"Mister Garran!" Darain called out, one hand raised like he owned the place, no formality in his voice, no respect in his posture. Arrogance radiated off him like heat.
Chief Garran glanced at him, completely unbothered, waiting in silence for whatever nonsense the boy had to say.
"We duel first," Darain announced with a cocky grin, eyes sliding toward Cael like he was already imagining the victory.
Cael's gaze met his, bored. Then he turned to Garran, waiting for the verdict.
The chief offered a smile—small, tight. Not warm. Not amused. Just the kind of smile that said: The Verault boy is really full of himself today.
"Alright," Garran said, "Cael and Darain Verault will start the duel. Any objections?"
He looked at Cael.
Darain, ever the showman, leaned in closer to Cael with that same irritating grin. "You can still back out," he taunted, eyes narrowing. "You look pale. Scared?"
Cael took a single step back, only to lift his eyes and stare at him flatly.
"I was born pale," he replied, voice low, indifferent.
Then he turned away, moving to his side of the dueling circle without another word.
Darain was left annoyed in the center for a beat before huffing and stomping off to his own edge of the ring.
From the sidelines, Marshal Davor lifted his hand, signaling the start of the duel.
The crowd went still.
And the air, suddenly, felt heavier.
Darain Verault stood confidently, his long bayonet rifle resting on his shoulder. His grin stretched wide like a child about to break a toy. Across from him, Cael stood still, twin arnis sticks loosely gripped at his sides, his expression unreadable.
"You sure about this?" Darain called out, laughing as he adjusted his grip. "I've got a rifle, you've got... sticks."
He didn't wait for a reply. The rifle clicked, and he fired.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Darain fired again. And again. Laughing. "Dance for me!"
But Cael didn't flinch.
He stepped. Slid. Pivoted. Not a single bullet grazed him.
Then something strange—Darain squinted.
"...Wait."
Each time Cael moved, his arnis seemed to twitch, ever so slightly. Like a subtle pulse of intent.
Darain tilted his head, his grin faltering just a bit.
"...Is it him... or the sticks?"
He narrowed his eyes.
The bullets weren't being dodged.
They were being diverted. Redirected. As if the arnis was guiding him.
Darain's trigger finger paused. He blinked, watching.
The temperature dropped a degree. Not much. But enough.
Even the pillars stirred—faint vibrations in the ground. Davor's gaze sharpened. Lucen straightened.
"What kind of weapon...?" Lucen murmured.
Darain's eyes widened a bit.
"Weapons like ours... they're supposed to respond to will—our will. But this... this is something else. It's like the arnis is... protecting him on its own."
And then—
Cael moved.
A blur.
Wind kicked from his feet.
Arnis mid-air. One raised, one drawn back. Striking.
Darain snapped out of it—too late.
Cael was right in front of him.
His smile was soft. Measured.
Darain's grin grew wider—not in fear, but thrill.
"Hah!"
CLANG.
The arnis struck—only to meet Darain's rifle, held up in defense.
But Cael's eyes widened.
From under the rifle barrel, a hidden dagger flicked out, aimed for Cael's ribs.
A trap.
Cael twisted, barely dodging. The blade grazed his side.
He landed back, chest rising, breath sharp.
Darain laughed, spinning his rifle back.
"You almost had me, stick-boy. That was fun!"
But his eyes lingered on the arnis in Cael's hands.
They continued to clash in the ring, the rhythm of their duel escalating—steel against steel, boots scraping dirt, the sharp exhales of effort.
Only those with sharp eyes, seasoned instincts, and a mastery of combat could sense that something was off about Cael's weapon. Subtle, almost hidden. But to the right eyes—like Garran's, Rhosyn's, Davor's, and Lucen's—it was there. Something strange. Something wrong.
Cael was on the back foot now. Disadvantaged.
Darain grinned wider as he pulled out his family relic—a golden butterfly pendant that shimmered ominously in the fading light. With a flick, the butterfly multiplied into dozens—hundreds—swarming toward Cael in a dazzling flurry of gold.
The crowd gasped.
To them, it was impressive, magical.
To Cael—it was a nightmare.
