The masked fighter began closing the distance, each step deliberate, boots echoing lightly against the illusionary floor. Their spear rotated once, the polished steel tip glinting, before locking on Lucas. Then they broke into a run, fast—too fast for someone in armor.
Lucas's instincts roared, and he drew his sword in a flash, angling it just in time to intercept. The spear slammed into his blade, the impact vibrating up his arms, pushing him half a step back. The masked warrior disengaged instantly, springing backwards to reset the distance.
Lucas's grip tightened. They're fast… and patient.
Without warning, the masked figure leapt high, twisting midair. The spear came down like a falling guillotine. Lucas rolled to the side, feeling the rush of wind split across his cheek as the weapon crashed into the floor, gouging stone.
For a moment, he saw opportunity. The spear was buried. Lucas lunged forward, sword angled at the warrior's back, trying to exploit the opening. But the masked fighter's reflexes were sharper than he imagined. They pivoted smoothly, spear scraping free, and swatted Lucas's sword aside in one fluid deflection.
Lucas stumbled back, regaining balance just as the masked fighter spun their weapon again. This time the spearpoint leveled squarely at his chest.
He knew. Wind user. But still… nothing. No element yet. Just pure steel and speed.
The two locked eyes—or rather, Lucas stared into the mask, willing himself to see through it. For a few long seconds, neither moved. One with spear poised, ready to ram. The other, sword lowered but steady, his breath calm, his stance firm.
Then the masked warrior burst forward.
Lucas exhaled, dodging the first thrust by a hair. The spear skimmed his tunic. He moved to counter, but before his blade could rise, a sudden gale blasted downward. The masked fighter rode the wind, vaulting above him, spear flashing again. Lucas barely got his sword up in time, deflecting the strike, but the sheer force rattled his bones.
The next instant—a boot slammed into his chest.
The kick sent Lucas skidding backward across the floor, air punched from his lungs. He coughed, forcing himself upright—just in time to see the spear already flying at him again. He hurled himself sideways, the point cutting a shallow line across his torso as he twisted away.
Damn it… I can't just keep dodging.
Every move he made, the masked fighter's spear was there. Too agile. Too relentless. That heavy armor wasn't slowing them at all—if anything, it made them more imposing.
Lucas's jaw clenched. He had to gamble. He sprinted forward, charging head-on against the spear's line. At the last second, he leapt, pulling his sword overhead in a two-handed grip, aiming straight for the helmet. The masked warrior braced, twisting their body just slightly. Lucas's blade whistled past, missing the strike.
The warrior retaliated instantly, pressing forward with another thrust. Lucas dodged again—too late realizing this attack carried more than steel.
Wind exploded from the spearpoint.
The blast struck him like a battering ram. He flew backward, his body crashing against the brick wall with a painful thud. Pain seared his back, blood spilling from his lips.
Gasping, Lucas lifted his head. The masked figure was already rushing him, spear leveled for the kill.
Was it over?
No. Not yet.
Lucas forced his legs to move, staggering upright. His sword hung low, but his eyes—sharp, unwavering—fixed on the mask. He inhaled deeply, centering himself. This wasn't rage now. It was focus.
The spear thrust forward. Lucas charged to meet it.
In the final instant, he shifted his step, slipping past the spear's line. His sword flashed, angled precise. Steel grazed fabric, sparks flying—then a clean strike connected.
The fight froze.
Lucas exhaled, a sharp pain in his side where the spear had scraped him, a thin cut leaking blood across his torso. He turned slowly, chest heaving.
Behind him, the masked warrior stood still, then staggered. The mask, split from the strike, cracked down the middle and fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.
Lucas blinked. For the first time, he saw her.
A youthful, beautiful face framed by loose strands of pink hair. Soft features, yet sharpened by determination. Her eyes—large, steady, unflinching—met his with a quiet strength. Even wounded, even revealed, she stood with the grace of a warrior.
Lucas froze, sword lowering slightly, caught between disbelief and awe.
The masked warrior… was her. Unbelievable.
Shawn, back to the real world, sat with his back against the tree, breathing slow. In front of him lay his opponent, sprawled and out cold—one clean, efficient end to a fight.
Drew still fought like a hurricane: ten men pressing at him, Taylor's cloned staff sending thin, bright arrows of light that struck with the focus of needles. Drew kept moving, every punch and step an answer to the small, precise attacks that cut toward him.
As for Lucas,
In the space that mattered, there was only the masked fighter and the clean, bright air of the arena.
She lowered the mask a fraction and met his eyes. "You have my respect," she said, voice low and even. "But from now—" she kicked off the last of her breastplate with a single, fluid movement, the iron clattering away, "—it won't be easy."
Before Lucas could answer she vanished and reappeared at his shoulder. His pupils dilated; he twisted, too slow. The spear's tip grazed him, driving into a hollow at his side. Pain flared white-hot. He doubled over, warm blood filling his mouth. He knelt, tasting blood, the world narrowing to a tight, hot point.
