The sound of wood clashing against wood echoed out the arena.
Inside, Calien and Cain moved like twin storms—colliding, separating, clashing again.
They held nothing back.
Their wooden knives blurred in motion—slashing, thrusting, parrying, deflecting. No sparks flew, but the rhythmic thunks, clacks, and cracks filled the arena like a relentless drumbeat.
Each strike came sharper, faster, more precise than the last.
Around the bricked arena, soldiers leaned in, eyes wide, mouths agape.
This wasn't what they expected.
"Is Calien… keeping up with Cain?"
"No way. Cain was supposed to destroy him!"
"He trained under Captain Fergan for a year!"
"And that outsider kid? Just some low-tier mana specialist!"
"Doesn't make sense. I bet on Cain!"
The voices rose—shock, awe, even grudging admiration. Some rubbed their eyes, half-expecting the illusion to break.
But it didn't.
Calien wasn't just keeping up—he was pushing Cain.
Then a voice cut through the chaos.
