THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS.
CRACK
Their forearms collided, opposing forces slamming together with enough raw pressure to blast the surrounding wind outward in a perfect ring. The grass flattened instantly under the weight of their presence, yet neither side wavered. Both combatants still held the unyielding smirk of warriors.
Draven launched a blow with his free hand. Damon leaned back fully, dodged the strike by a hair, grabbed Draven's shirt, and launched his mentor backwards while driving his legs upward as an additional force.
Draven landed heavily, feet dragging across the dirt in a long skid, yet his expression remained completely unchanged as he faced down.
He looked up — and the next thing he saw was the sole of Damon's shoe flying straight toward his face.
Draven tilted aside and struck Damon's ribs, sending a sharp pain ripping through his side. Damon bounced off the grass instantly, but as he rose, Draven spun and sent a devastating kick square into Damon's chest, blasting the wind sideways and slamming the Prince into the bark of a tree.
CRACK.
'Ugh,' Damon thought, his teeth gritting as his back hit the wood with a heavy thud. 'Not too bad of a start—'
FWOOM.
Draven zoomed forward like a green blur, fingers pressed like a blade aimed straight at Damon's midsection. The tip of his fingers was only an inch from piercing Damon's skin before a sudden realization flashed in the Prince's mind:
'Shit.'
Mid-flight, Draven's blade-hand instantly coiled into a dense fist and drove straight into Damon's gut.
BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
A non‑stop barrage of blows hammered into Damon's stomach, turning him into a literal punching bag pinned against the tree. The sheer velocity and force made every limb the prince carried look useless under Draven's perfect form.
Without seeing Draven's face, anyone would've thought he was completely enraged; on the contrary, his features carried the subtle look of someone thoroughly enjoying themselves.
'So—this is what it's like—fighting my own speed and strength,' Damon thought, with teeth gritted and eyes clenched as each strike cracked through him.
'But... It's mine. Therefore… I can predict it.'
Damon's hand snapped forward on pure, synchronized timing, catching Draven's incoming fist. Draven's second punch followed automatically, as if Draven were unconsciously repeating the motion, but Damon caught that one too.
Draven tried to pull away, but before he could even attempt it, Damon tucked his knees in and dual‑kicked Draven straight in the chest, launching them both across the riverbank. They skidded across the ground, tearing up dirt and grass.
They didn't stay down for even a heartbeat.
Both sprang back to their feet like rubber bands — and jumped straight back into the fight.
Damon spun his entire body in a forward thrust and launched a strike straight to Draven's gut. Draven blocked it cleanly and used the same hand to shove upward, turning the block into a rising punch aimed at Damon's face. Damon ducked under it by a hair and swept in with a kick to Draven's leg.
Draven only stepped back once.
Damon spun, practically walking on his hands as he delivered a chain of spinning kicks. Draven blocked the first few, his expression calm but his eyes holding a tense flicker of surprise — so he switched to dodging them all.
One of Damon's spinning kicks was right on target to land, but Draven caught his leg mid‑spin and fired a kick straight into Damon's chest while the prince was upside down. Damon hit the ground with a sharp groan.
Draven didn't wait.
He jumped — then spun downward in a complex spiral, channeling all the force into a single foot and slamming it toward Damon like a falling hammer; even as he came downward, the trees nearby swayed in opposite directions. Damon lifted his body off the ground, somersaulting away, landing farther down the riverbank — right in front of Draven.
The next thing that greeted him was the shockwave from Draven's kick slamming into the floor, blowing both their hair back; even Damon's headband snapped off instantly.
Draven stepped back, his eyes tracking his student as he thought, 'Did he get stronger again? I limited my speed too much... clearly. His adaptability… It's almost as if he's targeting even the slightest openings that can cause me pain. He's almost like a scalpel. How much of his father's experience has he gained? If I wasn't so strong… I'd definitely feel it. In fact… we might be on par.'
Damon stayed in a low squat from the somersault, thinking at the exact same time.
'What's the point of this? He limited his speed and strength, but his durability is off the charts, so my offense is useless. I'd target weak points, but average soldiers get their weak points hit every day, not to talk of this guy. The only way I win is if I get him in a hold where he can't move. It'd be his strength against mine, but I'd be relying on him completely limiting it.'
He shifted his weight, resetting his focus. 'It's best to assume he's unpredictable, so I'll set that as a side quest. This is training; no one will limit their power in real life. It doesn't matter what I do to him; all that matters is...'
Damon dashed forward, almost clearing the gap between them instantly. He launched himself high into the sky, completely blocking out the morning sun from Draven's point of view.
'If I can prevent him from doing anything to me. That's the only benefit I get from this training: Absolute denial. Imperviosity.'
BOHM!... BOHM! BOHM! BOHM! BOHM! BOHM!
High in the sky, without creating any visible wind or elemental fire of his own, Damon punched the raw air itself, firing silent, invisible shockwaves straight down at his mentor.
Draven stepped back, dodging with hair‑whipping speed, each dodge leaving a crater where his foot had been a second earlier.
Draven's hair whipped wildly as he now continuously somersaulted backward, barely dodging the invisible concussive blasts that left jagged craters where his feet had been seconds before.
