Thane kept watching the battles with a relaxed gaze and posture, unbothered by the wide-open eyes glued to the arena, watching for excitement or to determine their own future.

Some victories came swiftly, others became desperate struggles that pushed young aspirants beyond their limits.

Dust rose into the morning air, wooden weapons whistled, and struck against one another with sharp cracks.

Cheers echoed from the stands as candidates rose and fell, while families watching their children despaired.

It was a merciless passage that forced countless into the depth of hell or carried them beyond the clouds. It could change fate or reduce all efforts to nothing.

Before long, another match was called... one that spectators looked forward to.

"Team 87. Step forward."

"Team 142. Step forward."

The crowd stirred. For one of those teams belonged to a familiar name.

Etno Kamsi.

The Krynovan swordsman calmly stepped into the fighting circle alongside his two companions.

At the opposite side entered three youths. Among them stood a broad-shouldered young man with fierce eyes. He had short ruddy hair and a burn mark on his forehead.

The youth’s name was Conor Fury.

He was the very same youth who had openly challenged Donovan Young’s arrogance earlier and stood up for Thane in the dining hall last night.

The moment their eyes met, both recognized one another.

Conor grinned, while Etno returned a polite nod.

The referee raised his hand. The match was about to begin.

However, before the signal came, Conor suddenly stepped forward.

His voice carried across the circle. "Can I talk, Etno?"

The swordsman looked at him. "Yes?"

Conor scratched the back of his head and smiled. "How about we duel?"

The spectators blinked. Even the referee looked surprised.

Conor continued. "I’ve heard you’re one of the best swordsmen among the candidates."

His grip tightened around the twin wooden swords at his waist. "I want to learn."

A brief silence followed, then Conor bowed his head slightly. "Can you please fight me?"

The arena quieted. Many expected Etno to refuse as it was a team fight.

Instead, the Krynovan swordsman smiled. A genuine smile. "Very well."

He turned toward his two companions. "Do not eliminate the other two," he instructed.

It was rare for him to meet someone who truly held the sword dear in his heart, who pursued the path passionately.

Both nodded immediately.

Etno looked back at Conor. "I will fight you first." He announced his agreement.

The crowd erupted into excitement. Even the judges leaned forward slightly.

A duel between swordsmen was always worth watching, and regardless of the result... Conor was an interesting aspirant.

Conor drew both wooden swords, one in each hand. His stance lowered and balanced, his eyes focused.

The reckless youth from the dining hall had disappeared without a trace. In his place stood a swordsman.

Etno studied him carefully before he unstrapped his own sword. It was not going to accompany him in this duel.

The elegant sword made of expensive sindhium metal was handed to an official, as real weapons were not allowed.

Instead, he picked up an ordinary wooden training sword.

The referee paid no unnecessary heed and lowered his hand. "Begin."

Conor moved first, like a released arrow. Both swords flashed through the air.

One aimed to strike high and the other a bit low.

A beautiful opening, fast, accurate and decisive.

Several judges nodded in approval.

"This boy has talent."

"He does."

"These look familiar, don’t you think?"

"I suppose. I have seen them indeed."

"Those movements belong to the noble families."

The judges were right. Conor Fury belonged to a fallen noble family.

Though his house had long since lost wealth and influence, its swordsmanship remained.

The twin blades danced, attacking from multiple angles, swirling like a tornado that did not seem stoppable.

Sharp and fluid like water, it looked very dangerous.

However, unbeknownst to him, Etno was a few steps ahead. His eyes were fixed where they should be. He moved based on his own calculations of the fight.

One simple step, one slight turn, and the attacks missed. Confused, Conor’s stride halted. It was just a moment, a moment enough for Etno’s wooden sword to tap Conor’s wrist, then find its way to rest against his neck.

Silence befell the arena.

Etno spoke calmly. "You died."

Conor froze when he realized the difference in skill.

The crowd blinked. The exchange had ended so quickly that many barely saw it.

Etno stepped back. "Try again." He smiled humbly, not showing any sense of superiority to a fellow on the path of the sword.

A spark ignited within Conor’s eyes as he nodded, for after all, his goal was to learn.

Again, the duel resumed. This time Conor attacked harder and faster, paying more attention to his surroundings.

His twin swords became a storm of wood and motion. Strike after strike rained toward Etno.

The Krynovan swordsman retreated smoothly, his movements wasting nothing.

