“Welp,” Kaysi blew a raspberry before sighing deeply. “That didn’t go how I expected.”

  “What do you mean?” Ayron glanced at him quizically.

  “Your prism exam," the instructor let out a huge breath. “After witnessing the divination exam, I was positive you’re an outlier. I’m still leaning towards the prism exam not being read correctly.”

  “How?” Ayron murmured, the question directed more at the memory than the instructor, though the man heard it clearly. “There were no emotional markers, according to the director's initial assessment of the test results. I was completely blank.” Ayron recalled the bewildering divination exam that had taken place in the tavern. The memory of Kaysi's hands was clear: distinct, deep hues of color had emanated from his palms. However, Ayron was an entirely different case, a puzzle they still hadn't solved. When he had looked at his own hands, there was no hue, no discernible color at all; only a stark, blindingly bright white aura. It was a complete anomaly.

  The instructor, a grizzled man who had clearly seen more than his share of unusual events within the Tower, nodded slowly. “Special cases exist, Ayron. Always have, always will.” He paused, allowing the weight of his statement to settle. “While the prism test, the divination method used, is incredibly reliable and accounts for ninety-nine percent of all cases we encounter. There are always those one-in-a-hundred exceptions. On the full spectrum of auras and emotional signatures, there are a myriad of hues we can read. However, there are also complete absences and the complete saturations: colors like jet black and absolute white. These are exceedingly rare and incredibly difficult to identify, even by experienced tower staff. It often requires an entirely different set of rules for interpretation.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential pitch. “Towers don’t see these cases every day, perhaps once a decade, or even less frequently. Therefore, they have special rules and protocols governing how to handle individuals with such an ‘unconventional’ signature. It's not a sign of failure in the test, but a sign that the individual operates on a frequency normal detection methods cannot measure accurately.”

  “So…?” Ayron raised a brow in confusion.

  “It's going to make for an interesting first match,” Kaysi admitted with a sigh. “It will take a re-evaluation, with a special committee. There's a three-day waiting period between evaluations, so there's nothing that can be done today. Let's spar in the training rooms, see if we can get a match in the meantime.”

  “Lead the way,” the foreigner gestured. Ayron followed his instructor, Kaysi, down several hallways. The duo finally reached the end of the hall. The young man could hear several guild members on the other side. The heavy, reinforced doors of the training gym hissed open, announcing their arrival. The room was a vast, high-ceilinged arena for combat training, segmented into six padded stages humming with activity. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the sounds of exertion. Ayron immediately began his habitual, cold assessment of the room's occupants, gauging their strength and the pervasive "lul of aura" that surrounded them. Most combatants' energy signatures were typical and uninteresting.

  However, a group practicing on one of the far-right stages caught his attention. Their collective power level was markedly different: cleaner, more focused, and denser than the average trainee. This group, Ayron concluded, was the first thing in this academy worth his attention. His eyes narrowed, assessing the most potent group in the room. He oversaw their movements, seeing the degree of difficulty in their spar.

  “There’s a mat in the corner.” Kaysi pointed. “Next to Jak and Nikai.”

  Unbeknownst to Ayron and his sparring partner, a hush had fallen over the training facility. The sounds of fighting ceased as gym-goers stopped, turning to see the imposing figure of the previous elite tower instructor stride through the main entrance.

  It was an event as rare as a solar eclipse to see him in the common training rooms. After retiring years ago, the older man had become a near-legendary, spectral presence, only seen around the guild during headline battles or his kids’ matches. His sudden appearance on a mundane afternoon sparked immediate, hushed speculation that swept through the silent gym.

  “Well, well.” A voice resounded across the training area. “I thought you retired, old man. You’ll train newbies, but not me??”

  Ayron turned, seeing a young man heading in their direction. Observing his environment, the foreigner noted that most of the gym-goers were avoiding his gaze. Was he not well-liked in the guild? Or was there another reason the patrons scattered at the sight of him? His eyes finally landed on his instructor, whose features looked composed. But Ayron noticed subtle cues; the tightness in his jaw, the vein near his temple that was beginning to pound more than normal, and the composed, diplomatic look to his features.

  “I’m just trying to enjoy a day off from the tavern, Damyan. Look, I’ve earned it,” Kaysi shrugged, trying his best to appear nonchalant, as if the young man’s persistent presence was a minor annoyance. “Just sparring with a family friend. This is his first time in town, and I wanted to show him the guild. It’s an iconic landmark, you know.”

