Jackal stretched, then stood up without a word. I followed, still amazed on how the robes adjusted themselves.
Neither of them spoke as they led us through the winding corridors, past glowing fungi and silent doorways. The cracked-mask warrior moved ahead like a shadow, his massive sword barely shifting on his back. Elicia walked beside us, quiet but watchful.
I found myself wondering why we were being trained at all. We weren't their people. Weren't meant to stay. This entire civilization had been hidden for who knows how long, and we were just... visitors. Outsiders marked for a duel.
But ultimately, it made sense.
At least until the ritual, we were part of them.
To fight in the sacred duel meant being treated like one of the Yuxina. And that included preparation. No different than being taught how to wear the robe, walk their halls, eat their food. Now, it was time to learn how they fought.
We reached the training grounds after a short walk. No grand entrance, no stone gates. Just a wide clearing carved directly into the rock, lit by thin shafts of light piercing down from the high cavern ceiling. The air was cooler here, drier.
The space was functional. Flat stone flooring underfoot, packed and smoothed. Wooden dummies stood lined up at one end, scarred from use. At the far side, two raised stone platforms sat side by side, clearly meant for sparring.
Racks of weapons filled a carved-out section in the wall, spears, curved blades, long-handled axes, all made from wood, bone, and a dark, glassy obsidian-like material.
Elicia turned to us. "Today is hand-to-hand combat. No armor, no gear."
The cracked-mask warrior stepped forward and stopped a few paces from us. Without a word, his bark-like armor began to shift. Plates of it retracted smoothly, folding inward and sinking beneath his skin with a faint sound like strained wood bending. In seconds, he stood bare-chested, though not unprotected, his body was still lined with natural grooves and subtle ridges, hints of the armor waiting just beneath the surface.
He stepped up to Jackal and extended a hand. It seemed we were choosing training partners.
Another figure approached, one of the masked warriors from before. A tapir-faced Yuxina, one of those who had first led us into the city. He moved with calm purpose and offered me his hand.
I took it.
A sharp shout echoed from the side. Around us, multiple warriors dropped into their stances with practiced ease.
It was time.
Hand-to-hand combat. My specialty. After all, I had fought with nothing but my bare hands for what felt like thousands of years.
My opponent stepped back and readied himself, his muscles tense, almost... brewing. Like something inside him was waiting for permission to explode.
Another shout rang out.
He lunged at me.
He led with his left, a wide swing meant to test my reaction. I ducked it cleanly and countered, my fist flying toward his jaw.
But the impact never landed the way it should have.
My strength faltered at the moment of contact. There was resistance, not from his skin, but from something else. Pressure.
He was exerting force, not to block, but to weigh my punch down. My arm buckled slightly, and before I could correct, he pushed it lower, dragging my guard with it.
Same technique from the tunnel.
So he wasn't holding back.
I let my Crown swell, flames increasing the pressure in the air.
He felt it. Backed away, unsettled by something he couldn't name.
I still couldn't channel Hellflame offensively without a Brand. But I could let it simmer close. Let it cling to the air around me, faint, eroding. Not enough to erase, but enough to weaken their defenses.
I went in.
Left, right, then a high kick toward his head. He blocked all of it, each strike slowed slightly by the same force as before. Pressure. Subtle, but there.
He came back with a fist toward my face. But this was my domain. I ducked low, swept his legs clean from under him.
He hit the ground hard.
I saw his arm shift, muscles coiling. He was about to push himself away using pressure.
This one wasn't like the tunnel fighter. He didn't seem as refined. Less telekinesis, more raw force. I doubted he could control a weapon the way the other one did.
I jumped forward and stomped down hard on his back, pinning him before he could rise.
A firm pat landed on my shoulder.
I turned slightly, an older warrior. Silent. Calm. He simply nodded, then gestured toward my next opponent.
I hadn't even heard him approach. Interesting.
By the time I turned to get a look at his mask, he was already gone.
My next opponent stepped forward. Smaller frame. Fast, likely. His mask was sharp, etched with snake-like contours that curled around the edges like fangs ready to bite.
He didn't wait.
The moment we locked eyes, he moved. Not a stance, not a signal. Just motion. A blur.
He wasn't faster than me, he made himself faster.
Each step forward came with a burst of that familiar force, pressure compressing behind him and flinging him like a slingshot. I barely brought up my arms in time as his elbow shot toward my ribs. The impact stung through the robe, sharper than it should've been.
He was enhancing his strikes. Not with strength. With acceleration.
I stepped back, weaving away from a low sweep, then ducked under a second blow aimed at my temple. The air around him pulsed in short bursts, micro-blasts of pressure that jolted him into new angles mid-motion.
His style wasn't about control. It was about speed and impact that came with it.
He lunged again. I shifted to the side, caught his wrist mid-thrust, and twisted. He rolled with it, used the motion to spin into a kick. It clipped my shoulder, not hard, but I felt it. I was starting to feel the pace.
So I centered myself. Let the faint shimmer of Hellflame bleed outward, just barely brushing the air around me. Not a Brand. No focused eruption. Just that simmering burn. Close enough to weaken whatever edge he was building.
He dashed in again, and I met him this time. Fist to fist.
He flinched.
The pressure around him wavered, stuttered. He tried to recover, but I was already inside. Two jabs to his side, then a rising knee that sent him stumbling.
He wasn't downed, not yet at least.
But his tempo had cracked.
I could work with that.