Lytharos stepped onto the field, and the world seed to hold its breath.
His boots barely disturbed the dust—each footfall deliberate, unhurried, as if gravity itself deferred to him. The air thickened in his wake, pressing against Elliot’s skin like a warning.
"I need to see how far you both can go."
His voice was calm. That was the worst part.
Elliot’s heart thumped—once, hard—not from fear, but the coiled tension of a predator sensing sothing older in the brush. His body shifted into stance without thought, muscle mory carved by countless repetitions.
(Leon trained him. Fought beside him. Saved us.)
(So how strong is he?)
Elliot exhaled, letting Essentia thread through his limbs—not a flood, just a whisper, enough to lighten his weight, sharpen his reflexes.
Then he moved.
A low arc, knees bent, arms tight—no wasted motion. His first strike lashed toward Lytharos’ shoulder, a testing blow.
Snap— a follow-up jab. Turn— a whipkick to the ribs.
Each attack carried intent:
—(Speed, not power. Make him react.)
—(Break rhythm. No patterns.)
—(Feet. Watch his feet—)
Lytharos didn’t react.
He allowed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A palm deflected Elliot’s forearm. An open hand guided his elbow wide. A fingertip redirected his kick like swatting a gnat.
Elliot’s boots hit dirt, his pulse roaring.
(He’s not even—)
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Lytharos (observing, a flicker of approval):
(Tighter timing than I expected. He watches. Adapts.)
(But he fights like a scholar—too much thought, not enough instinct.)
A half-step. A raised hand. No strike, just placent—the exact angle to disrupt Elliot’s next move before it began. Elliot’s fist t empty air, his balance lurching.
(He’s not waiting. He’s already there.)
"You’re trying to hit like I’m a target," Lytharos said, parrying another jab without shifting his weight. "But I’m not standing still."
Elliot’s teeth ground together. Fine. If precision failed—
Essentia flared in his fist, raw and unpolished. He threw a punch ant to crater stone.
Lytharos’ eyes sharpened.
Then—
Two fingers.
That was all it took.
Elliot’s montum died mid-air, his knuckles cradled in the barest grip.
(He stopped—? With just—?)
A tug, slight as a breeze, and Elliot staggered forward, undone by his own force. Lytharos released him without retaliation.
"Good enough."
The words were neutral. The edge beneath them was a whetstone.
"Next ti, breathe. Find your center. Stop calculating."
Elliot stepped back, sweat slicking his temples.
(Not testing my strength. My control.)
It was Towan’s turn now.
He had been watching the fight, but his mind was elsewhere—circling back to the strange flashbacks that kept haunting him. Lytharos… definitely looked like one of the figures from those fractured mories.
"I don't get it. Why did the corruption affect my mories?" he thought. "Even Elliot rembers techniques we never learned."
He hadn't told his brother about the vision. Not yet.
Elliot’s spar with Lytharos had ended, and now he looked over at Towan, nodding silently.
“I guess it’s my turn now, huh.” Towan stepped forward, eyes on Lytharos. (Elliot couldn’t predict him. It’d be a waste to try.)
Lytharos remained still, unreadable as ever. (He seems… relaxed. Thought he’d be more emotional.)
Towan lowered his stance, letting his breath steady—not through training, but through instinct. The battlefield felt distant, muted. The only thing he could hear was the wind brushing against his skin and the steady thrum of Essentia inside him.
Then, without warning, he moved.
A spinning kick—sharp, fluid, and familiar. Too familiar.
Lytharos raised his guard, but his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. The technique wasn’t just fast—it was refined. The arc, the weight transfer, the perfect balance—it was the kind of move honed over years, not weeks. Not by a student.
Towan didn’t fully understand either. His body had moved on its own, like a locked door had creaked open inside his muscles. The last ti he tried this spinning kick, he nearly fell on his back. But now, it slid out of him like breath—too smooth, too practiced. Like muscle mory borrowed from soone else.
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