"Start!" The voice cut through the air like the dull toll of a bell.
And at the exact instant the command rang out, Oswin moved.
"Look at that… didn't even wait to breathe." Kyle murmured, with a half-smile.
Like an arrow released before the string even finished vibrating, he surged forward with ferocity. Fists clenched, shoulders ahead, wide and furious strides.
Beatriz reacted without hesitation. She crossed her arms in front of her body, forming an "X" with the katars. A solid defensive guard, blades angled slightly forward. Her eyes, however, remained fixed, cold, calculating.
"Look at that, he starts off like a rabid dog…" I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
Kyle gave a short laugh through his nose. "Better… a bull, no?"
But then something changed.
One step before colliding with her, Oswin abruptly braked. His left foot locked against the ground, his body tilted sideways, and in a single fluid motion he spun over his right arm, planting his hand firmly on the earth.
Using his arm as an axis, his body curved into a low spin, and his left leg swept out in a wide horizontal arc.
"A sweep?" someone behind me exclaimed, between surprise and excitement.
"And a well-executed one," Kyle corrected, lifting his chin. "The kid knows what he's doing."
It was more than that. The movement was precise, unexpected. Instead of brute force, Oswin used technique and mobility.
The crowd surged in unison when Beatriz lost support on one leg, staggering.
"He's done for!" a trainee shouted, almost jumping in place.
"Ignorant, we're talking about Beatriz," another shouted, shutting him up.
But before she even touched the ground, Oswin was already continuing the motion. He spun over his planted hand and launched his right leg upward, aiming at the side of her head with a descending kick. Fast, violent, hammer-like.
The crowd held its breath.
I myself widened my eyes. 'Well, this is going to end quickly.'
But Beatriz… didn't fall for it. Or rather, not completely. She crossed her arms in front of her face, firm. The wooden katars screeched under the impact. The strike ricocheted like stone against steel.
A silence of disbelief.
"By the Gods…" someone murmured, stunned.
Beatriz stepped back, unsteady, but immediately thrust her arms forward. Oswin was thrown backward, the force returning into him.
"That was nice." Kyle whistled softly, almost amused.
Beatriz didn't waste time: a backward roll, feet sliding through the sand. Upon landing, she was already balanced again, crouched, one knee on the ground, breathing steady, eyes cold as blades.
Oswin landed poorly, but rolled over his shoulder and rose almost without pause.
Breathing hard.Agitated.Hungry.
And he charged again.
Like an untamed beast, he advanced with savagery. Crushing strikes, tearing through openings, trying to overwhelm her. Punches, spinning kicks, elbows, knees, even claw-like fingers seeking flesh.
"That kid isn't in training… he's in a street fight." I muttered, tone laced with contempt.
Kyle chuckled. "And he's enjoying it, look at his face."
The crowd reacted to every exchange like crashing waves, laughter, exclamations, boos, cheers.
"Go Oswin!"
"Show her!"
"No, no, retreat! Retre—ah!"
He mixed techniques: low sweeps, knee jumps, spins trying to unbalance her. It was instinct and improvisation, chaos in the shape of combat.
Beatriz, this time, didn't block.
She danced. Slipped through attacks with minimal movement. Glided between strikes. Ducking. Turning. Jumping. Retreating only as much as necessary, never more.
"Look at that…" a veteran commented behind us. "She's… dancing."
"Or playing with him." I retorted, letting a hint of irony slip out. After all, it was amusing watching the poor guy punch the air.
Then Oswin threw a straight punch, his fist like a harpoon.
Beatriz merely tilted her head. The strike passed millimeters from her cheek. His arm fully extended. Vulnerable.
"I see she learned her lesson." one of the old knights murmured as he passed by, calmly drinking water with the irritating composure of someone observing a rare painting.
In the next moment, he spat it all out in an awkward spray. "Argh, damn Patriarch… denying an old man a basic right!"
Some laughed. Others didn't even breathe, hypnotized by the duel.
Me? I pretended I neither heard nor saw it. That old man was probably the only living creature capable of cursing one of the most powerful men in the nation just because he wasn't served alcohol.
And, by all my instincts, the smartest thing to do was act as if he didn't exist.
My attention returned to the field.
Down there, the duel gained a new rhythm. For the first time, Oswin seemed… more than just pressured.
