Lady Seraphina's voice was like a bell, but it was very low and very clear. "Thaddeus Graythorn. Eamon has turned him into a blade of great quality. His mastery of the basics is… perfect."
After the podium, a loud and harsh laugh was heard. Lord Edric Windlance, a big, strong man who held his spear as if it were his hand, was shaking his head. "I agree that Thaddeus is a good weapon. But that Moonshadow girl… Liora. She is like air. She fights her opponents; she takes them apart."
"A rare talent from a branch family," Kaelen agreed, nodding. "She could totally change our concept of speed."
Another elder, a man with a perpetually sour expression named Goran, sniffed. "And what about Garic Stormblade? Just noise and power. He thinks the sun rises just to see him."
"Arrogance is a crack in the foundation," Kaelen said with a sigh. "It will be his undoing."
"Maybe so," Darian said, his tone unemotional and realistic, cutting the air. "But until then, that brute force has overwhelmed all defenses that have been put in its way. So it should still be considered a weapon, albeit a dangerous one."
That was when the voice from the dark came. It was dry and soft like old paper that is falling apart, but still, it held the flame more than a shout.
"Leonel."
Every single one of them turned their faces towards Valtor. The gaze of the First Elder was still fixed on the arena below.
"That one," Valtor went on, "is the most difficult one to understand. Look at his feet. Firmly planted, yet it seems like he can move at any moment.
Look at his breathing. Smooth, like he is doing meditation, not waiting for a fight. This is not the calm of a beginner. It is the quiet of the deep sea. There are very strong underwater currents that he is not showing."
The air around the podium was so heavy it could be cut with a knife. First Elder to make such a statement was completely unheard of.
Darian's brow creased. "What are you implying, First Elder? Hidden cultivation, perhaps?"
Valtor's thin and pale lips crept up into the very slight hint of a smile. "I see a boy who understands how to be the invisible one. And in our world, that is usually a much more dangerous skill than being the visible one."
Eventually, he looked away, his very old eyes scanning the elders' faces. "Remember me. When that one not only stops hiding but goes beyond it, he will not only be winning a match, but also he will be writing new rules for everyone watching."
There was a ripple of stunned silence. Lady Seraphina was not caught off guard, but a new and deeper level of maternal caution was evident on her face. She was very well aware of the weight of their world and the price one has to pay for being different in it.
Darian let out the breath, slow, controlled, and deliberate. "Do you think he has that much power to face Thaddeus?"
"That," Valtor whispered while looking at the arena, "is completely up to what he will see in the mirror when he finally turns to himself."
The discussion among the powerful ones of the house was a different world than that of the arena, which was filled with sand and sweat. Leonel was unaware of all that.
His world had become so small that it was just the circle, the sword, and his opponent.
Zellan finally managed to snap himself out of the trance. He put his huge practice blade on his shoulder and smiled broadly, the smile looking almost like that of a predator about to attack.
"You're the Duke's boy, right? I've heard you're smart. But being smart won't stop a hammer."
Leonel didn't give an answer. Instead, he kept looking at Zellan's eyes, His shoulders, the way his weight was on his heels. Impatient. Confident in his power. He'll come straight forward.
A testing blow first, then a full-powered swing to end it.
The referee, an old-timer with a weathered face, looked like he had lived through a hundred battles, and stamped himself between them.
He told the story with his sound, which came down like a thunderbolt from the hall to the spectator: "Salute the rivals!"
Leonel executed his blade in a sharp, official salute, the sword standing erect along his face. Zellan trotted out a similar motion, but with a jerk, and a somewhat indifferent court of the wrist.
"Go!"
The opening shot was already in the air when Zellan made his move. Fast he was, evidently, for such a large body, holding back the explosion of his muscles in a very controlled manner. Instead of a direct charge, he took a few solid steps forward on the sand.
As per Leonel's words, he sent out a probing attack, a heavy, long jab at Leonel's guard with the aim of gauging his strength and probably pushing him down.
Leonel didn't defend himself against it.
He drifted. Craving one step which reached, slipping, flowing into a single gliding inner circle of the blow from the arc, he didn't clash; he turned the force over to position.
The metal of Zellan's heavy sword passed short of his chest with a sharp whistling sound, the wind of the blade stroking Leonel's hair.
Surprise and disbelief were read on the faces of the public. Which in reality, was just a small evasion that was unsettlingly accurate.
Zellan's grin disappeared momentarily, and a look of irritation briefly replaced it. He got back his smirk, tightened his arms, and prepared to unleash his devastating final blow the fight-ender.
With a loud roar of anger, he slammed his sword down towards the ground with a two-handed, overhead, cutting motion of the Skyfall Slash, in its most brutal and unrefined form.
The blow was intended to shatter a shield, and the barely cut wood in his grasp looked like it was about to burst under the strain.
This time, Leonel was the one to step aside.
It was the Gale Shadow Strike. But instead of using it as an attack, he used it to evade. His figure looked as if it was fading at the sides, a clever play of the light and his perfect footwork.
He was not there when the strike was made. Zellan's blade hit the ground where Leonel had just been, a moment ago, throwing up a cloud of sand and making a dull, thudding sound resounding through the hall.
The spectators were breathless. This was not a fortuitous escape, but an expert maneuver.
Zellan had overreached and was breathing due to his exertion, and therefore, he was totally unguarded.
For a brief, suspended moment, Leonel could not have been more ideal to perform a counter-strike. A swift, crisp blow to the wrist or the back, and the victory of the match would be his.
He refrained from doing it.
He only withdrew, changed his position, and stood there waiting, his face showing no change.
Darian was narrowing his eyes while looking at the stage. "What made him hesitate?" he asked.
Lady Seraphina didn't utter a single word, but her grip on the arm of her chair was tightening.
Valtor, invisible to most of the people, gave out a muffled and warm breath, meaning "Not hesitation, but assessment. He is getting to know his opponent. He is figuring out the weight of the hammer".
While this was going on in the arena, Zellan's expression was becoming increasingly pathetic. The ridicule, which was caused by the fact that this smaller boy was going so effortlessly against him, was gradually consuming his discipline.
The confident warrior has now left the stage, and in his place, there appeared a frustrated, angry boy
"Stop running, you little rat!" he yelled, and with an aimless, furious, yet more powerful type of charge, he sprang at him again.
Leonel kept on with his performance. He blocked, he moved to the side, and he did the smallest bit of work from his side to counter Zellan's overwhelming force.
He was like a boulder in a river, the water crashing into it and breaking itself against his stillness. He was feeling the flow of Zellan's Essence, how it rose and fell like a tempestuous sea—strong, but disorderly.
Besides this, Leonel's own composure was getting stronger with every moment. The concealed core of his power, the solidified reservoir of a Sword Adept, was quietly vibrating with content within him, a secret sun waiting for its dawn.
He was definitely able to wrap this up here and now. But he chose to stay because there was more to this than just winning.
The crowd in the Graythorn arena was throbbing with a power that was so strong, you could almost say it was alive.
The different waves of murmurs kept passing through the people, a tempest of delight and wonder that was directed only at the two characters standing in the middle of the arena.
Facing him was Leonel Graythorn, a boy who was smaller than most of his friends and calmer than anybody else of his age.
He looked like he was taking it very easy, almost too much so, and his wooden practice sword was just loosely hanging from his hand.
There was no show of strength, no pretended fear or even simply nervousness visible, just a calm, prepared state.