Chapter 9 - Spar

  Almost a full year had passed since I began training with the Move, and even longer since I first stepped onto the path under Sir Darvish. Winter had turned to spring, then back into the early curl of autumn again. In that time, the estate changed little, but I changed constantly. My ascension ceremony was near. So was my core formation. Thinking about it sent a strange mixture of anticipation and dread through me, as if both emotions refused to let the other have full control.

  The library had long since been exhausted. I had scoured every scrap of text related to mana, core formation, the System, or any whispers of fantasy lore that felt connected to the life I found myself in. The history books sat mostly untouched, partly because they lacked the spark that mana theory held, partly because I did not have enough hours in the day to care. My obsession belonged to mana, and mana only.

  In all this time, my theory of mana grouping had solidified. The idea was simple but powerful. Take ambient mana from the environment and guide it inward, let it gather, let it spiral, let it settle inside the foundation of the core that had yet to truly form. The more I practiced it, the more intuitive the method felt. The world breathed mana, and I learned slowly but surely to breathe with it.

  My mana sense had grown sharper than I ever believed possible. Once it had been nothing more than an unstable flicker that gave me a headache. Now it expanded across nearly the entire estate. My vision through it had not changed. It still painted the world as a shifting blur of ambient mana, outlines of walls and people rising like faint silhouettes in a storm of color. But the distance, the clarity, the speed at which I could activate it, all of it had improved. Baby steps, I reminded myself. Step by step, I walked toward something larger.

  Physically, I had grown as well. Nothing dramatic, but I now stood close to five feet eight, taller than most boys my age. My arms and legs held more muscle, a firm corded strength instead of the soft childhood shape they once had. The spear and my dual daggers fit more naturally in my hands. Where once they felt unwieldy, now they felt like extensions of my will, light and eager.

  My parents noticed my progress. They also noticed the way mana training consumed my days. Surprisingly, they grew more open to giving me free hours, no matter how busy the estate became. My mother had been the strictest about maintaining my studies and manners, so when she stepped aside and offered me more freedom, I suspected another reason behind her change.

  It happened two months ago, during the event that altered how the entire estate viewed me.

  Sir Darvish stood in the training hall with his arms crossed, the torches along the walls casting a warm glow across the polished wood floor. His expression held its usual steady discipline but with an added hint of confusion.

  “Young Lord,” he said, “repeat your request. Your parents are present this time.”

  My mother and father stood beside him. The weight of three sets of eyes made my heart beat a little faster. Still, I kept my spine straight and my breath calm.

  “I asked for a spar,” I said. “With training weapons of course. I believe a real fight would do me good.”

  My father threw his head back and laughed in a booming voice that filled the entire hall. “It seems keeping you in this quiet town has made you soft, Darvy. I remember when we were trainees and used to wager on how fast we could take down winter mammoths.”

  My mother pinched the bridge of her nose but did not argue. “Yes, my boy, you shall spar. I will select the trainee myself and we will all spectate. In fact, have the entire camp take a break. They deserve the chance to witness the skill of their Young Lord.”

  Sir Darvish glanced at my mother, then my father, then back at me. “Very well,” he said. “Let us proceed.”

  So that was how I ended up creating a spectacle for myself completely by accident.

  The training grounds filled with young trainees. Some whispered nervously. Some looked excited. A few looked like they were hoping I would trip and humiliate myself. It was hard to blame them. I had been raised under the protection of tier five and tier four warriors, and that fact created a wall of separation between me and boys who were barely older than I was.

  My father took his place on the loft overlooking the sparring circle. The officers marched up to meet him in perfect formation.

  “Officers,” my father said, “come speak with me. We shall choose a worthy fighter for my son.”

  I used mana sense lightly, enough to observe the trainees without overwhelming my sight. The oldest was around seventeen. Some boys had wide frames and strong shoulders. Others were thin but sharp eyed. A few bore small scars that hinted at hard lessons. Not one of them had the crushing aura of the warriors who trained me, but that was expected.

  After a short deliberation, my father raised his voice. “Anton. The officers have vouched for your dedication and skill. You have served the Barony well. You will have the honor of sparring with my son.”

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  The formation broke into a flurry of movement as trainees moved aside to make room. Some climbed onto crates. Others shoved for better positions. The excitement was almost tangible.

  I descended the steps to the weapon rack and selected a dark wooden spear. Its weight felt balanced and familiar. When I stepped into the makeshift arena, the trainees formed a wide circle. The ground beneath us was hardened dirt. Anton stood across from me, holding a basic wooden sword. He was tall. Taller than many adults I had seen. If I had to guess, he stood around six feet two. His expression held a seriousness that I respected.

  I spoke first. “Do not hold back just because I am the Lord's son. Fight as you normally would.”

  He nodded. “I will give my best, Young Lord.”

  We stepped back from each other, setting the starting distance.

  Anton moved first.