'I see he really has gotten stronger,' Draven thought, pulling off a tight maneuver to clear the destruction.
Draven somersaulted, barely slipping past each shockwave until Damon's feet dropped back to the ground. Damon launched himself forward the instant Draven landed from one of his flips, and as if he timed it perfectly, he thrusted both fists into Draven's gut.
Draven flew backward, skidding on the grass, but recovered completely fine, casually standing up and dusting off his midsection.
'If we were physically on par… would I be able to beat Prince Damon?'
At the same time, Damon slid into a defensive stance, 'From here on… it's defense.'
Draven dashed forward and sent a flurry of strikes straight into Damon's chest. Damon parried each one with both hands, but Draven slipped past his guard and chopped the side of his right hand toward Damon's neck. Damon ducked away, trying to backflip out, but Draven caught his leg mid‑air, forcing him upright again like he was correcting a stance.
Draven drove a fist into Damon's gut. Damon caught it with his palm.
Even so, the force pushed him an inch back, scraping the grass beneath his feet; though the grass didn't bend, didn't tear, or even react. Damon's body took all of it.
Draven followed with a heavy blow toward Damon's cheek. Damon caught that hand with both hands and rolled it outward, twisting Draven's arm and leaving his entire front open.
Damon moved desperately fast, thrusting blows toward Draven's chest, but Draven matched him. Every punch Damon sent, Draven's fist met it exactly, though Damon's force still lifted Draven off the ground with each clash.
Draven used the height to his advantage. He kicked Damon's jaw mid‑air.
It knocked Damon for a moment, and before he could recover, Draven wrapped his leg around Damon's neck, dragging him down so Damon's throat was pinned between the back of Draven's right leg while Draven knelt.
Damon tried to pry the leg off, but Draven caught his palm and pressed his fingers like a blade right between Damon's eyes, stopping an inch short. The wind from the halted strike blew the grass flat and sent a ripple through the air around them.
They both paused in utter stillness. The warrior's smirk they held earlier vanished, replaced with a quiet, sharp focus.
Then Draven felt it behind his neck. A cold breath of fatality. Two of them.
Under the sunlight, Damon's mythical blades made by his aunts floated behind Draven like leashed beasts ready to thrust, eager, hungry. Draven noticed — but he didn't turn. His eyes stayed locked on Damon's.
"I thought we were training hand‑to‑hand combat, Prince Damon," Draven said calmly.
"A borderline wise guy once told me you can never predict an enemy," Damon replied.
Draven laughed silently. "Borderline?"
Damon rolled his eyes dramatically. "Well… yes. Borderline. If not, he would've mentioned not to use weapons. But I think he just forgot the range of his student's gear."
Draven stayed still, restraining Damon, though Damon wasn't even struggling. Beneath the calm exterior, an unexplainable wave of pride washed through Draven's eyes as he thought:
'Almost. He's almost a better fighter than me. By the time he has the next purge... he will be.'
"I know you're impressed," Damon said the moment Draven finished the thought. "I can see it in your eyes."
Draven released him with a chuckle. "As I said… I'll be impressed if you learn to bend sound by yourself."
Draven lent Damon a hand to pull him, and Damon accepted it while checking his jaw with his other hand.
"So, what's the actual training for today?" Damon asked, brushing a thumb across the edge of his mythical blades as they dissolved into light.
Draven didn't answer immediately. He looked around, eyes drifting across the valley until they settled on the closest mountain: a massive, dark giant looming right beside the river.
A staff formed in Draven's palm, metal dark‑silver and impossibly clean, not a single scratch on it. A wing was engraved across the length, almost alive with faint motion.
"I wouldn't exactly call it training, Damon." Draven's voice stayed calm. "It's more of a… shackle rupture."
The moment he said it, he struck the mountain with the staff.
CRACK!
The entire mountain instantly crumbled into a storm of debris, dust exploding upward like a volcanic breath. Damon and Draven both formed swirling ovals of condensed wind in front of their bodies, shielding themselves from the avalanche of stone.
Draven's face stayed normal. Damon's eyes, on the other hand, were widened with lips slightly parted. When the shaking stopped, Damon's eyebrows dropped flat.
"Why in the world would you do that? It was a mogger of a mountain!"
Draven turned around, a subtle confused guilt in his eyes. "Mogger?"
Damon facepalmed while shaking his head, "The point is, it looked nice. So, why did you do that?"
Draven turned back to the shattered land and stretched out his hand. A green circle appeared in front of his palm, patterns rotating inside it.
"Don't worry, Prince Damon. It was only a demonstration."
Instantly, every piece of the mountain — every rock, every grain of dust, every microscopic fragment — floated upward and reassembled itself. The mountain rebuilt piece by piece until it stood exactly as it had before. Even the sunlight felt like it snapped back into place.
"I can heal nature. It's my gift," Draven said.
"Oh," Damon muttered quietly. "That's a lot cooler compared to mine. Guess it explains why the grass and that tree's still intact." Damon said, looking at the tree he was previously smashed into.
Draven smiled. "Anyway. As I said — merely a demonstration."
He zoomed right in front of Damon, staff swinging above his head with a heavy brutality ready to strike down.
"Prepare your body... for the sustained force."
BOOM.