"He had the initiative, didn't he?" a trainee commented, frowning.
The man beside him let out a low whistle. "He did. Now… he doesn't."
"Wrong." I muttered, eyes still on the fight. "He never had the initiative. From the beginning… he's been dancing in the palm of her hand."
Kyle whistled, slightly surprised. "Paying quite a lot of attention for a children's fight, aren't you?"
I pretended not to hear. Bad idea. The corner of his mouth lifted, and that irritating expression followed me to the edge of my vision.
Beatriz, now, had taken control of the attack. And not just any attack. Every step measured. Every strike precise. Distance, timing, accuracy. A clock built to crush.
Meanwhile, Oswin… wavered. Empty punches. Ragged breathing. Feet dragging through the sand. The wild beast from the beginning was breaking apart, blow by blow.
"Ha!" I struck my fist into my palm, satisfied as if I had just deciphered the secret of the universe. "This is one of those cases! Like in stories…"
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "What stories?"
"Stories," I repeated, savoring the word, "where there's an unlucky guy whose only role is to fall so someone else can shine. A disposable pawn. The shadow that makes the light look brighter. You get it?"
"Or maybe he's just tired." Kyle countered, voice dry, but with that irritating half-smile.
I ignored it. Because the explanation felt perfect. Of course, if we were inside some kind of novel, it would all make sense.
But we weren't. And the only truth, clear as the morning sun, was this: Oswin was about to be humiliated.
And me? I was enjoying it quite a bit. Yes, it's wrong to find amusement in watching a child being beaten by another. But I was also a child, wasn't I? So what's the harm?
Axel growled softly in my arms, as if answering the question. His ears moved, eyes locked on the fight.
The battle went on for another two minutes. Two minutes that felt eternal.
Oswin, the boy with the wild stance, could now barely stand. His body hunched, guard broken, breath in shambles.
Beatriz, on the other hand, untouched. Not just physically. Her spirit was unshaken.
The rhythm was entirely hers. He retreated, tried to change, searched for openings. And every time he advanced… she shut him down.
It was like watching a child fight a veteran swordsman. The gap in reading, timing, precision… overwhelming.
'What happened to the timid girl from my memories?' The thought cut through my mind like a stray arrow.
The Beatriz I remembered hesitated when speaking, kept her gaze low, avoided combat… and always hid behind her father.
Now she stood there, eyes sharp as blades. Not cold and arrogant in a vulgar way, but in the most dangerous sense: someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
She didn't just fight, she read. She read Oswin's every movement like an already memorised ancient book. And every response came measured. Fair. Precise.
The end was approaching. Inevitable.
Oswin, in a final surge of fury, lunged forward with a muffled shout, fists clenched as if he could crush the tension in the air itself.
Beatriz twisted her body, katars ready for a decisive counter.
But Oswin surprised her. Before the wooden blades could reach him, he jumped, knees tucked midair. Gravity did the rest: his heel dropped like a war hammer.
Beatriz raised her arms, crossing the katars. The impact reverberated like a muffled thunder, throwing Oswin backward, spinning midair, as if the force he tried to master had turned against him.
She didn't waste time. She advanced—quick, fierce steps, twin blades ready to strike.
But Oswin, barely touching the ground, didn't wait even half a second. He used the imbalance to his advantage. Twisted his body and launched himself again, like a cornered wolf leaping onto a spear.
"What…?" I muttered.
In a sharp twist, he grabbed Beatriz's arms. No technique there—just pure savagery.
And suddenly… she lost the ground.
The crowd gasped in unison.
Beatriz was thrown, spinning through the air, straight toward the walls.
"Oh! Finally it started! About time!" the old man exclaimed, a huge grin splitting his face as if it were his birthday.
"Started… what?" I turned to ask, confused.
"The reason this is called a spectacle." Kyle replied in his place, without even looking at the old man, ignoring him just as I did. 'And to think that just hours ago you were chasing him…'
I pretended not to see the old man, but Kyle's comment lingered in my mind.
And when my eyes returned to the field, I understood.
The air trembled. Dust rising from footsteps no longer moved naturally, but as if something invisible pushed it in delicate spirals.
Then I saw it.
Smoke. Not ordinary. White, ethereal, fragile like mist under sunlight. It circled Beatriz's body like floating veils. As if something within her was awakening.