Every step possessed purpose. He moved as if he had foreseen every movement of his opponent.

And then again.

Tap.

The wooden sword touched Conor’s throat, making Conor widen his eyes.

Etno’s calm voice followed. "You died a second time."

A cacophony of gasps, cheers and giggles echoed through parts of the crowd.

Yet there was no mockery in Etno’s tone, only honesty and instruction.

Conor gritted his teeth as a bead of sweat rolled down his brow.

Etno lowered his sword. "Your left-hand blade hesitates before striking," he pointed out.

Conor narrowed his eyes as he listened.

The swordsman continued. "You trust your right side more."

Conor fell silent, because it was true... He, for a fact, never trusted his left sword.

"Why are you using dual swords, when your strength lies in single-sword wielding?" Etno asked.

He expected Conor to give a logical reason, but the latter remained silent. His gaze fell, and his eyes closed for a moment...

Etno understood that it must have some emotional value, something logic and reasoning did not matter much with.

Etno stepped back once more. "Again."

Conor smiled. He inwardly thanked Etno for not pushing the question. He braced himself again to fight Etno Kamsi.

The duel continued. Each time Conor swung his swords, the attacks were effortlessly blocked, parried and even countered.

Yet after every exchange, advice followed. A correction, a suggestion. Both had different arts of swordplay, but they were of the same passion and path.

What Etno taught were those very basics that could help in almost every art and style of swordplay, things that Conor might have never had a chance to learn.

The crowd gradually realized what was happening.

Etno wasn’t merely fighting, he was teaching. Like an elder brother instructing a younger one.

Or a master guiding a student. The cheers softened, respect replaced excitement.

Something changed. Conor stood breathing heavily, sweat soaking his clothes.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, he smiled gradually as he gazed at Etno.

Then he tossed one of his wooden swords aside.

Etno’s eyes sharpened. For the first time since the duel began, real interest appeared upon his face.

Conor lowered his stance. Only one sword remained.

The atmosphere changed. The short-haired noble’s posture became simpler.

The burden of the second blade vanished, as well as the hesitation.

And then, he attacked. The difference was immediate. His sword flew forward like lightning.

The crowd erupted. Even Etno had to move more seriously.

Wood met wood. The clash echoed through the arena.

Conor pressed forward, again and again. His sword became faster than before.

More confident and, without a doubt, more dangerous.

A smile appeared on Etno’s face. "Good."

For the first time, his voice carried approval. The duel intensified. The audience watched in fascination.

A fallen noble and an elite noble of two different nations, both swordsmen.

Temporary teacher and student meeting through combat.

Yet experience remained experience. The difference in skill remained unchanged.

And eventually, the result became inevitable.

Etno stepped inside a strike, his wooden sword moved.

One clean motion with a perfect angle.

THOCK.

The weapon swiftly, precisely and almost gently struck Conor’s temple. His eyes widened before darkness took over his vision as he collapsed. His consciousness left his body.

However, to everyone’s surprise, Etno caught him before he hit the ground, he struck with enough force to leave him unharmed while swiftly ending today’s lesson.

His action was but a small gesture of respect and recognition noticed by many people, that also earned him admiration.

The swordsman gently lowered him onto the arena floor.

Then he spoke quietly, a final lesson.

"Your sword became stronger when you stopped trying to imitate others."

The unconscious Conor never heard it, but the crowd did, and many remembered.

The match, however, was not yet finished. Conor’s teammates remained, and they looked frightened.

Not because of Etno, but because of the gap they had witnessed.

The Krynovan swordsman sighed softly, then moved.

Two swift and controlled strikes, hitting exactly where they were aimed.

Neither excessive nor cruel. Both candidates fell unconscious almost instantly.

The referee immediately raised his hand. "Victory. Team Etno Kamsi."

The arena erupted. Thunderous applause filled the stands.

Not merely for victory, but for the manner in which it had been achieved.

Even some judges nodded approvingly.

Far away, Donovan Young watched silently, his eyes narrowed.

Nearby, Thane scratched his nose, then pointed toward the arena. "That sword guy is a nice dude. I like him. Very respectful."

Rimon placed his hand on his chest, nearly fainting. Sky, on the other hand, buried her face in her hands.

They were unsure if their situation was utterly hopeless or whether Thane would save the day somehow.

Their match was closely approaching.

And somehow, their giant teammate still looked as though he were watching a festival instead of a combat trial.