The world snapped into a terrifying, beautiful clarity.
Nikolai's lunge was no longer just a movement; it was a chain of events Alexander could read. He saw the tension coiling in his brother's lead calf, the minute shift of weight to the ball of the foot a fraction of a second before the push-off.
He will thrust low, then pivot to a high slash if I parry. Alexander's mind was flowing with instructions, the knowledge appearing in his mind fully formed.
He didn't parry. He sidestepped the thrust, the air humming where the blunted sword had been, and delivered a sharp, precise tap to Nikolai's exposed ribs.
Thwack!
The sound was insignificant, but its effect was seismic. Nikolai's eyes flared with shock. He hadn't been touched in a spar in years.
"Nice one, Alex!" Keila cheered, her own sword coming around in a powerful, sweeping arc that forced Nikolai to disengage.
But she was already an echo in the real battle.
Alexander was a ghost, his footwork minimal and efficient. He flowed around Nikolai's attacks, not with brute force, but with prescient deflections.
He saw the golden flare of his brother's life force. A brilliant, arrogant sun and he could anticipate its every pulse.
On the balcony, King Ragnarok let out a booming laugh that shook the very stones. "By the Giant King's fist! Look at them, Theron! Alexander fights like he's reading from a scroll of Nikolai's moves! I've never seen such instinct!"
King Theron did not reply. His gaze was locked on Alexander, his jaw rigid. This was not instinct. It was cold, impossible precision that should not reside in an Awakened that measured seventy.
Nikolai, his composure cracking, unleashed a furious combination. High, low, a feint to the shoulder, a true strike to the knee. It was a sequence that had disarmed seasoned knights.
Alexander saw it all unfold in the shifting light of Nikolai's spirit. He moved through the onslaught like a man walking through a rainstorm without getting wet, his own practice sword a blur of minimal, perfect counters.
The clang of steel was a rhythm of his dominance.
"He over-commits," Crimson's voice was a calm, icy stream in the torrent of battle. "His pride is a weight on his ankles. Exploit it. Now."
Alexander feigned a stumble, creating an opening. Nikolai took the bait with a triumphant snarl, lunging forward with all his weight for a final, powerful thrust.
It was exactly what Alexander wanted.
He pivoted on his back foot, the motion so fluid it seemed impossible. He used Nikolai's own momentum, grabbing his brother's wrist and using it as a lever to send him stumbling past, off-balance and exposed.
For a glorious second, Nikolai's back was wide open. The fight was won.
"The legder is almost empty for this transaction, Alexander," Crimson's voice cut in, devoid of all emotion. "We can't burn too much for such a puny display."
Alexander pleaded internally. "No, not yet! I almost have him!"
"Time up!"
The trance shattered.
The world crashed back in, heavy, loud, and blinding. The flowing river of insight dried up instantly, replaced by the jarring clumsiness of his own body.
The profound connection to his sword vanished, the hilt feeling like a foreign, dead weight in his hand.
A wave of soul-deep exhaustion washed over him, making his limbs feel like lead.
He stood, disoriented and vulnerable, for one fatal second.
Nikolai, enraged and humiliated, whirled around. Seeing Alexander's sudden, profound weakness, a golden, furious light erupted around his blade. It was no longer a practice match to him.
"Aureflare!" he roared.
A blast of concussive, Awakened energy, bright as the sun, shot from his sword.
"Nikolai, that's forbidden in a spar!" Keila shouted, lunging forward to defend Alexander. But she wasn't close enough.
Alexander had no enhanced reflexes left. No premonition. He could only watch as the light filled his vision.
The impact was monstrous. It felt like a runaway carriage had struck him in the chest. The air left his lungs in a painful gasp. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward like a discarded doll.
He hit the stone wall with a sickening, wet crunch. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact. For a moment, he hung there, embedded in the fractured stone, before slumping into a heap on the ground.
Silence.
The only sound was Nikolai's ragged, desperate gasps for air. He was drenched in sweat, his royal attire in disarray. He leaned on his sword, his body trembling from the exertion.
He had won, but he looked utterly broken. His eyes, wide with a mixture of fury and disbelief, were fixed on his brother's motionless form. How? How could he keep up? It was like fighting a phantom.
"Alex!" Keila screamed, rushing to his side.
On the balcony, King Ragnarok nodded, a grim respect on his face. "A spectacular display from both your sons, Theron! Truly! The spare heir has fangs after all! Nikolai had to break the rules to win."
