The Guardian lunged at him at full speed.

  A whistle tore through the air.

  Kael briefly saw a blade glint — thin, short.

  A knife?

  He didn’t have time to think.

  He took a defensive stance, saber raised, scabbard still in his left hand.

  The blow came.

  “Tch…”

  A shockwave hit him head-on.

  He was thrown several meters back.

  His body crashed into the sand with a dull thud.

  A cloud of dust rose.

  Kael rolled onto his side, pushed himself up with a grimace.

  His footing was solid. He’d absorbed the impact.

  But.

  His right hand — the one that had blocked the strike — trembled.

  Numb despite the Elan coating it.

  “Damn… one-handed, this is going to be impossible.”

  He shot a quick glance at his scabbard.

  The Needle-Case Band was still vibrating softly, as if responding to the energy of his saber.

  But that extra weight…

  That imbalance…

  No. It wouldn’t work.

  Kael drove the scabbard into the sand beside him with a sharp motion.

  He tightened his grip on the hilt.

  His eyes found the Guardian’s silhouette again, advancing slowly, knife in hand, expression neutral.

  I’ve already lost an exchange. But now… I know.

  Kael launched forward.

  One step.

  And the air around him exploded.

  The sand was blasted in an arc from his starting point.

  The Guardian narrowed his eyes.

  Too fast.

  He barely managed to parry, blade against blade.

  A spark of Elan crackled at the impact.

  But Kael did not stop.

  Already he pivoted, left foot anchored, body spinning — a circular arc flowing into an upward strike.

  The Guardian stepped back, counter-parried, then attacked in turn:

  a low, vicious cut aimed at the leg.

  Kael jumped.

  Too high.

  He hadn’t controlled the surge of his Elan.

  His knee nearly struck his own chest.

  He landed awkwardly — and had to roll through the sand to avoid another strike.

  “Tsss…”

  He cursed to himself.

  Everything was too much.

  Too fast. Too powerful.

  Even his reflexes were overwhelmed.

  The Guardian, meanwhile, whirled like a white breeze.

  He launched three rapid strikes — thin slashes, almost invisible.

  Kael parried the first.

  Took two steps back.

  The second grazed his shoulder, a clean burn.

  The third he deflected with a brutal, instinctive motion — but the Elan reacted badly.

  A red and black wave burst from his palm, uncontrolled.

  It exploded between them, throwing them both backward.

  Kael landed heavily.

  The Guardian as well, but without losing balance.

  “You don’t control it…” he breathed, amused.

  Kael did not answer.

  His breathing had grown heavier.

  He resumed his stance.

  His style had no fixed form, no identifiable sequence.

  The Guardian frowned.

  “That’s not an academic guard… You… you’re composing?”

  Kael murmured, almost to himself:

  “Chaos. Adaptation.”

  Then he charged again.

  Althéa trembled slightly, anxious.

  Her eyes remained fixed on the arena, but her voice broke the silence:

  “Is… is that how you taught him to fight?”

  Velara nodded, that enigmatic smile still at the corner of her lips.

  “It’s not even a style. It’s improvi—”

  “It’s adaptation,” she cut in immediately.

  “The only style that matters… if you want to stay alive.”

  She turned slightly toward Althéa, gaze piercing:

  “I would have taught you the same thing… If I had been the one training you in weapon combat.”

  Lucanis said nothing.

  He watched, impassive.

  Kael charged again.

  He had changed.

  Not just his guard.

  Everything.

  The rhythm.

  The angle of his footing.

  The cadence of his strikes.

  He hurled himself at the Guardian, blade forward—

  Then pivoted at the last moment, reversing his grip.

  The blade carved a lightning arc from low to high.

  The Guardian parried, but too late. A thin line opened across his cheek.

  Kael did not wait.

  He pressed on.

  He struck in irregular rhythm.

  One step. A half-turn.

  A side leap followed by an unexpected backhand.

  The Guardian attempted a counterattack.

  Kael dove forward. Rolled in the sand.

  Came up beneath him, blade toward the throat.

  The impact exploded in the air.

  Waves of Elan burst from every contact.

  Everything shifted.

  Everything adapted.

  Everything defied the logic of master swordsmen.

  But something was wrong.

  With every movement, his arm vibrated with brutal jolts.

  The Elan within him… was detonating.

  Not by will.

  By nature.

  Each strike went too fast.

  Too hard.

  He lacked control.

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  A thrust extended farther than intended.

  The saber nearly slipped from his grasp.

  He corrected at the last second,

  But the Guardian struck,

  And Kael was pushed back three steps.

  He ground his teeth.

  Not precise enough.

  Too much power.

  Not enough finesse.

  …I’ll have to adapt again, he thought.

  And he charged again.

  The Guardian allowed himself a cruel smile during the exchange.

  “Your Elan… is unstable. Too explosive. You have no mastery over it.”

  Kael did not answer.

  His jaw tightened.

  He clenched his teeth, suppressing pain and rage.

