CHAPTER 262: SPARRING [3]

The smaller training hall felt cramped compared to Silver Crown’s facilities, but it was functional.

Padded floors, weapon racks along the walls, enough space for proper combat training.

Roughly forty Iron Talon first-years stood assembled, their badges marking them as the second house.

Professor Gareth Thornwick stood at the center.

A grizzled man in his fifties with gray hair and a scar running from his temple to his jaw.

He’d served in the military before becoming an instructor, and it showed in everything from his posture to his clipped manner of speech.

"Listen up," he barked. "Today’s practical assessment will be sparring. You’ll be matched based on your evaluation scores and fighting styles. No holding back, but keep it controlled. I see anyone going for permanent damage, they’re out of this Academy. Clear?"

"Yes, Professor!" the students chorused.

"Good. Check the board for your matches."

Students moved forward to examine the posted pairings, some confident, others nervous.

Off to the side, leaning against one of the support pillars, a figure stood apart from the crowd.

Golden brown hair that caught the light, falling just past his ears in a deliberately unkempt style.

Blue eyes that appeared half-lidded, almost lazy, but tracked every movement in the room with quiet intensity. Arms crossed loosely over his chest. Posture relaxed, almost slouching.

He didn’t move to check the board. Just watched.

Near the front of the group, a stocky boy with dark hair and an aggressive jawline, glanced back at the figure by the pillar and scoffed.

"Look at this guy," The stocky muttered loudly to his friends. "Acting like he’s above it all. Too good to even check who he’s fighting."

His friends snickered.

The figure against the pillar didn’t react. His expression didn’t change. He just continued watching with those half-lidded eyes.

Professor Thornwick’s voice cut through the murmurs. "First match! Livia Duskwood and Zarcus Hale!"

The figure’s eyes sharpened fractionally. His gaze moved to a girl near the middle of the group.

Livia stepped forward, controlled movements. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers worrying at a tear-shaped pendant hanging from her neck.

She moved to the ring.

Her opponent, Zarcus, was taller and broader, carrying himself with easy confidence. He grinned as they took their positions.

"Try not to make this too easy, yeah?" he said.

Livia didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened. Her hands dropped to her sides.

"Begin!"

Zarcus launched forward immediately, water gathering around his fists, flowing over his arms in swirling currents, preparing to overwhelm her with fluid, relentless strikes.

Livia’s hand snapped forward.

The ground beneath Zarcus’s feet shook and a jagged spike of stone shot upward.

He twisted mid-step, barely avoiding the protrusion.

His eyes widened. "What—"

She didn’t give him time to recover. Her other hand moved in a precise pattern, and the earth shifted, stone rising around his legs like grasping hands, hardening instantly into solid rock that locked him in place.

Zarcus tried to shatter it with water essence, sending pressurized streams hammering against the stone.

Livia’s hand clenched into a fist.

The earth around his torso compressed inward, stone grinding against stone, squeezing his chest and making it hard to breathe. Not enough to cause serious harm, but enough to make the point crystal clear.

"I yield!" Zarcus gasped.

The stone crumbled immediately, breaking apart into harmless dirt. Livia stepped back.

Professor Thornwick nodded. "Duskwood wins. Good control and adaptability. Hale, you underestimated your opponent and paid for it. Next time, assess properly before charging in. Next match!"

Livia walked back to her spot in the crowd, arms immediately crossing over her chest. She stood near the edge, closer to the door.

The boy by the pillar’s expression softened almost imperceptibly as he watched her. Then his gaze returned to neutral observation.

Several more matches proceeded. Some quick, others drawn out. The skill level varied wildly, Iron Talon had talent, but the gap between top and bottom performers was more pronounced than in Silver Crown.

During one particularly one-sided match, the stocky boy glanced back at the pillar again.

"Still too cool to participate, huh?" he said louder this time, clearly trying to provoke a reaction. "What, you scared? Waiting for an easy matchup?"

The figure didn’t respond. His arms remained crossed.

But his eyes—those deceptively lazy eyes—locked onto the boy for just a moment.

Then looked away, as if he wasn’t worth the attention.

The boy’s face flushed red. "What’s your problem, man?"

"Shut up, Harren," someone muttered.

"No, seriously! This guy thinks he’s—"

"Harren Moss and Caleb Duskwood!" Professor Thornwick’s voice cut through the complaint. "You’re up. Get in the ring."

Silence rippled through the watching students.

Harren’s expression shifted from irritation to satisfaction. "Oh, perfect."

Caleb pushed off from the pillar without any rush or hesitation. And began walking slowly, towards the ring.

His hands remained in his pockets until he reached the marked circle. Then he pulled them out, rolling his shoulders once, a single, minimal stretch.

Harren was already in the ring, bouncing on his feet, earth essence gathering around him in visible waves. His hands were coated in stone, hardening his fists into weapons.

"Gonna teach you some respect," he said, grinning viciously.

Caleb said nothing. He just stood there, arms at his sides, watching with those half-lidded blue eyes.

Professor Thornwick looked between them. "Standard rules. Begin!"

Harren charged immediately, fist drawn back for a devastating earth-enhanced punch—

Caleb moved.

Not away. Forward.

Faster than his lazy posture suggested was possible.

Fire ignited around his right hand and he drove his fist, straight into Harren’s solar plexus before the earth mage could complete his swing.

The impact lifted Harren off his feet. He flew backward, hitting the padded floor hard, the air knocked out from his lungs in a gasping wheeze.

Caleb stood in the center of the ring, hand still raised, flames flickering out slowly.

Harren tried to push himself up, coughing, face red. His earth coating had cracked from the force of the blow.

Caleb walked forward and looked down at him.

"Yield," he said quietly. His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. Not a threat. Just a statement of reality.

Harren’s face twisted with rage and humiliation. He tried to stand, tried to gather essence—

"Yield," Professor Thornwick commanded sharply. "Match is over."

Harren slumped, defeated. "...I yield."

Caleb stepped back immediately, the flames around his hand extinguishing completely. He turned and walked out of the ring without another word, returning to his spot by the pillar.

The watching students were silent, processing what they’d just seen.

That wasn’t a fight. That was a statement.

Professor Thornwick nodded once. "Duskwood wins. Clean technique, perfect control, appropriate force. That’s how you end a fight efficiently." He looked at Harren, who was still sitting on the mat. "Moss, your overconfidence cost you. Learn from it or get used to losing."

As more matches continued, Caleb resumed his position against the pillar, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, watching everything.

And no one made comments about him acting above it all anymore.

Because they’d just seen exactly where he stood.

And it was higher than most of them would ever reach.