King Theron finally turned his head. He looked at Ragnarok, then back down at the courtyard, where Keila was gently helping a dazed, coughing Alexander to his feet.
"Yes," Theron said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Fangs."
His gaze was not on his victorious heir. It was pinned on the disgraced son, Alexander, who had just done the impossible for five minutes, and whose eyes now seemed to look right through him, seeing nothing at all.
"See?" Crimson's voice was a faint whisper in the ringing silence of Alexander's mind. "A taste of the future. Next time, we won't be on a timer. Now, go be a good loser. It's all part of the mask."
Alexander complied, letting his body sag against Keila, a perfect picture of defeated pain.
But inside, he was smiling. He had felt the power. And he had seen the fear in his father's eyes.
Keila's strong arms were the only thing holding him upright. "Alex! Can you hear me? Say something!"
He groaned, a sound that was only half-feigned. Every breath sent a sharp ache through his chest where the heavenly energy had seared him. "I'm... alright," he rasped, his voice rough. "Just... winded."
It was the performance of his life. He let his knees buckle slightly, forcing her to take more of his weight. He squeezed his eyes shut, playing the part of the broken, humiliated prince to perfection.
Across the yard, Nikolai finally straightened up, his breathing still uneven. He wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his gaze a turbulent mix of victory and deep, unsettling confusion. He strode over, the crunch of his boots on the gravel unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
"That was... a surprising effort, brother," Nikolai said, his tone struggling to find its usual condescending balance and landing on strained civility. "For a moment, you almost looked like a real swordsman. Although I was holding back." The barb was weak, and they all knew it.
Alexander didn't open his eyes. "You flatter me," he mumbled into Keila's shoulder.
Before Nikolai could retort, a new voice, cold and authoritative, cut through the air.
"That is enough."
King Theron stood at the edge of the training grounds, having descended from the balcony. King Ragnarok was a step behind him, his expression unreadable.
Theron's eyes, however, were like chips of flint, scanning Alexander with an intensity that felt less like concern and more like an appraisal of a strange, dangerous animal.
"The spar is concluded," Theron stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Nikolai is the victor. Please see to Alexander, Lady Keila. Nikolai, with me. Now."
It was a clear dismissal, a reassertion of the established order. The golden son was summoned for a debrief. The hollow son was to be tended to like a piece of damaged furniture.
Nikolai shot Alexander one last, searching look, then turned and followed his father, his back stiff.
As the small crowd of onlookers began to disperse, buzzing with whispered theories, Keila helped Alexander limp toward a stone bench near the great Ol' Oak.
"You scared me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she helped him sit. "For a minute there... you were incredible. It was like watching a completely different person."
"That's because he was." Crimson murmured.
"I suppose even a hollow vessel can make a loud noise if you hit it hard enough," Alexander replied, forcing a pained smile.
"Don't say that," she chided, her brow furrowed. "That wasn't noise. That was skill. I've trained with you for years, Alex. I've never seen you move like that. It was... beautiful."
Her words, so full of genuine admiration, struck a chord deeper than any of Nikolai's taunts. He had to look away, focusing on the shimmering leaves of the oak above.
"I think I just need to rest," Alexander said, his voice weary. "Thank you, Keila. For your help."
She seemed to understand the dismissal. She gave his shoulder a final, gentle squeeze. "Get some rest, Alex. And... don't let whatever they say define you. What I saw in that fight... that's the real you. I know it is."
She walked away, leaving him alone under the ancient tree. The moment she was out of earshot, the mask of weakness fell from his face, replaced by a grimace of pure, focused pain.
"The cost." Alexander probed his tender ribs. "You said one percent. That felt like more."
"The initial activation was one percent," Crimson corrected. "Maintaining the state for five minutes under intense physical and mental duress required a continuous burn."
[Soul Integrity: 96%]
[Resonance Affinity: 1%]
The numbers materialized in his mind's eye, a cold, hard reality.
"Three percent of my soul?" A hysterical laugh bubbled in his chest that he quickly suppressed. "For a five-minute spar. And my Resonance Affinity is still 1%. I can't afford to be this expensive."
"Then become cheaper," Crimson retorted, not unkindly, but with firmness. "Your Resonance Affinity must grow. You must practice. Not with flashy displays, but with control. You must learn to sip, not guzzle."
Alexander's thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a servant, who bowed deeply.
"Prince Alexander," the servant said, not meeting his eyes. "His Majesty, the King, has commanded your presence in his private study. Immediately."