  The Guardian slipped into the opening.

  He accelerated suddenly,

  becoming a blur,

  untouchable.

  The first strike flashed — Kael parried.

  A second.

  A third.

  A rain of blows crashed down on him.

  Kael did not attempt to retaliate.

  He simply parried.

  Again. And again. And again.

  The impacts rattled his bones.

  His blade vibrated under the violence.

  He retreated. With each strike.

  One step. Then another. Then another.

  ((Charge: twenty-three percent.))

  The information blinked in his mind.

  He ignored it.

  He had to hold.

  Just a little longer.

  The Guardian unleashed everything.

  His strikes were clean.

  Precise.

  Too precise.

  Every movement targeted a joint, an opening, a weakness.

  Kael bent his knees, absorbed a high strike,

  then a low lunge —

  then a backhand hook.

  And then…

  The kick.

  Clean.

  Precise.

  Brutal, yet controlled.

  The Guardian’s sole slammed into Kael’s stomach.

  Air ripped from him.

  A dull crack.

  And Kael was launched backward,

  like a broken puppet.

  His body flew.

  And smashed violently into the stands,

  in a crash of dust and shattered stone.

  A groan escaped him despite himself.

  His breathing was ragged.

  His chest on fire.

  He lay there for a moment.

  The sky blurred above him.

  The taste of blood on his tongue.

  ((Charge: thirty-nine percent.))

  He coughed.

  Grimaced.

  And tried to rise.

  “I just need to hold a little longer…”

  Kael tried to square his shoulders.

  His breath whistled.

  His ribs protested with every inhale.

  He tightened his grip on the hilt.

  But the Guardian did not wait.

  He leapt.

  A clean trajectory, taut as an arrow.

  White blade forward.

  A comet of violence.

  Kael reacted at the last moment.

  A reflex.

  A survival jolt.

  He raised his saber.

  Just in time.

  But too late for it to be clean.

  The impact was titanic.

  His guard broke.

  The force bent his arms.

  One knee hit the ground.

  The Guardian smiled.

  A carnivorous smile.

  Smug.

  He grabbed Kael by the throat,

  one sure, firm, unshakable hand.

  “And here we go again.”

  And without waiting,

  he threw him.

  Like dead weight.

  Kael’s body tore through the air at full speed,

  tracing an invisible line between the stands and the arena.

  And crashed into the sand.

  A dull, muffled sound.

  A cloud of dust rose.

  Heavy. Dense.

  A stunned silence invaded the stands.

  ((Charge: seventy-four percent.))

  Kael, lying in the sand, opened his eyes.

  That last blow…

  As powerful as the others.

  He coughed. Blood spilled from his lips.

  But he stood.

  Slowly.

  Determined.

  The red and black aura still floated around him.

  Still there.

  But something had changed.

  It was… more fluid.

  Less wild.

  He resumed his stance.

  Blood ran from several cuts across his body,

  tracing dark lines over his taut skin.

  The Guardian leapt from the stands.

  He landed in the arena with almost mocking grace,

  feet perfectly placed,

  back straight, chin high.

  He approached.

  Calm.

  Relaxed.

  A stretched smile pulled across his face like a porcelain mask.

  “You’re less confident now…”

  His voice smooth as poison.

  “When you talked about the Velasquez Limit, about breaking the Ouroboros…You sounded a little more… sure of yourself, didn’t you?”

  Kael did not answer.

  His eyes froze.

  Cold.

  Sharp.

  Then he sprang.

  His entire body burst forward like an arrow.

  At full speed.

  And in his mind, a thought exploded,

  definitive, mad, lucid:

  If I can’t master Elan… then it will master me.

  Kael lunged, saber forward.

  But something was wrong.

  Too much speed.

  Too much force.

  His footing slipped; his own movements outpaced him.

  Elan detonated with every motion.

  A simple cut nearly propelled him out of range.

  The Guardian blocked easily, his smile widening.

  “Still unstable, gutter rat.”

  Kael pivoted… badly.

  His blade bit into empty air, carried by its own power.

  The Guardian seized the opportunity.

  He rushed him, thin blade in hand, chaining several lightning-fast strikes.

  Kael parried. Again. And again.

  His arm trembled under the impacts.

  His breath uneven.

  His aura flickering.

  ((Charge: eighty-five percent.))

  “You think you can tame Elan by force?” the Guardian sneered.

  “It’s the one devouring you, Kael.”

  Kael stepped back, gaze fixed, thoughtful.

  Then he smiled.

  A faint grin.

  Unexpected.

  “No…” he murmured.

  “I’m going to do worse than that.”

  The Guardian frowned.

  He hurled himself forward again.

  But this time…

  He did not try to correct.

  He did not try to control.

  He let the Elan explode.

  He did not restrain the blows.

  He did not moderate the motions.

  He struck.

  Too hard.

  Too fast.

  Too wide.

  And that made him unpredictable.