He dodged left, rolled right, but the butterflies chased him relentlessly. Small as they were, each wing was a razor, capable of slicing through skin with cruel precision. And they obeyed only one will: Darain's.
Darain laughed, watching Cael struggle, eyes gleaming with victory. "This is it," he whispered to himself. "This is my win."
As Cael stumbled back—blinded by wings, bloodied by their cuts—Darain lunged forward, weapon raised.
His golden butterflies cleared a path, slicing through the air to give him a perfect line of sight. With a wide grin, Darain aimed to finish it, the dagger at the end of his rifle gleaming as he rushed in for the final blow.
And then—
A roar of wind.
A sudden burst of power exploded from the center of the ring. A violent gust surged outward, sweeping the golden butterflies away like scattered dust and hurling Darain off his feet, slamming him near the edge of the arena.
Everyone shielded their eyes as dirt and wind blasted through the air.
When the dust finally settled—
Cael stood in the middle of the arena.
His clothes were in tatters. Blood dripped down his arms and neck from countless shallow cuts. But he stood tall.
The pillars froze in place.
Not because of Cael's condition—but because of what now writhed visibly around him.
A black mist.
A black mist coiled from behind Cael's back, twisting like a serpent around his arm, down to his hands, merging into the arnis. It didn't glow. It didn't burn. It hummed, a presence made of silence and dread.
Lucen saw it.
So did Davor, a vein pulsing in his neck.
Rhosyn's hands gripped her blades.
Garran's pupils narrowed.
The dominors didn't notice. Nor did Darain. But the veterans knew—this wasn't qi.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't Cael.
And it wasn't the stick.
"It's the mist..." Garran whispered.
Darain stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Did... did that come from you?!" he shouted, pointing at Cael.
Cael blinked, just as stunned. His breathing was heavy, blood dripping from shallow cuts, but his confusion mirrored Darain's.
"I—I don't know," he muttered. He looked at his hands, then the staff, then the ground around him. Nothing made sense.
Neither of them could see the black mist coiling faintly around Cael's arm.
"Was it... a tornado?" Cael added, unsure—his voice low and unconvincing.
Darain glanced around as if searching for an answer in the air. So did Cael.
Then—
"Chief!"
A voice rang out from the training dome's entrance, sharp and strained. Every head turned toward the sound.
Ezren Vale stood there, panting, eyes wide with distress—bordering on panic.
The Pillars froze when they saw his face. They knew that expression.
Something had happened. Something bad.
"Someone awakened," Ezren said breathlessly. "But... the power—it's out of control."
Garran's eyes widened, his jaw tightening.
Rhosyn clutched her chest, the fear she had long kept buried now rising.
This—this was exactly what she feared.
Without a word, the Pillars moved.
"Duel is postponed!" Marshal Davor bellowed, his voice firm and commanding. "Everyone, return to your dorms, now!"
The dominors hesitated, murmuring in confusion, but the urgency in the Pillars' movement made them obey. Groups began scattering back toward the dorms.
Lucen didn't move.
He stood where he was, eyes on Cael.
He didn't need to be told what to do.
He was to stay.
To watch.
To protect.
And most of all—
To keep an eye on the Dominors.
Especially him.
Cael.
But then, ever the curious one, Darain began tiptoeing away from the dispersing crowd, his eyes fixed on the direction the Pillars had gone.
His irritation toward Cael and their interrupted duel had completely vanished, replaced by burning curiosity.
Who awakened?
What kind of power could make the Pillars run like that?
A mischievous grin stretched across his face as he crept forward, doing his absolute best to remain unnoticed.
And then—
Clink.
Darain froze.
His eyes slowly trailed down to his torso.
A whip—famous, unmistakable—was coiled around him like a snake, locked in place.
His shoulders dropped.
So did his grin.
"...Aw, come on," he muttered.
Clink.
He was yanked off the ground in a blur.
"WAAHHHHH—!"
Darain landed hard beside Lucen, the whip still securely fastened to his waist. He groaned, sprawled out like a ragdoll.
Lucen stood over him, sighing deeply.
He didn't say a word. Just looked down, expression unreadable.
But in his mind, one clear thought echoed:
Great. Now I have to watch this one too.