  Damyan, a lean and overly enthusiastic young warrior, raised his hand dismissively, as if brushing away a troublesome fly. “I’m the only spar worth your time! You’re wasting your unparalleled talent! I’m the strongest warrior in the guild without access to enki. I’ve mastered the basics! You have to teach me! My potential is limitless!” His voice was loud, echoing slightly in the training yard near the tower's base, a place usually reserved for the high-level challengers.

  A sharp snicker escaped Ayron’s lips. The foreigner quickly covered his mouth with a fist, barely able to contain his amusement. The offending young man’s ki was barely above the gentle ‘hum’ of a novice. It was present, certainly, but it lacked the focused intensity and power that defined a true warrior. Did he truly expect Kaysi to be moved by his little speech and transparent ambition? It was almost painful to watch.

  “Have something to say, tourist?” Damyan’s youthful face soured with annoyance, glaring intensely at Ayron. His insecurity was palpable.

  “Nope,” the foreigner replied smoothly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender and innocence. A light, almost mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes. “Just enjoying my tour.”

  A flash of genuine interest lit up Kaysi’s features. He glanced at Ayron, a silent question passing between the two men. Then, a smile, cunning and slightly predatory, spread across Kaysi’s face. “Tell you what, Damyan.” He pointed a thumb at Ayron, who looked back with an air of amused curiosity. “I’ll take you on as my pupil. You get exclusive lessons, one-on-one training, everything you're demanding; if you can beat my friend here in a spar.” Kaysi leaned conspiratorially toward Damyan. “He’s a challenger in the daily pool. He’s looking to climb the ranks, but needs a contender to compete with to get into the upper levels. Beat him, and I’ll consider you worthy of my time.”

  Ayron inwardly celebrated, "Kaysi, you're a genius!" as he watched a scowl deepen on Damyan's face.

  "Him??" Damyan scoffed, crossing his arms. "He barely looks strong enough to spar with your daughter." He then grudgingly agreed, manipulating his panel.

  “Uh, dude?” One of Damyan’s friends pointed at his RTG Panel. “Look at his attack power.”

  “It’s a fluke. He doesn’t look strong enough to punch that hard!”

  Ayron's panel beeped several times, then blipped: "You have a match! Head to waiting room three." He noted the match was scheduled for thirty minutes from now.

  "Let's do a quick warm-up," Kaysi instructed, motioning to the mat. "Make sure the dust is shaken off."

  The foreigner nodded. "Sounds good," and followed his instructor.

  ===

  Ayron slowly surveyed the confines of the arena, his gaze lingering on the high, vaulted ceiling that seemed to pull the light from the numerous enchanted lamps lining the perimeter. The space was much more substantial than it appeared at first glance, accommodating several tiers of spectator stands that were surprisingly well-populated for what felt like a minor bout. He could sense the low, pervasive hum of gathered ki, a psychic static that felt like a thick blanket. This particular battleground was clearly just one module in a sprawling complex; the sheer scale suggested a serious operation, far beyond a simple training hall.

  The foreigner felt the prickle of many eyes, a hundred or more pairs on him. Despite the size of the crowd, Ayron was immediately able to pinpoint several small clusters of individuals whose ki resonated with a distinct power. Their energy burned brightly, standing out like small, intense flames amidst the softer, muddier glow of the general populace; the upper echelon of the local guild, he surmised, here perhaps to scout or simply to be seen. He didn’t recognize any faces, but the palpable aura of confidence and authority was unmistakable.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Hope you’re ready to lose, Ayron. I hear the daily pool boys don't last long against a ranked fighter,” Damyan drawled, his voice a low, gravelly snicker that held more arrogance than genuine amusement. Damyan was a burly man, broad-shouldered and radiating a thick, aggressive ki that felt like unpolished iron. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing slightly in the sudden lull.

  “We’ll see about that,” Ayron returned, his tone flat and unconcerned. He gave a casual, almost dismissive shrug, careful not to betray his true strength. He kept it dormant for so long that it became second nature; the young man didn’t know how powerful he truly was. It’s been years since he’s used close to seventy percent of his power. Going all out in this simple brawl would be overkill.

  The moment for small talk was cut short. Two referees, clad in deep burgundy like all Raiders Tower officials, emerged from a waiting room situated beneath the stands. They moved with precision, fanning out to take up their positions.

