Chapter 20: Mercenary enrollment (3)
The first few fights all went pretty much the same way: the participant would come in, launch a few ineffective attacks, and be sent back to the group.
In a few rare cases, the examiner would prolong the fight by using his weapon, but most were defeated by him fighting with his bare hands.
"He's on a whole other level," I murmured. Having someone like him as an examiner. I could barely imagine the power of high-ranking mercenaries.
"This promises to be fun, doesn't it?" Damien's voice echoed through the group, provoking boos and whispers, which he ignored. His face lit up with a broad smile as he watched the graduate's movements.
His opponent was the scarred old man I had talked to. He was using a large sword and had managed to draw his opponent's sword.
His movements were quite slow, but he managed to compensate by using his air essence to facilitate changes in the direction of his blade and his footwork.
"So he had a reason to be arrogant," I thought as his weapon was snatched from him, marking the end of the fight.
He took it back, bowing respectfully to the graduate before proudly returning to his place.
"Next," called the graduate.
Damien stood up with a stretch, stretching his gloved arms. He casually climbed into the ring and gave a casual greeting to the graduate waiting for him in the center of the test area, standing straight with his arms crossed. His blade sheathed, his breathing calm.
"Let's begin."
No other instructions. Just that one sentence.
The boy took a breath, put his fists forward, and...
The fight began.
The Graduate didn't move an inch.
Damien, on the other hand, advanced slowly, step by step, without putting himself on guard. His gaze was fixed, anchored in that of his opponent. Every movement seemed calculated, fluid, almost lazy. Yet there was nothing vague about his posture: his footing was solid, as if planted in the ground.
A breath. Then a flash.
The Graduate struck sharply with the edge of his hand—but at the same moment, a stone slab rose from the ground like a vertical shield, stopping the impact dead in its tracks. Damien had moved his fist barely an inch to trigger it.
The block cracked under the force of the Graduate's blow... but it had served its purpose: Damien had slipped under the open guard, pivoted on one foot, and delivered an elbow strike to the side.
The man took a step back.
Just one. And his expression changed.
It was time to take Damien seriously.
The boy didn't let the opening slip away. He followed up, striking with his fists, knees, and elbows, each blow amplified by brief surges of earth: spikes, undulations in the ground, or even a shock coming from an impossible angle, projected from the left flank by a column of rock dug out from under his feet.
But the Graduate held his ground.
He parried with apparent ease, sometimes blocking with his arm, sometimes with a simple side step. A slight smile appeared on his lips. The boy amused him. And perhaps annoyed him too.
"Not bad," he murmured. "But not enough."
His hand flew out.
Damien stepped back just in time, narrowly avoiding a sweep so fast it had sliced through the air. He rolled to the ground, sprang back to his feet with a catlike movement, and resumed his guard.
Silence reigned in the hall. Not a word was spoken. Even the loudest had stopped laughing.
He moved like a dancer. As if he were one with the earth. Every step, every pivot, seemed planned in advance. Even when he was pushed back, it was never really a mistake.
This boy... wasn't just good.
He was dangerous.
The fight had turned into an exchange of rare intensity. Damien struck with surgical precision, each movement fluid, controlled, smooth as a long-rehearsed choreography. He didn't dodge: he deflected. He didn't strike head-on: he circled, waited, calculated.
The Graduate, initially impassive, had stopped crossing his arms. He was now moving, responding blow for blow. His feet glided across the floor as if he too were dancing. But he frowned slightly. He was no longer smiling.
Then Damien slipped in an attack that no one expected.
A simple roundhouse kick, mid-height, but launched at the very end of a sequence he had already repeated three times. This time, he modified it slightly: a slab sprang up behind the examiner, forcing him to lean forward... directly into the path of the kick.
Damien's foot grazed his temple.
And then the air vibrated.
A dull pulsation spread through the room. The floor split into a clean line beneath the Graduate's feet. A gray-blue burst of energy escaped from his body, enveloping his arms in a telluric halo.
He had just activated his essence.
By reflex. By defense. Involuntarily.
Total silence fell over the hall. The air had almost become solid as my body seemed crushed by this power.
Even Damien had frozen, his foot still raised, his eyes slightly wide.
The Graduate slowly lowered his arm, now enveloped in this dense light, and looked at him. Then he looked down at the crack in the floor.
He hadn't expected this.
"Hmm," he said, exhaling. That's enough.
The halo dissipated. His opponent took a step back.
"You can go back to the others."
Damien backed away without a word, bowed his head briefly, and left the evaluation area without the slightest hint of arrogance. His smile had disappeared. He simply seemed... satisfied.
Around me, murmurs were already rising. Eyes had turned to him as if he were an anomaly. Some were admiring. Others hostile. And me...
I couldn't tell if he'd just been lucky—or if he'd calculated it all along.
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The group was immersed in a euphoria mixed with fear that was difficult to hide. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the pale face of the blond man from the weapons room and the wide-eyed stares of several candidates.
"So? How did I do?"
He sat to my right, his eyes bright, impatient, almost childlike.
The others had instinctively moved away. A space had opened up around us, as if they feared another burst of gasoline might escape him.
"It was... impressive," I admitted, wondering why he had come to me. Had we met before?
He smiled and shook his head.
"As I expected, the graduates are terrifying. I don't think I could handle his essence... it was like being pinned under a mountain."
"You—"
I was about to speak, but the graduate's voice cut off my train of thought:
"Next."
Silence.
No one moved. Some looked down. Others pretended not to have heard. Everyone tried to disappear into the crowd.
I sighed.
I stood up.
Slowly, I picked up the blunt blade lying at my feet.
"Good luck," Damien said with a smile. A smile that, without really knowing why, reminded me of the young lord's.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I took a breath.
"Yeah."