron legacy were sitting and they were watching not for entertainment but for signs.
Darian Graythorn, Captain of the 3rd Division, was standing as if he were a monument made of obsidian. His arms were crossed and his dark eyes were glued to his younger brother down the hall.
There wasn't any kind of fraternal love in his face, only the cold, calculating mind of a tactician. He immediately saw a weapon, a body, a stance, a source of power.
That it was his brother's body was just a secondary, almost inconvenient, detail.
Next to him, Lady Seraphina was sitting in a dark wood, high-backed chair.
She was the calm in the storm. Her dress was a simple and quite severe gray, and her platinum hair was just one, neat, elegant braid over her shoulder.
But her eyes, the color of the sea in winter, were like a storm inside. She was looking at Leonel with a sharp focus like a kestrel seeing not just the boy but the shadow of the man he is going to be.
More distant, in the shadow of an archway, First Elder, Valtor Graythorn, was sitting. His presence was like a cold breeze in the room.
His hair was as white as bone bleached by the sun, and his face was a network of lines carved by a hundred years of witnessing. He was very still, hardly breathing, but his old and hard like flint eyes were taking everything in.
It was Fourth Elder, a man named Kaelen with a gentle face and weary eyes, who ended the silence, "The talent this year… it's surprisingly good.