---
Chapter 69: Zephyr Dance
The tournament continued with finesse and flair.
Different opponents. Different battle techniques.
All in the name of glory.
Many had fallen. Many had emerged victorious.
Who would qualify for the elimination round?
The crowd's murmurs swirled around the arena—a mix of anticipation and curiosity. The final match of the day had begun.
Standing at the center of the stage, Reynard appeared almost serene, his eyes narrowing as he sized up his opponent—a hulking brute with the build of a mountain. Stone-like skin covered in rugged armor made him look more like a walking boulder than a human being. He was nothing like Reynard, whose every movement was a study in grace.
From the observation booth above, Instructor Veylen's sharp gaze swept across the stage. Known for his rigid demeanor and critical assessments, he was not easily impressed. Yet there was something in Reynard's composure that caught his attention.
He wasn't the first to notice the young man's potential, but Veylen had always maintained: true warriors never wasted their energy.
He didn't like spectacle.
He liked efficiency.
"Let's see if he can live up to the hype," Veylen muttered under his breath.
The signal was given—and the fight began.
Reynard's eyes flickered toward his opponent, who charged forward with the force of a bull. A massive fist rose—rock-encrusted like a hammer—descending in a brutal arc.
But Reynard didn't move the way most would expect. No frantic dodging. No panic.
Instead, his foot shifted. His body angled impossibly—
—and in one fluid motion, he danced.
The breeze seemed to follow his every step.
The crowd's first reaction was confusion.
Had Reynard even moved?
He had. Always had. But his steps were so light, so carefully placed, that even his opponent barely registered them.
He sidestepped the blow, angling his body in a seamless arc—not just avoiding the strike, but ensuring the brute's massive frame overextended with no room for a counter.
"Zephyr Dance…" Instructor Veylen murmured, leaning forward. "Not force, but finesse. This could be interesting."
Reynard never wasted energy. His foot slid across the ground—barely touching it—as the brute swung again. Reynard twirled, not defensively, but with rhythm—effortless, almost musical.
Then—his hand shot out, grazing just below the man's shoulder.
A gentle tap.
The crowd gasped.
No one had seen anything resembling a real blow, yet the brute's knees buckled. He stumbled forward, as if struck by an invisible force.
He roared in frustration, flailing, trying to land a hit—but Reynard flowed around him like wind over the sea.
Each step was calculated. Each turn, a beat in an intricate dance.
"He's not even hitting him," someone whispered in the crowd.
"Is he… avoiding everything?"
Veylen's eyes gleamed. "This is better than I expected."
The brute, flustered and furious, launched another brutal swing—this time aiming for Reynard's head.
But Reynard ducked low, sweeping behind him again, and delivered another tap—barely more than a breeze. Yet the shift in balance sent the man crashing forward.
He tried to get up before...
But it was too late.
Reynard blurred into motion—each feint, each light strike, nudging the brute closer to the edge. Then—gracefully—he leapt. His spin in mid-air ended with a fluid kick to the man's back.
THUD.
The brute crashed out of bounds with a grunt, and the arena erupted in surprised applause.
Reynard didn't even break a sweat. His expression was calm, breathing steady—like he'd only finished a warm-up.
Instructor Veylen didn't smile. But there was a glint of approval in his eyes.
"Efficient," he murmured. "He's refined—but too delicate. He'll need more than this against someone like Zarek or Seraphina. Still… it's a solid foundation."
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena, declaring Reynard's victory.
Still calm, Reynard gave a respectful nod to his opponent—now being helped off the stage by medics. Then he turned and walked off the platform, the soft sound of his boots against the stone the only sign he had ever been there.
As he left, the next fighter entered the ring—Dorian, stepping confidently onto the stage.
The crowd, still buzzing from Reynard's performance, shifted focus once more.
But for Reynard, the fight was already behind him.
His mind—always thinking, always calculating—was already focused on the next challenge.
"Since when could Reynard fight like that?!"
Lyrian's voice cut through the noise in disbelief.