  A thrust that deliberately veered from its target to rebound off the sand and slice upward.

  An unbalanced motion… that feigned a fall before sweeping the Guardian’s legs.

  A failed parry turned into a sleeve grab.

  The Guardian narrowed his eyes.

  His rhythm was broken.

  Every strike from Kael was a deliberate mistake,

  a calculated misstep,

  controlled chaos.

  “He’s using instability… as a strategy?”

  “You see?” Kael breathed, faintly mocking between furious exchanges.

  “I have a style perfectly suited to the uncontrollable.”

  The saber danced.

  And the Elan, unstable, wild… became an engine.

  Kael was no longer a fighter.

  He was a tidal wave.

  A phenomenon.

  The Guardian grimaced.

  “Impossible…”

  A strike brushed him.

  Another grazed his cheek.

  “He’s improving during the fight?”

  Kael slipped behind him in a fluid, unstable, yet swift motion.

  A violent rotation.

  A cutting strike.

  The Guardian blocked at the last second, stepping back three paces under the pressure.

  Kael was breathing hard.

  But his smile had not left him.

  “I’m not trying to control it anymore.”

  He raised his saber, its aura humming like a living beast.

  “I’m dancing with chaos.”

  Kael prepared a movement, wide, clean.

  A perfect arc.

  Predictable.

  The Guardian did not flinch.

  He raised his blade, parried easily.

  Too obvious, he thought, already preparing to counterattack.

  But then…

  Kael smiled.

  A wicked grin, animal, almost joyful.

  And… he let go of his saber.

  The metal fell into the sand.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this…” he murmured.

  He drew back his fist.

  Elan gathered instantly around his hand.

  Dense. Visceral. Red and black.

  As if the energy itself understood what he was about to do.

  And Kael struck.

  His fist crashed directly into the Guardian’s jaw —

  …into his mother’s face.

  A deafening crack.

  The impact lifted the figure off the ground.

  The Guardian was hurled backward, catapulted like a rag doll,

  and smashed violently into the stands in a cloud of dust and shattered stone.

  Kael retrieved his saber, still warm, lying in the sand.

  The Guardian, red with fury, emerged from the rubble. His face was taut, twisted by deep rage. He leapt.

  Straight into the arena.

  He landed right beside the scabbard still planted in the sand. Without hesitation, he seized it with one hand, channeled all his Elan into his arm, and hurled it with all his strength.

  The scabbard shot forward like a cannon bolt, straight at Kael.

  Kael inhaled once. His Elan pulsed through his legs, his arms.

  He raised his saber and parried.

  The impact was brutal.

  He stepped back a few paces, feet grinding in the sand. The scabbard, deflected, fell farther away, half-buried in the ground.

  ((Charge: Hundred percent.))

  The Guardian rushed him like a human projectile.

  Kael sheathed his blade.

  In the stands, Althéa was tapping her foot frantically, eyes wide.

  “What is he doing?!”

  The Dean stammered, words escaping him:

  “He… he’s sheathing it?”

  Velara, however, was smiling.

  Wide.

  Predatory.

  “There it is.”

  She inhaled, trembling.

  “He’s going to do it.”

  Kael lowered himself, knees bent, focused.

  The saber poised at his waist.

  One hand on the scabbard.

  The other on the hilt.

  The Needle-Case Band floated gently in the air, vibrating to the rhythm of his Elan.

  A breath.

  Slow. Deep.

  The world fell silent.

  The Guardian charged, like a bullet.

  A white trail of Elan in his wake.

  Kael closed his eyes. One second.

  Just one second.

  And in that suspended breath…

  He saw his mother again.

  That smile. That moment.

  That fragment of light, torn from the trial.

  The Guardian raised his arm.

  ((— Activation of The Deluge.))

  Kael’s eyes snapped open.

  At the moment he drew, the Guardian’s silhouette seemed to reclaim — for a heartbeat — Orelia’s tender expression.

  Kael hesitated.

  A single fraction of a second.

  A butterfly’s wingbeat in his soul.

  Then he cut.

  The impact was immediate.

  A collision — no, an annihilation.

  The Guardian’s blade disintegrated on contact.

  Then his fingers.

  Then his arm.

  Severed. Torn. Dissolved in the air.

  Kael thought he heard the Guardian’s voice.

  “You… you’re not supposed to exis—”

  And the rest followed.

  The Guardian’s entire body exploded under the effect of The Deluge.

  A myriad of invisible blades shredded him from every angle.

  Limbs torn away. Fabric scattered.

  A bloody rain pulverized the arena.

  A chaos of flesh and silence.

  Kael remained motionless.

  His stance frozen.

  The saber still held, perfectly aligned along the cut’s trajectory.

  His gaze lifted. Slowly.

  Nothing remained of the Guardian.

  Nothing recognizable.

  Fragments of flesh scattered.

  A suffocating silence.

  He grimaced. A curl of disgust.

  “I told you…”

  He straightened.

  “…that I’d prevail.”