CHAPTER 248: EYES WIDE OPEN

Dylan gulped a mouthful of air, his lungs burning as if he had swallowed fire. His muscles quivered beneath his skin, a shiver of adrenaline running down his spine. This time, he wouldn’t back down. This time, he would shatter that mocking smile.

His feet rooted into the soft earth, and with a sharp thrust he hurled himself forward. Dirt scattered beneath his steps, each stride resounding like the beat of a war drum. He had no staff, no weapon, only his fists, his body, his rage.

He dropped his shoulder, feinted left, then suddenly straightened to strike directly at Julius’s face, his fist armed with brutal determination. The air hissed around its path, as though the blow had sworn to hit its mark or die trying.

Julius didn’t flinch. His clear gaze followed every motion, calculating, dissecting. At the very last instant, the giant shifted slightly, slipping his jaw just out of range. The strike shattered nothing but air, bursting like glass.

But Dylan, this time, didn’t stop. He carried the movement through, his other arm lashing out like a claw to seize Julius’s staff still resting on his shoulder. His fingers clamped down with desperate ferocity.

"You think I’ll let go, don’t you?" he growled through clenched teeth.

A flash of amusement flickered in Julius’s eyes. He tightened his grip, and suddenly the staff was no longer wood, but living steel. Julius pulled. Dylan pulled back. The ground groaned under their boots, dust rising with the struggle.

For a heartbeat, Dylan felt the weapon give, felt his opponent falter. His heart leapt in his chest.

But with a swift flick of his wrist, Julius spun the staff like a propeller. The wood peeled Dylan’s fingers off one by one, like prying a child from a branch. Then the weapon twisted and slammed into his stomach with brutal precision.

A dull thud, followed by a choked gasp. Dylan folded in half, his insides ablaze, the air ripped from his lungs.

Julius didn’t let him collapse. A massive hand clamped down on his skull, forcing him to lift his head. Their eyes locked once more—one drowned in pain, the other cold, unshaken.

"This—" Julius rumbled, his voice like distant thunder, "—is an attack. But it’s not yet a kill."

Then, with a brutal shove, he flung him aside like dead weight. Dylan staggered back, legs trembling, but he did not fall. His gaze clung stubbornly to his master.

He spat blood now, but his gray eyes had never looked so clear.

Dylan spat a dark streak onto the dirt, wiping his stained lips with the back of his hand. His ribs burned, his stomach screamed, but he no longer listened to his body. He only heard the voice telling him he had no right to bend. Not here. Not before him.

He lunged again, but this time his rush wasn’t straight and naïve as before. He zigzagged, his path jagged, chaotic, like a wounded beast refusing the cage. His feet struck the earth at odd angles, his shoulders swayed, and his arms opened and snapped shut like jaws ready to bite.

At striking distance, he feinted a direct punch, but at the last moment he dropped low, sliding almost to his knees through the leaves, aiming to hook Julius’s legs. A desperate trick, but raw with instinct.

The giant arched a brow, surprised at the angle of attack. Dylan managed to snare his ankle with one arm, pulling with all his strength to topple him. For a fleeting second, the mountain seemed to waver.

But Julius planted his staff into the earth like a pillar, bracing his mass. With a simple, violent motion, he hurled Dylan off him, as one might shake off a clinging dog. The boy rolled on the ground, ribs howling, but rose again, panting, his face carved by mute fury.

Julius stood still, watching him. His gaze was no longer mocking, but stern, demanding.

"You see?" His voice cracked like a whip. "You charge like an animal in a trap. You strike, you trick, you hope it works. But your whole body screams despair."

He lifted his staff, pointing it straight at Dylan like an accusation.

"War doesn’t give a damn about your despair. It wants your awareness. Your choices. Every movement must be clear, deliberate, willed. Not tossed like a stone into water."

He slapped the weapon against his palm, the gesture sharp with impatience.

"If you want to hit me, Dylan... then do it with eyes wide open. Not like a beast scratching blindly, but like a man who knows exactly why he strikes—and where."

Silence fell again, heavy, broken only by Dylan’s ragged breathing. His legs trembled, his fists too, but something shifted in his eyes: raw rage settling, distilling into a sharper, steadier flame.

The burning breath carved his throat, each inhale a blade dragged through his lungs. Dylan stayed bent forward a moment, palms pressed against his thighs, his body nearly refusing to rise. But in his eyes, the wild anger had turned into something else. A hard, focused glimmer.

Slowly, he straightened, forcing his battered shoulders up as if the humiliation he had just swallowed were now his spine. His gray gaze locked on Julius, and for the first time since this began, it wasn’t only rage burning there, but a taut, lucid calm.

"Fine..." he breathed between gasps. "You want me to strike with my eyes open? Then watch closely."

Dylan advanced. Not running. Not zigzagging like a panicked beast. No: each step was set, measured, heavy with intent. His breath steadied, he forced his muscles into obedience, into coordination. His fingers clenched and loosened, priming his tendons for the blow.

At range, he lifted his right arm—not to strike. He made it look like he was winding up a punch, drawing Julius’s gaze, then spun sharply on his left foot. His left arm, the one thought still weakened by the fracture, lashed upward in counter. A sharp, calculated strike aimed at the jaw.

Julius did not flinch, but for an instant, his eyes lit with interest. He raised his staff just in time to deflect the blow. The vibration rang through the wood and into Dylan’s bones.

The giant stepped back—just one step, but enough to make Dylan’s heart hammer harder.

"There..." Julius murmured, lips curling into a smile that, for once, wasn’t mocking. "At last, you’re thinking. You almost had me."

He lowered his staff slightly, his clear eyes fixed on Dylan with newfound intensity.

"But remember this: striking means nothing. Forcing your opponent to reveal himself—that is where war begins."

Dylan panted, his arms still trembling from the clash. And yet, he didn’t lower his gaze. For the first time, he didn’t feel like he had merely survived Julius—he felt like he had truly stood before him.