Clash after clash, the two battered each other to exhaustion, both attempting to gain ground against their opponent. Adjusting to her augmented strength, Jasmine focused on swift and brutal strikes, meant to disable her opponent's weapon.

Her efforts to disable his weapon proved fruitless, as the air magi ducked and weaved out of the way of every strike. Just as her weapon descended, sliced, or lunged, a gust of wind would propel her opponent out of the way.

But he was not idle. He gave as much as he took. With every parry or dodge, he countered with a strike. He knew the blessing of Terranuk reinforced her body and was thus stronger than steel. But causing permanent damage was not the goal, disarming the opponent was.

Air currents swirled around him, latching upon his weapon, constructing a barrier around it. Raising the weapon to block, instead of both weapons shattering to pieces, she slid past, rebounded by a powerful air current.

His opponent was wide open, her hand vulnerable to attack. He struck with his blade, releasing a gust of wind, intending to thrash her grip with full force. He summoned the power of his familiar spirits and directed them at a single point.

The moment they reached, she shifted her weapon to her other hand. The blast of wind struck her arm and sent it flying back. Yet she still held firm, her weapon in hand and the fight in full swing.

What followed was the two hacking at each other for a while. Neither backed down and employed their spiritual powers to the fullest extent they could muster. Jasmine tried to maintain her raw strength and directed with victory in mind. Halmar sent strike after strike at his opponent, mustering up air currents to augment his attacks.

Soon, the pair were gasping for breath as the battle between strength and speed took its toll. Slowly, the two, now drenched in sweat and panting heavily, retired to the side for some rest.

"You fight like a beast, Marchella." Leaning back against the wall, resting his weary bones. Halmar spoke with a light chuckle and wide-brim smile.

Now that Jasmine was near, she could hear a more pronounced, almost French, accent. Placing his practice sword down, he inhaled deeply, sliding down against a wall. His body deflated and turned slack, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Alongside him was Jasmine, equally panting like a dog, yet keeping a cold and indifferent expression. She seated herself beside him.

"Not the first time I have heard that, yet it is the first I have heard of what, Marchella." Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"Strange, the word is not translating. The magic to understand the language doesn't seem to kick in." They noticed such magic early on. Peter had already expected it and observing people conversing was pretty obvious.

"Oh, my dear, that magic only gifts you the imperial tongue. Marchella is Lankosian, the language of the beasts." Giving her a little wink, he continued with his explanation. "Marchella, it means beautiful but deadly. It comes from a carnivorous flower that has laid low, many men and beasts alike."

Turning his gaze to the ceiling, he continues once more. "I once heard the term used to describe a Lankosian pack of all-female gladiators. They fought in the Teskamirian arena. Now that was a sight to see Marchella." Leaning back, his eyes turned glassy, looking off into the distance recalling a long distant memory.

With his information pouring over her like a cold drink of water. She nodded her head a few times. "Why would someone only gift us with a single language? Surely there are more?"

He chuckled softly. "Oh, Marchella, out of all that I said, you focus on the one that matters." He shrugged. "I know little, but they probably don't want you talking to the other side, no?" finishing his statement more than a rhetorical question.

"Leave that to the diplomats, kings, and queens. Politics Marchella it is not our place, no?" These words sunk deep, causing her interest to peak.

Frowning in thought, she spoke. "Do you mean to say the Empire doesn't allow us to communicate with the Federation?"

Shrugging, he gave a pouty look before answering. "No idea, but I would say they are not keen on having their heroes switching sides." With a playful grin, he laid down his truth bombs, then with a flourish, grasped his practice sword gracefully between two fingers and began balancing the blade on his index, the weapon teetering for only a moment.

Jasmine sat back in contemplative thought, taking everything in. "Yet you know their language. How is that?"

"Marchella, truly you live up to this name, fine I will tell you." He resigned himself to an explanation. "I have been across the border and visited the United Realms when I was a young man. Of course, growing up in a small Tarkonian border village, I was exposed to many cultures."

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Nodding a few times before smiling, he continued. "The border was a funny thing. It moved during the war, and sometimes we would be citizens of the kingdom or the realms. So, my impoverished people played nice to each occupying force. In the end, I learned much from both sides."

"When I was a boy, there was a time when we were occupied by a Teskamirian army. Despite the propaganda, they were quite a pleasant bunch. They used this time to form caravans and trade deals with the local farmers. Twas odd Marchella, how a superior military force dealt with a small village rather than taking what they want. Something to do with their culture, I think, merchant people all about fair trade and equivalent exchange." He explained before chuckling softly.

