Amukelo stood there frozen, the weight of Dainor's words slowly sinking in like water into dry soil. Padrin… as his partner? The idea sounded unreal. He had only fought the man once, and it had been a complete loss. He remembered how helpless he felt, as if he were flailing at the wind while Padrin cut through every mistake with ease and precision. And now… he was being offered the chance to train with him?
Dainor, still calm, observed Amukelo's hesitation and asked, "Do you want to decline?"
Amukelo blinked, snapping back to the present. "No, no, no," he said quickly, raising both hands as if trying to block the very thought. "By any means—no. I'm not declining. I just… why?" His voice lowered slightly. "Why would someone like him want to fight someone like me? I'm still so much weaker…"
Dainor gave a small, approving nod. "He just told me something interesting. All his previous partners were left behind. He grew too quickly for them to keep up. But he's been keeping an eye on you."
Amukelo looked at him in confusion, and Dainor continued, "Your rapid advancement through the adventurer ranks—faster than even his, by the way—impressed him. And yes, you had a foundation when you joined, but what you've done since then? That's your work. And he noticed."
He gestured between the two of them. "So in simple words… this is your opportunity. If you do well enough, he's willing to take you on as a training partner. A rare chance."
The air thickened. Amukelo murmured under his breath, almost to himself, "Him as a partner…"
His hand tightened around the wooden training blade, palm slightly sweaty. He could feel his heart picking up speed. Then he closed his fist tightly around the hilt and drew in a deep breath.
"Sure," he said, his voice steadier now. "I'll try my best."
Behind him, Bral let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Pff… so you're abandoning us already?"
Amukelo turned quickly. "What? No—it's not like that, I just—"
But then Idin stepped in, clapping a hand on Amukelo's back. "Don't listen to that idiot. He's messing with you."
Bral grinned shamelessly, arms crossed. "Guilty."
Amukelo chuckled nervously, but nodded, grateful. Then he turned back toward Dainor and Padrin, his resolve settling in.
Dainor gestured for them to step onto the sparring platform. "Same rules as before. First to three clean strikes wins. Keep it sharp. Keep it respectful. And remember, this is still a test—not a match to prove something."
They both nodded, moving to opposite ends of the mat.
Amukelo rolled his shoulders and let out a breath. He bounced lightly on his feet, the way he had practiced every day for the past few months. His footwork had improved, his posture more stable, his balance tighter. But Padrin was a different beast.
Then Padrin stepped forward, taking his stance. He placed his hand behind his back
Amukelo paused mid-step, frowning. "Why are you doing that?"
Padrin looked at him with calm eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Last time we sparred, you couldn't even make me take a step. Let's see how much you've improved."
There was no arrogance in his tone, no insult. It was a statement. A challenge.
Amukelo's jaw tightened, but then he gave a faint smile of his own and nodded.
Dainor raised his hand. "Begin."
Amukelo didn't hesitate. He dashed forward, sword held firm. The speed he moved with startled a few of the onlookers, their murmurs rising in surprise. He wasn't holding back—this was his chance, and he was going to take it.
Padrin didn't flinch. He simply waited.
Amukelo raised his sword for a diagonal slash, and Padrin's eyes flicked—just a flick—as if saying, "The same thing again?"
He moved to intercept, his blade swinging to knock the blow aside—but that's where Amukelo changed.
Instead of transitioning into a new slash, he doubled down, pressing into the force of the first strike and pushed against Padrin's blade with all the weight of his body behind it.
The unexpected pressure threw Padrin's sword downward. His brow lifted slightly in genuine surprise.
Amukelo didn't stop. As Padrin's guard dipped, Amukelo twisted into a tight, controlled thrust aimed at Padrin's exposed side.
Padrin stepped back just in time, avoiding the direct hit—but only barely.
Amukelo wasn't done. He pivoted his stance, shifting his grip mid-motion, and brought his blade in a horizontal arc, slicing toward where Padrin had just moved.
Padrin's sword came up, but the angle was awkward. He was using only one hand, and the placement was off. The clash rang through the air, and for the first time…
Padrin's blade was overwhelmed.
The impact turned his defense, and the wooden blade in Amukelo's hand struck him clean across the ribs.
Thud.
The room went silent.
"No way..." Bral muttered under his breath, still locked in a stunned daze. His eyes hadn't blinked since the clean strike landed in the first round. "He really hit him... He actually landed it."