She drew back, spear leveled, watching him for any sign of trickery. Then she charged.
Lucas smiled.
She halted, incredulous. "Why are you smiling?" she demanded.
"So you don't trust yourself," Lucas answered, spitting blood and grinning through it. He pushed himself up, every breath a razor, planted both hands on the sword's hilt. For a single, terrible second he looked weak—then something under his skin rigidified.
He screamed.
The blade flared. A red light crawled across the metal until the whole sword glowed like coals. The ground underfoot shuddered; dust lifted in a thin storm. The air tasted thick and hot.
The masked fighter's eyes widened. She closed the distance, spear thrust forward, but Lucas moved first. He swung his sword in an arc of orange-red flame that licked the air and rushed toward her like a living thing. She raised the spear to meet it; metal rang hot and sparks flew as fire and steel kissed.
Lucas let the sword drop and bolted. He ran the short distance and launched himself into the air, a raw cry ripping from his chest.
"WIND STYLE—seventh form!" he bellowed, voice hollow and fierce. His hands became the channel: he drove a palm forward into the space before her.
"GALE PALM!"
The impact hit like a spear of tempest. Wind braided with heat exploded outward from his hands, a column of force that struck her square in the chest. She flew back, stunned, and the illusion betrayed itself: the painted stone behind her spiderwebbed with cracks; the seamless room fractured.
The arena blurred and folded, and Lucas dropped through the illusion into the real training ground. The sun was bright and the air smelled of dust and grass. He landed hard, the world snapping back around him. The masked fighter hit the dirt and rolled, coming up to a crouch—breathing, unbowed.
Shawn still leaned by his tree, arms folded, as distant and unreadable as ever. Lucas staggered to his feet, bandaged and bloody, and forced a crooked, near-painful smile. He gave a quick, ragged thumbs-up toward Shawn.
Shawn's mouth twitched—almost a smile. From the edge of the clearing, the examiner stepped forward, face stony at first, then shifting into something close to interest.
He regarded Lucas with new weight. Where he had seen a raw boy before, he now saw a fighter who could surprise. The examiner's eyes narrowed as if measuring a raw ore for worth. Lucas felt that small heat again: the quiet click of potential being noticed.
Lucas looked around, no sign of Drew. His fight is not over?
Taylor's grin widened as the clones kept coming—perfect, predictable fodder. Drew moved like a battering ram through them at first, but each victory cost him more; breath came ragged, limbs heavy with sweat. The same faces rose again and again, and the rhythm of fighting started to eat him alive.
"End him," Taylor snapped, voice sharp as a command. The clones leapt as one.
They landed on Drew in a black wave. Hands, boots, fists—everything hit at once. He took blow after blow,
aylor's grin widened—this was perfect, he thought—until something at the edge of his vision caught and cracked the neat picture he'd set.
If Drew was here, then who was taking the hits?
The sight of the jacket, limp and riddled with blows, flipped Taylor's confidence to confusion. He barked a command—"Finish him, YOU FOOLS, HE IS OVER HERE!"—but the order landed too late. Where the clones expected an easy end, there was nothing but Drew's jacket and air.
Drew suddenly charged, a moving wall of exhaustion and fury, faster and angrier than anyone had expected. Taylor had a moment to brace, to lift his staff and form a shield, but it shattered under Drew's momentum. The impact hit Taylor like a battering ram; he flew backward, rag-doll limp, and struck the ground with a sickening thud.
Drew didn't stop. He closed the distance, caught Taylor mid-fall, and drove him down again, heavy and relentless. Blood spread across Taylor's face; the staff clattered from his numb fingers. As Taylor blacked out, the clones that had fought for him flickered and vanished like embers snuffed—gone the instant their master fell.
Drew stood over him, breath ripping, chest heaving with raw, hot triumph and the cost of the fight written in every line of his body.
The arena dissolved like mist, brick walls and weapons fading into nothing. Drew blinked and found himself standing in front of Taylor again. The boy's injuries were gone, as if nothing had happened, and Drew's own sweat and fatigue had vanished too.
Not far away, Lucas appeared beside Shawn. The Masked Fighter—no longer masked—walked slowly toward them, her spear resting against her shoulder. Drew turned, saw them, and jogged over.
The three of them—Drew, Shawn, and Lucas—stood together, their eyes fixed on the Masked One. Their sharp stares made her shift slightly, tension flickering across her face.
"…What's with the look, guys?" she said with a nervous chuckle.
The tension broke all at once. They let out a breath, realizing she wasn't an enemy. Jennie stepped forward and extended her hand to Lucas.
"My name's Jennie," she said.
Lucas shook it firmly. "Lucas."
The examiner appeared between them, his presence grounding the space once more. He handed each of them their results with a brief, unreadable glance.