She hit the wall with her feet, and as if it were solid ground, launched herself back into the field. Not stumbling. Not hesitating. Flying.
"She… used the wall as a boost…" I murmured more to myself than to the old man.
But it wasn't just her.
On the other side, Oswin still stood, gasping as if the air had turned into fire. His wide eyes flickered between shock and rage.
And then I noticed it.
That smoke. White ethereal spirals surrounded his body as well. But unlike Beatriz's soft like veils, his looked untamed. Like embers thrown into a storm.
"That smoke…" I murmured, leaning forward without realizing.
"Smoke?" Kyle looked at me confused.
'He can't see it?' my eyes darted to the others. 'No one? Only me?' During my confusion, my gaze crossed, against my will, with someone on the other side of the arena.
I broke into a cold sweat. There he was. With a cup of water and a grin stretching from ear to ear. Eyes shining… yet dead.
I forced myself to ignore it and turned back to the arena.
Beatriz, now wrapped in her spectral glow, lunged like a missile. The wind screamed around her, body spinning like a bullet. Katars forward, blades cutting the world.
And then…
Oswin's smoke flickered. A deep red, alive, almost liquid.
In the next instant, he tilted his body aside.
"What—?"
Beatriz passed inches from Oswin, and against all expectations—or perhaps all laws—she crashed into the ground just ahead of him.
The impact was brutal, kicking up a cloud of dust that swallowed part of the field.
The crowd's murmur turned into a confused buzz. The children, once so loud, now could only watch in silence.
But me… my confusion was different.
"When did he become… this strong?" My hands trembled as I gripped the wall harder.
The smoke around Oswin pulsed more frequently now, as if it had its own rhythm. Red. Hot. Almost alive.
He still stood there, feet planted exactly where they had been. No dodging steps. Only… a tilt of the torso with the cold precision of someone who already knew exactly where the blade would pass.
Beatriz was still passing him when the counterattack came.
An elbow strike.
Severe. Precise. Cruel.
Straight to her back.
The impact was brutal. The moment Beatriz had built shattered instantly, and her body was thrown onto the ground ahead of Oswin, as if all her strength had evaporated in a single blow.
"By the Beards of Velmior…" I whispered, heart pounding in my throat.
Beside me, Kyle smiled. Clearly enjoying himself, as if watching a familiar performance.
"Oswin… won…" I murmured, more to myself than to him.
"If I were you, I wouldn't jump to conclusions." Kyle replied, interrupting my thought.
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused, turning toward him.
He didn't answer. He simply extended his arm and pointed downward.
And then, as if time had taken a breath, the crowd exploded into cheers.
I looked down instinctively.
Oswin was flying. His body was launched like a stray arrow until it violently crashed into the arena walls.
And Beatriz… was standing. Like a war statue. Katars in hand, hair disheveled by wind and dust, and eyes… glowing.
Around her, the smoke was no longer white and fragile. It was fire-colored. Yellow and orange tones, incandescent, vibrating with her heartbeat.
"She really is Captain Charles' daughter…" one of the old knights commented, almost with pride. "Already awakening aura before the restriction is lifted…"
He paused, watching Oswin being pulled from the rubble.
"But that boy… he's not bad either. A bit more and he'd be at the same level. Shame he's too bestial." he sighed, as if lamenting something inevitable.
I… I was stunned.
The entire stands reacted. Even the knights watching in silence had stood up, exchanging measured glances.
"AURA!" someone shouted.
"She awakened aura!"
"Impossible, she's only ten!"
"Aura…" I repeated, almost in a trance.
The word felt heavy in my mouth.
Yes, I had seen it before. In the fight against the criminals, when the warrior whose name I now remembered, Israel Dracknum, firstborn of the Vice-Patriarch—had revealed his power. Even in the memories I carry, there are far greater and more overwhelming manifestations of aura.
But… this was different.
My entire body tingled. My lips trembled, eager to form a smile I could barely suppress.
My fist clenched, as if trying to grasp that sensation. And my eyes… my eyes couldn't look away from the energy radiating from Beatriz—alive, intense, overwhelming.
And in that instant, I understood: it wasn't only Beatriz who had awakened something, nor Oswin. Inside me too, something was beginning to surface, raw, wild, untamed, primal… and something I feared I would never be able to control.