  He was fast. Far faster than I assumed. His sword leveled instantly for a thrust aimed at my chest. The distance closed before I could angle my spear properly. I twisted my body sharply and used the length of the spear to spin away from the direct line of attack. As my momentum carried me, I aimed a counter strike toward the side of his ribs. Anton reacted quickly, dropping into a crouch with impressive control. My spear sliced downward and he swung upward from the crouch with a deflective strike that caught the lower part of my weapon.

  The force surprised me. Strong. Steady. His blade struck my shirt as I pulled away, the wooden tip grazing the fabric.

  I hopped left to gain distance, and he rose immediately to face me again.

  I pressed forward with a thrust, the spear aimed straight at his exposed back. It connected cleanly. The blunt point struck him just below the shoulder blade, forcing him into a forward roll. He recovered fast, popped up onto his feet, and lowered his stance with renewed focus.

  “Impressive, Young Lord,” he said.

  We circled again. Anton dashed in with a thrust. I prepared to deflect it, but he altered his strike at the last instant. The sword curved toward my shoulder. I tried to adjust, but my reaction came a fraction too slow. Anton leaned to the right, evading my counter thrust, and struck my offhand shoulder with a clean hit. Pain shot down my arm.

  My father’s voice thundered across the hall. “One strike each. Next point wins. Push harder.”

  The trainees erupted into excited shouts. Pressure settled across my chest like a solid weight. I could not lose. Not in front of my father. Not in front of the camp. Not when core formation and ascension rested so close to my future.

  Anton and I charged again. Our weapons clashed. I watched every muscle movement in his frame. The shift of his shoulder before a slash. The twitch of his fingers before a thrust. Then he made a mistake. A small slip in his footing. I lunged with a decisive strike aimed at his head.

  But Anton smirked.

  He dropped to his knees and rolled to the side in one smooth motion. My spear cut air. He came up with a counter already prepared, his sword swinging for my neck.

  I was too committed to the attack. I could not dodge. The world slowed. Anton’s confident, almost triumphant expression was frozen before me. The blade was arcing toward my throat. I felt anger and fear surge together, mixed with something else. A silent plea inside myself.

  I will not freeze again. Not in this life.

  The moment the resolve formed, my senses exploded.

  My sight shifted into mana vision. My feet vibrated violently. My fingertips burned with a rising force I had never felt. Sparks erupted across the ground beneath me. Scorch marks appeared in the shape of my own footprints. Ice crystallized along the length of my spear.

  I blinked once.

  I was no longer in front of Anton.

  I was behind him.

  My spear rested against the back of his neck. Frost clung to his skin, thin and sharp. I tried to pull the spear away, but the ice stuck to him. When it tore free, a patch of skin came with it.

  Anton screamed and collapsed, clutching the back of his neck.

  Pain tore across my eyes and temples. My vision blurred. My legs shook. I saw my father descending the loft with slow deliberate steps. My mother watched from above with unreadable eyes.

  The pain spiked.

  The world collapsed into darkness.

  POV Rian, Footman of the Barony, Tier 2

  I had been hauling crates across the yard when the officers called us over, saying the Young Lord was about to spar. While we respected the Baron for his strengths and humbleness, I didnt think much of it. Nobles brought their sons out every now and then, had them swing a training weapon a few times, maybe stumble through a stance or two. We would clap, act impressed, then get back to real work.

  But the moment I stepped into the training ring and saw Sir Darvish standing with the Lord and Lady, I sensed this would be different. Everyone did. The whole camp buzzed with a kind of electric curiosity. Anton was chosen for the spar, and that alone said enough. The man was built like a wall and respected by everyone, even the officers.

  When Lance stepped forward, I expected some nervous boy with shaky hands and too much confidence. Instead he walked into the dirt circle calm and steady, as if he had done this a thousand times behind closed doors. He chose his spear with quiet certainty. No hesitation. No theatrics.

  Anton moved first, fast enough that even I flinched. Lance slipped aside in a smooth motion that did not look like luck. He countered with precision, striking Anton’s back and forcing him into a roll. A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd.

  The boy could fight. Even so, in my mind Anton would still win. He had years of training. He had a soldier’s reflex. A noble child should not have been able to push him this far.

  Then the final exchange began.

  Anton slipped past Lance’s guard with perfect timing and swung for the boy’s neck. I saw the strike coming, saw Lance too committed to dodge, and I felt a sickening drop in my gut. I thought the heir would be struck clean across the throat. While not fatal with the blunted weapon, his vocal cords could be seriously damaged at his age.

  Instead the world flashed.

  For a moment, I thought someone had thrown a lantern. The ground beneath Lance flared with sparks. Frost crawled over his spear. Mana swirled around him like a living thing. One heartbeat he stood in front of Anton, the next he was behind him with the spear at his neck. Scorched footprints showing he didnt just teleport, he just moved to fast I couldn't keep up.

  Anton’s scream echoed across the yard when the ice tore skin from his neck. Lance swayed, eyes unfocused, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

  No one spoke.

  Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  I stared at the burned footprints and the frost on the spear and felt a cold shiver slide down my spine. I had seen seasoned warriors struggle to control their mana. Yet this boy, barely in his early years of training, wielded it like something instinctual.

  In that moment, I realized the Young Lord was not merely gifted.

  He was something special.