  A moment later, a booming, digitized voice cut through the air. An announcer’s voice resonated through the cavernous space via a series of speakers. Ayron glanced around, momentarily searching for the source of the noise. His eyes settled on a small, elevated table affixed to the left side of the arena.

  “Alright, ladies and gents! Welcome back to the heart of the Tower! Let’s get ready for the next round in our daily challenge schedule!” the announcer’s voice boomed, rich with theatrics. “We have the formidable, ranked competitor, Level 197 Damyan Karrn, challenging a fresh, unranked member of the daily pool, Ayron Mikael! It’s this young man’s very first time competing, so let’s give him a warm welcome and see if he can survive the challenge!” The announcer’s final words were a loud, excited holler, and the crowd instantly became electric. The energy, a mixture of anticipation and bloodlust, was palpable, pressing down on Ayron like an invisible weight. He took a deep breath, his hands flexing as he balled them into fists. The show was about to begin.

  “Fighters ready?” The referee on the left questioned, his hand in the air.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Ayron let out a deep breath, taking his battle stance.

  “Let’s go.” Damyan nodded.

  “Begin!”

  ‘He’s going to strike from the right,’ the foreigner, Ayron, thought with an almost dismissive air. He watched the young man across from him, Damyan, bounce nervously between his feet. The movements were almost painfully slow, his feints predictable, and his fighting stance far too open, practically inviting a counter.

  Damyan, driven by a raw but unrefined aggression, lunged forward, attempting a wild, sweeping right hook. It was a power strike, intended to end the bout quickly. Ayron barely moved. He faded back with a practiced ease that made him look less like an evasion and more like a casual step, letting the force of the punch whistle harmlessly past his ear. As Damyan's weight committed entirely to the miss, Ayron countered. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but a short, sharp, precise punch delivered with the focused force of a whip crack directly to the exposed side of Damyan’s ribs, just beneath the armpit.

  “Ah!” his opponent yelped in pain, the breath instantly knocked out of him. He stumbled backward several meters, clutching his side and sucking in a frantic, ragged breath.

  “One point, Ayron!” the referee’s voice boomed over the arena's loudspeakers, causing the scattered crowd to clap and cheer excitedly, a sound that echoed the sharp sting in Damyan’s side.

  “That—” Damyan managed, still attempting to regulate his breathing, his chest heaving. He straightened, forcing a glare through the residual pain. “Was a fluke. You won’t get me again! I wasn't ready!”

  The foreigner, Ayron, allowed a faint, almost pitying smirk to cross his face, trying his best not to laugh out loud at the blatant excuse. His opponent's predictable frustration was a weapon in itself. “Okay. Come at me,” he challenged, keeping his tone level, his posture relaxed; a picture of calm readiness that only served to stoke Damyan's anger.

  The two fighters began a delicate, tense dance around the mat. Damyan circled, more cautious now, but the pain and humiliation injected a jagged desperation into his movements. Ayron remained the perfect counterpoint, effortlessly dodging every probe and feint with an economy of motion that spoke of years of disciplined training. He didn’t need to move much because he read every intention before it became action. He sidestepped a clumsy jab, swayed back from a hurried kick, and simply let Damyan’s aggression turn into wasted energy.

  This growing frustration was exactly what Ayron was waiting for. Damyan’s form became jagged and sloppy, his feet dragging, his stance opening up again as he desperately sought to land a hit. It was only a matter of time before a true opening, a gaping vulnerability, made itself present again.

  It came when Damyan lunged for a kick, overextending his hip and exposing his entire front. Ayron moved like a striking viper. He struck four times in rapid, devastating succession: a blinding jab to the stomach that doubled his opponent over; an immediate, upward hook to the jaw that snapped Damyan’s head back; a punishing, short-range elbow to the shoulder as he staggered; and finally, a perfectly timed, low sweep that caught the back of his exposed knee. This final, debilitating move stole the last of Damyan's balance and resolve, violently bringing his opponent crashing down onto the mat.

  “Critical strike, Ayron!” The referee’s voice boomed across the arena, cutting through the murmuring crowd. “Four points to zero.”

  A low, guttural sound ripped from Damyan’s chest. “Aaaahhh!” he roared in sheer frustration, his body heaving as he panted, a pained, utterly defeated look momentarily clouding his features. Sweat poured down his temples, stinging his eyes, and his chest burned from the exertion. He couldn't land a single solid hit.