Idin nodded slowly, his arms still crossed as if trying to keep his surprise from leaking out. "That was clean. Real clean. I didn't even see the follow-up slash coming until it hit."
A few whispers passed through the crowd, murmurs of disbelief and curiosity buzzing across the room.
But Padrin… he wasn't surprised at all.
He smiled—not with arrogance, not even condescension, but genuine enjoyment. The kind of smile someone gives when they're actually excited to fight. He rolled his shoulders back, lowered his sword for a moment. "Well…" he said, his voice calm but sharp, "I guess I'm not going to give you an easy start anymore."
Amukelo blinked, still half-disbelieving that he had actually landed the first strike. It felt surreal. The clash, the stumble, the blade biting cleanly against Padrin's side—it had been real. He didn't imagine it.
But he didn't have time to linger.
Dainor raised a hand again, his voice as steady as ever. "Return to your positions. Second round."
Amukelo exhaled deeply and nodded, jogging back to his corner. He steadied his breath, refocused his grip, and got back into his stance.
Padrin stood calmly in his corner, this time with both hands on his sword. His stance now was tighter, grounded, refined. Amukelo immediately felt it—there were no visible gaps this time. No shaky angles. No casual posture.
Dainor's hand dropped. "Begin."
Amukelo surged forward again. His blade was ready, steps measured and careful, but as he crossed the midpoint of the mat, his pace slowed. His heart skipped.
He didn't know why, but everything inside him screamed—don't.
He took another step forward and immediately felt it: that chill, that instinct deep in his bones that told him if he moved any further, the fight would be over before he even saw it. He stopped.
Padrin smiled faintly, "oho... he's good." He murmured, and then, he rushed forward.
He was faster this time—noticeably so. He covered the distance between them in a moment, sword already in mid-swing. Amukelo barely had time to raise his blade, catching the first strike with the guard of his weapon.
The force of it jarred through his arms, numbing his fingers. He stumbled back, but Padrin was already following.
Another downward slash came. Amukelo raised his blade again, catching it just in time—but then Padrin shifted. He twisted his sword at the last moment, sliding around Amukelo's defense with a fluid, almost graceful motion, leaving Amukelo's right side exposed.
And then, just as the strike came… it stopped.
The wooden blade tapped gently against Amukelo's ribs—just a soft pat. Not enough to hurt, but a clear message.
That's where it would have ended.
Amukelo stood frozen. He didn't even breathe. His heart thundered in his ears.
"…No chance," he murmured quietly, barely audible.
Padrin simply turned and walked back to his corner, calm and composed.
Amukelo gritted his teeth and let out a long breath. He blinked hard, shook his arms out, and steadied himself. He looked at Dainor and gave him a nod. "Let's go."
Dainor nodded back. "Third round. Begin."
This time, Padrin was the one to charge.
Amukelo barely had time to reset before Padrin was on him, sword flashing toward his shoulder. Amukelo caught the strike and stepped back, but Padrin didn't pause—his blade spun in a tight arc for a second strike.
Amukelo blocked again, this time digging his heel in. Instead of retreating like before, he shoved forward with his off-arm, bumping hard into Padrin's shoulder and knocking both of their blades slightly off line.
The clash of wood echoed loudly in the training hall.
For a second, they were both too close to strike.
Amukelo used the opening—he shifted his weight and tried to swing at Padrin's exposed side while he was still recovering.
But Padrin stepped back—fast. His footwork smooth, almost rehearsed. He moved out of range by a hair, and his blade snapped back into place just in time to parry Amukelo's follow-up slash.
Their swords clashed again, a harsh crack echoing as both men were forced to reset.
"Not bad," Padrin said, breath steady, eyes locked onto Amukelo. "You're better than I expected."
He didn't wait for a response.
Padrin lunged forward. His blade whipped toward Amukelo in a wide arc. Amukelo blocked it, holding his footing—but then Padrin rotated his wrist, catching the edge of Amukelo's blade and swinging it to the side in a circular motion.
The maneuver completely broke Amukelo's guard.
Before he could realign his sword or adjust his stance, Padrin stepped in and drove his weapon forward—a firm, direct thrust to the chest.
Amukelo stumbled back, breath catching.
Dainor raised his hand. "Padrin, winner of the third round."
Amukelo exhaled and smiled through his frustration. He'd lost that round—but not without a fight.
He hadn't gone down in one move. He hadn't frozen.