“You fight like a scribe,” Rheon said, dusting his sleeves. “Copying forms without understanding their soul.”

Towan pushed upright, his mind racing. Rheon’s counters weren’t just skilled; they were intimate. As if he’d dissected Towan’s style thread by thread.

“Again.”

This time, Towan feinted—a jab followed by a low sweep. Rheon pivoted, his footwork a mirror of Towan’s master’s Mountain Root stance… but twisted, like a reflection in cracked glass.

“(That stance… Master hated it. Said it left the kidneys exposed. But Rheon adjusted it—)”

“Focus,” Rheon snapped, seizing Towan’s wrist. His grip lingered a heartbeat too long, calluses rough in the exact spots where Towan’s master had borne scars from decades of combat.

“(No… coincidence?)”

Rheon released him with a shove. “You rely on memory, not instinct. A fatal flaw.”

The training grounds buzzed with a restless energy, students perched on nearby platforms like crows awaiting carrion. Their whispers coiled around Towan—reckless, arrogant, doomed—but he shut them out, his focus narrowing to the man standing across the arena. Rheon’s stillness was unnerving, his hands loose at his sides, eyes half-lidded as if this were a meditation, not a duel.

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“(Something feels off…)”

Towan retreated, his boots scuffing the sand-strewn floor. The air tasted of ozone and anticipation. Rheon didn’t pursue. He never did.

“(None of Master’s techniques are working. They always worked before…)”

His fists clenched, Essentia prickling beneath his skin like static. Across the arena, Rheon tilted his head—a subtle, infuriating gesture that mirrored his master’s habit of dissecting mistakes without words.

“(Is he—? No. Focus.)”

Towan closed his eyes, drowning out the jeers and gasps. The world sharpened: the rasp of his breath, the ache in his overworked channels, the wrongness of Rheon’s Essentia—cold where his master’s had been wildfire, calculated where his master had been chaos.

“Take your time, Towan.” Rheon’s voice cut through the noise, calm and weighted. “I’ll wait.”

A challenge. A taunt. A lesson.

Towan’s Essentia surged.

He pushed beyond his limits, forcing energy through every node until his capillaries burned. The air around him warped, a silver aura erupting like liquid mercury—dense, volatile, alive. Students recoiled, shielding their eyes as the ground beneath Towan’s feet cracked, sand rising in slow-motion arcs around him.

“(So he’s burning all of his energy…)” Elliot observed, his analytical mind already mapping the risks. His brother’s Essentia threads glowed too bright, too thin—a dam about to burst.

Towan opened his eyes, the world now edged in searing silver. His smirk was all teeth, a mask for the agony lacing his veins.

“(I’ve got one shot. Make it count.)”

Across the arena, Rheon finally moved—not to attack, but to adjust his stance. His right foot slid back, fingers curling into a loose guard.

The crowd fell silent.

Somewhere, a crow screamed.