Although everyone was furious at Kayvaan's words and wanted nothing more than to beat the smug instructor into the ground, none of them were fools. Thor, one of the strongest among them, had been effortlessly floored with a single palm strike and still couldn't stand up. That idiot who got kicked dozens of meters away served as another harsh lesson. Charging in recklessly wouldn't do them any good. None of them, even with their combat experience, believed they could take Kayvaan down barehanded.
After a brief silence, the remaining eighteen warriors exchanged glances before heading off to their quarters. When they returned, they were fully armed, clad in their battle-worn armor and gripping weapons that had drawn blood countless times before. The Black Knight, Virgil, stepped forward, his heavy sword resting on his shoulder. "Master Instructor," he called out, his voice edged with feigned politeness. "This blade is not only thick but sharp—it's cut down hundreds on the battlefield. These weapons," he gestured at the others, "are not for training; they're for war. If you get hurt in this fight, what then?"
Kayvaan's gaze swept over them. Heavy swords, chain hammers, rapiers, battle axes, javelins—each weapon carried the stains of past battles, darkened by blood long since dried. There was no goodwill in Virgil's words. His face remained neutral, but his anger was clear beneath the surface. If not for his obligations to the Holy See, he would have already tried to cut Kayvaan down where he stood. But Kayvaan barely acknowledged the threat. He simply sighed. "Be careful," he said casually. "All eighteen of you, come at me together. Just don't hurt yourselves." He paused before adding, "And don't worry about me."
At first, some thought he was afraid. But then his words sank in—Don't hurt yourselves, don't worry about me—and a wave of anger spread through the group. They had faced war, led charges, and carved their names into history. Yet this young instructor didn't even see them as a threat. The courtyard was filled with killers, warriors whose names struck fear across the land.
The White Knight, Lancelot—the leader of the Holy Sword Knights' First Company, a living blade of the Holy See, undefeated in countless battles.
The Black Knight, Virgil—a ruthless tactician, feared across the Black Mountains. His very name kept children awake at night.
Jomina, the Two Rivers huntress—her javelin had never missed, capable of striking an elk from three hundred paces.
Duran, the axeman of Black Iron City—his war axe had split cattle in half with a single swing.
Antali, the throat-cutter from the Reach—his victims died with nothing but a small puncture in their throats, never knowing they were dead until their bodies collapsed.
And Sir Tygett, the youngest judge of the Thirteenth Hall of the Holy See—countless heretics had met their end beneath his cross sword.
These warriors were legends. Any commander would kill to have just one of them in their service. Yet Kayvaan disregarded them as if they were nothing more than fresh recruits.
Lancelot, the so-called noble White Knight, was the first to snap. Though he wore a mask of righteousness, he was as treacherous as they came. He stepped back, then suddenly shoved Virgil forward, roaring in a hoarse voice, "Brothers, cut this arrogant bastard down!"
The push caught Virgil off guard, sending him stumbling forward. He barely caught himself before instinctively reaching for his weapon. He turned, ready to curse the bastard who shoved him, but by then, the others had already surged forward, their blood boiling with fury. The battle had begun. Cursing under his breath, Virgil gripped his heavy sword and charged. He could deal with Lancelot later—right now, his focus had to be on cutting down the instructor.
Everything else faded from his mind. His world shrank to a single point—Kayvaan, standing there, still and unshaken. Then, in an instant, Kayvaan was gone. Virgil's battle instincts screamed, but he was too slow. A shadow loomed over him, and before he could react, something struck him—hard.
Kayvaan's knee smashed into Virgil's face with bone-crunching force. His nose shattered. His front teeth flew from his mouth. It felt like a war council had suddenly assembled in his skull, a hundred voices debating at once, all shouting in chaos. His vision blurred, his ears rang, and warmth spread across his face as blood poured freely.
Kayvaan didn't even pause. Using Virgil's broken form as a launchpad, he pushed off with impossible agility, his body twisting midair. He soared nearly seven meters high, as if gravity held no claim over him. With one leg bent and the other fully extended, his back curled like a coiled spring, his entire form rotating rapidly. He looked less like a man and more like a weapon in motion.
The battle had barely begun. Jomina, the jungle huntress, had just picked up her javelin. She hadn't even taken a stance before Kayvaan had already torn through Virgil and ascended into the sky. The Black Knight lay in a broken heap, while the instructor now loomed above them, weightless yet menacing. Then, in an instant, Kayvaan plummeted. Like a meteor, like a spinning war axe descending from the heavens, his descent carried both speed and sheer destructive force. The rotational momentum, coupled with his natural power, focused into his heel—a strike capable of turning bone to dust, of caving a skull into the ribcage below.
Jomina barely had time to react. She looked up, javelin half-raised, but Kayvaan was already there. Too fast. Too sharp. Too precise. The strike should have killed her. But Kayvaan wasn't here to kill. The heel strike missed her by mere inches, slamming into the blue stone floor right in front of her feet. The impact was catastrophic. The ground exploded, shattered bricks and debris spraying in every direction. A crater formed where the strike landed, dust rising in a thick cloud.
Jomina froze, staring wide-eyed at the destruction before her. Her mind raced. 'If he had aimed just a little forward…' She swallowed hard. The image of her head being crushed like an egg, her skull caved in before she even realized what had happened, haunted her in that instant. She had fought wild beasts, rival warriors, and ruthless killers—but she had never seen this.
For a moment, she forgot she was in the middle of a battle. A fatal mistake. Kayvaan wasted no time. The second his foot touched the broken ground, he lunged forward, seamlessly transitioning into his next strike. His palm shot out, slamming into Jomina's abdomen with controlled but devastating force. The impact sent her flying sideways, her body twisting through the air before crashing to the ground four meters away.
Antali, the infamous throat-cutter, felt his stomach churn. Everything was happening too fast. Virgil, one of their strongest, was down in a heartbeat. Jomina, a seasoned huntress, was tossed aside like a ragdoll. And Kayvaan? He was untouchable. His movements were relentless, flowing like water yet striking like thunder. No wasted effort, no hesitation—only pure, unbroken violence.