  Ayron, standing a few feet away, hadn’t even broken a sweat. His stance was relaxed, his breathing steady, almost bored. “I’m waiting for this power you’re going to show me,” he snickered, the sound dry and taunting. He shifted his weight, and his eyes casually scanned the audience before returning to his opponent.

  “Bastard!” Damyan spat out the insult barely audible above the rising clamor. The glare of contempt he fixed on Ayron was evident; a raw, naked hatred that was as much aimed at himself as the smug foreigner. Damyan’s composure was crumbling, and crumbling fast. The crowd had paid to see a fight, not a public humiliation.

  Ayron’s grin only widened, transforming into a shark-like smirk. He’d been fighting on the streets and in the underground arenas of his own world for years. He’d been called every vulgar name in the book by far more intimidating people. Hearing something as tame as ‘bastard’ was nothing; it was just the final twitch of a cornered animal. “Do you want me to stand still, then?” he challenged, his voice carrying the perfect pitch of mockery. “If I stay perfectly still, then you might actually get a hit on me.”

  “That’s it!!” Rage, pure, blistering, irrational rage bubbled and finally burst inside Damyan’s chest. Ayron could see it physically manifest: the bulging veins on his neck, the way his jaw locked so tight his teeth probably risked cracking, the sudden, almost terrifying clarity in his eyes. Driven past the point of strategic thought, the young man exploded forward with a burst of speed Ayron hadn’t yet witnessed from him. It was a desperate, all-or-nothing move.

  Ayron's reflexes, honed by countless life-or-death situations, were lightning-fast. He anticipated the right cross and moved to block the expected hook to the left, shifting his weight slightly back to absorb the impact. However, the foreigner wasn’t prepared for the savage feint; a low, almost invisible shoulder dip that turned the hook into a brutal, piston-like strike right to the jaw.

  The blow landed with a sickening thwack. Ayron’s vision exploded in a shower of white static. He felt the hinge of his jaw slide violently out of place, followed instantly by a resounding, audible pop that echoed in the sudden, shocked silence of the arena. He stumbled, taking a step back to balance himself. The crowd, which had been a low, continuous rumble of anticipation and excitement, audibly gasped as one monolithic entity before falling into stunned silence. The crowd went quiet, many standing in their seats, craning their necks to get a better, closer look at the sight of the untouchable Ayron finally reeling.

  “Strike one, Damyan!” the referee bellowed, his voice tight with alarm as he glanced at Ayron’s face, which was already beginning to swell. “Four points to one!”

  “Alright,” Ayron nodded more to himself than his opponent. “Alright.” The young man wasn’t expecting a punch of that caliber. He moved his jaw left and right to make sure it was in the right spot, and a loud crunch was heard. ‘I’ll need to get that looked at.’ Ayron thought to himself. ‘I didn’t think I needed to take this seriously, but he packs quite a punch.’

  The foreigner shrugged off the hit, much to the surprise of his opponent. Damyan glanced at Ayron like he was some kind of monster, not a guild member.

  “You’re insane…” The arrogant young man’s features devolved into pure disbelief. His hands shook, giving away his true nervousness. “That was my best attack, it was supposed to knock you out!!”

  “Hm,” Ayron nodded, keeping his composure. This only caused his opponent’s own to crumble. Damyan lunged at the foreigner like a feral animal backed in a corner. Instead of backing away like any sane contestant, Ayron leaned into it. He used Damyan’s lack of experience against him. Seizing the opportunity, he delivered a powerful blow to the stomach, though he held back some of his full strength. Just as during his divination examination, Ayron noticed a white "mist" emanating from his hand.

  The strike was enough to knock his opponent out of the ring, resulting in a ‘knock out’. The crowd’s cheers were more shock and awe than applause. A whistle was heard over the hum of the crowd.

  “Knock out, Ayron! Eleven points to one - Ayron wins the match!” The referee held both of his hands up.

  Before the foreigner could enjoy his victory, a roar caught his attention. Damyan was stomping his feet on the ground, akin to a toddler having a tantrum.

  “It’s not fair!!” Damyan screamed, tears of anger rushing down his cheeks. “He cheated!! He has access to Enki techniques!!!”

  Silence filled the room, causing Ayron’s ears to ring. He glanced at the crowd, seeing looks of worry and even confusion on their faces. An air of seriousness took all the oxygen. Suddenly, the foreigner was having trouble breathing. He looked around, seeing the glances of concern from the referees.

  ‘Uh oh… Did it again,'