Kalem exhaled, tightening his grip around the hilt of his newly-forged sword. He had tested its balance, adjusted his stance, and analyzed his opponents' movements. Now, it was time to see what it could really do.
Garrik charged first, his heavy steps shaking the arena, each movement deliberate, unyielding, an armored juggernaut that had overwhelmed countless opponents. Behind him, Isolde circled wide, her glacial greatsword humming with cold energy, the very air around her warping with frost.
Kalem didn't wait. He stepped forward, his curved blade flashing through the air with an eerie hum. The resonance crystal embedded in the hilt flared, sending subtle vibrations coursing through the metal.
Then, the exchange began.
A single step. A single slash.
Garrik's armor, renowned for its thickness, shuddered as Kalem's sword carved through steel like parchment, a vicious diagonal cut slicing across his side. It wasn't deep, but it was clean, too clean—armor was meant to resist, not yield so easily. His body jerked from the force, staggering him mid-strike.
At the same time, Isolde had tried to close in from the opposite side, aiming for a decisive blow. But Kalem, reading her movement, pivoted mid-strike, shifting his stance in an instant. The air hummed as his blade slashed again.
Her enchanted greatsword, a weapon of immense magical reinforcement, trembled as Kalem's sword met it edge to edge. The moment of impact sent an unnatural vibration rippling through the steel, and for the first time, Isolde's grip faltered. The force didn't just push her back—it cut into her left arm, a shallow but definitive wound bypassing her frost aura entirely.
Both of them stumbled backward.
A stunned silence filled the arena.
Garrik's expression twisted in disbelief as he clutched the fresh wound beneath his sundered armor. Isolde stared at the thin line of crimson on her arm, watching as frost quickly tried to seal it shut.
Kalem, however, simply exhaled.
He shifted his stance, lowering the sword slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Alright," he muttered, mostly to himself. "That worked."
Garrik's fists clenched, his breathing heavy. The sheer fact that his armor had failed him in a single exchange gnawed at his pride. He had endured crushing blows before, had fought opponents of all kinds, but never had his defenses been so casually dismissed.
His body reacted before his mind.
With a roar, he lunged, a punch thrown with every ounce of his strength. The ground cracked under his step. His armored gauntlet whistled through the air, fast, brutal—a hit that could shatter bones on impact.
Kalem moved.
He turned with the attack, letting the fist graze past him by mere inches. And then—a final slash.
The curve of his blade followed Garrik's movement perfectly, striking across his chest in a wide arc.
A thunderous shock rippled through Garrik's body. His breath hitched.
The impact alone was enough to floor him.
His massive frame crashed into the ground, kicking up dust and debris, his gauntleted hand twitching as he fought to stay conscious. For a long moment, he simply lay there, his mind catching up to what had just happened.
A single counterattack. A single strike.
That was all it took.
Kalem flicked his blade once, clearing the faint trace of blood from the edge. The vibration still hummed through the steel, whispering through the air like a predator ready for its next kill.
Isolde's grip on her sword tightened.
"What kind of weapon is that?" she asked, her voice colder than usual, her breath visible from the sheer frost surrounding her.
Kalem tilted his head. "Something to cut through thick armor." He inspected the blade briefly, running his thumb along its edge, feeling the faint tremor beneath the metal. "Though, it's still experimental."
A groan.
Garrik pushed himself upright—staggering, dazed, but standing. His entire torso burned from the shock of the strike, and yet... he laughed, the sound deep, rough.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice hoarse. "How many?"
Kalem blinked. "What?"
"Don't play dumb." Garrik wiped a trail of blood from his mouth. "That kind of technique—the way you cut, the way you move. It's not just skill. That takes experience—not just from battle, but from killing."
A pause.
Kalem met his gaze, unreadable. Then, he shrugged.
"I've fought a lot of people," he admitted. "But I've only killed magic beasts."
Garrik stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Hmm. Satisfactory answer."
He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders despite the pain wracking his body. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
Kalem blinked. "That's it?"
Garrik snorted. "What, you expect me to keep fighting?" He gestured at the battlefield. "I know when I've lost." He paused, then glanced at Isolde.
"Also," he added, "I apologize for earlier."
Kalem raised a brow.
"For what?"
"For calling you a joke. You're a warrior, no doubt about it."
Then, looking at Isolde, he smirked. "And you—if you want to win this, you'd better go all out."
Isolde didn't respond.
Not with words.
Instead, her sword hummed, the ice around it growing thicker. The cold radiating off of her had intensified—dangerously so.
Kalem exhaled, shifting his grip on his blade.
"Guess we're not done yet, then."
Isolde's eyes glowed an icy blue.
"No," she said. "We're not."