"Soon I pleaded with my mother to go along with the caravan to the grand city of Teskamir. After much time and begging, she conceded. That trip was where I first learned about the sword from the soldiers returning home. But nothing ever compared to my first day in the city, what marvellous sights to see. The Warriors Arena, the Golden Towers and the grand citadel of wealth." His eyes turned to some faint memory off into the distance.

Deciding to seat herself a little closer to Halmar. "It seems like you have lived a wide and fulfilling life. May I ask how you came to be here, so far from home?" She asked, displaying genuine curiosity.

In response, Halmar started moving his head from side to side. "No, Marchella, that is not the rules of the game." He declared with a level of glee in his glimmering eyes.

"The game?" She queried, quite confused at the sudden turn of events.

Nodding a few times, he finally responded. "Yes, indeed Marchella, the game is a tale for a tale. I give you my tale and now yours." He awaited her reply, gesturing his outstretched palm as if calling her to him.

She pondered for a moment, her eyes narrowed in thought, her mind weighing the options. "Not today. Let us focus on the now, shall we?" she replied without hesitation before looking deeply into his eyes.

The two stared at each other before Halmar conceded. "As you wish, Marchella, but you owe me a tale." Clasping hands, they both got to their feet.

On the other side of the room, Peter and Lucy sat in the lotus position. Their two teachers attempt to impart their wisdom. They went into a long-winded explanation of magic that neither of them really understood. In the end, they were told or ordered to seat themselves in the position of mindfulness and meditation. Both were not happy with this turn of events. Peter peeked every so often to the side, watching in awe at Jasmine's match.

His blood boiled at the potential excitement, yet with every dizzying high of emotion, he felt a cooling sensation wash over him. He hadn't noticed it, but as time went by, it became more noticeable. Seated in meditation, apparently to commune with the inner spirit. He instead performed a series of tests as he delved into his own mind and memories.

Images flickered to life, spurned from the deepest recesses of his mind. They appeared like smoke before evaporating into incomprehensible visions. Concentrating, he grasped a memory, and his sight changed.

The high school corridor came into focus, with lockers lining the hall and a stampede of young students filling the space. All around him were indifferent gazes. The figures passed by.

Clutching his stomach to the ground by another blow toppled Peter to the ground. In front of him were several taller students. Strangely, their faces were a blur, indiscernible from each other. Blow after blow, they laid into Peter with reckless abandon. Words such as nerd, geek, wuss and idiot were spat at him.

Despite the vivid memory and the rising heat boiling in his chest, a strange calm washed over him, the cool icy sensation lessening the feeling. The feeling cemented itself and the scene froze as if time had stopped. Rising to his feet, he found the pain had gone and his tormenters remained frozen.

The scene changed, and suddenly the appearances of the other students came into focus. Their faces were uniquely arranged, yet did not show the expressions he expected. They weren't indifferent, on the contrary, wide eyes and flared nostrils revealed their fear and anger. Yet none of them had the strength to move. They only watched, powerless.

At that moment, he understood. The feeling tore out the cobwebs, diminishing his anger and shame to a trickle. With a single thought, he pulled himself out of the past and into the present. The first thing he noticed was the cold and freezing temperature surrounding him. The air chilled to ice, his breath fogging up with every exhale.

Blinking the grogginess out of his eyes, he surveyed his field of view. Surrounding him was a frozen surface in a perfect circle. The only imperfection was the heat emanating from his side, turning his chilled air to steam. Turning his head to the side, he saw Lucy seated similarly, yet her body heaved in battered breaths.

She clenched her fists tightly as fires sparked around her. Her circumference was boiling and become more pronounced as she let loose her fury. She released a childlike roar, a scream of utter rage as every ounce of suppressed feelings raged to the surface.

The air became white hot, only contained by Rita. The experienced spirit magi, with a flick of her hand, manifested a shield of flames around her. Within this sphere, flashes of memories featuring every indignity or slight Lucy had endured came boiling to the surface.

Memories of name-calling, perpetrated by boys no better than Neanderthals. Back-handed compliments from girls who claimed to be her friends. Her father and mother focused on their problems while she suffered in silence, trying to keep herself in check.

Everything she subtly despised about her life tore its way to the surface. She was free and pure, with nothing one would consider a restraint. Her sensibilities and manners kept her down, and she stood, raging more and more than everything she had suppressed was ejected with reckless abandon.

As the flames encircling her danced, it appeared they mirrored her emotions. The raging storm inside vented until she was finally calm and apathetic. The flames died down and faded to minor scorch marks on the floor.

Awaking from her state of pure and unbridled aggression, she first noticed Rita smiling at her and Peter looking on, worried. Turning to Rita for guidance, "What happened?" she asked, trying to get her bearings.

"What happened was progress." She declared with a wide brim smile, turning to a confused but surprisingly calm Peter. "A lot of progress indeed."