(The last day before the fight, Leo’s POV)
The final day before the fight had arrived, and as Leo moved through his morning sparring routine with Charles, he could sense sothing different about the red aura pooling around the Monarch’s body today.
With every blow that the two exchanged, Leo began to notice faint traces of red aura rising from Charles’s body, drifting toward him not as solid threads but as flickering wisps that hovered briefly before dissolving, as though they were trying to find him but couldn’t quite hold on.
The line had started to form, but failed to connect.
Like a car engine trying to start, but never fully roaring to life.
He could feel it now more than ever, the edge of sothing, the outline of a truth he hadn’t fully grasped yet, like a door half-open, like a puzzle with one missing piece.
If he had just a little more ti, perhaps a week, maybe even just a couple more days, he was certain he could figure it out, could break through the fog and finally see it clearly.
But unfortunately for him, ti had already run out.
"Your eyes... they’re moving in the right direction, kiddo. You’re almost there," Charles encouraged, easing the pace of his attacks just slightly to give Leo a bit more ti to read the red path.
*Clang*
*Clang*
Leo found himself keeping up better with the pace of Charles’s attacks now, his body reacting faster as he began to faintly sense the incoming strikes.
He couldn’t see the precise trajectory yet, but even a vague idea of where the next blow would co from gave him a massive advantage in improving reaction tis.
"Yes, boy! That’s it... you’re getting there, starting to grasp how the realm of intent fighting works," Charles said, continuing to guide him, as for the next eight hours, the Monarch did everything he could to push Leo closer to the edge of breakthrough, but no matter how hard they tried, the final step remained elusive.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
Leo cursed, dropping to his knees with his hands braced against them, sweat pouring off his face and dripping from his nose.
He was close. So close he could feel it lingering just outside his reach, but the last piece still refused to fall into place.
"Don’t get angry, son. You need a calm, calculating mind if you want to beat soone stronger than you," Charles said, his voice steady. "Keep your head in the ga, because having half knowledge is more dangerous than knowing nothing at all."
When Leo recovered and they resud sparring, Charles disard him with ease and pressed the steel pipe to his throat. He hadn’t moved any faster, yet sohow he had completely outmaneuvered Leo.
"You’re keeping up with by making wild assumptions about where the next strike will land, but you’re not sure. You can only sense the general direction.
One wrong guess, and that uncertainty will kill you faster than a clean, sure dodge ever could.
In your current state, you can fight evenly against a Transcendent Tier opponent, but that’s only until you go wrong once.
The mont you’re cut and bleeding, your guard will grow weaker and weaker until you lose.
So either master intent by tomorrow, or fight like you don’t have it, because staying in the middle like this will be a sure-shot recipe for disaster."
He tapped a finger to his temple.
"Head calm. Eyes focused. Let’s go again."
—-------------
(anwhile Veyr)
While Leo pushed himself to the brink in desperate pursuit of a breakthrough, Veyr lay stretched across a massage table, his entire body sinking into the cushion beneath him as the skilled hands of a masseuse worked through every knot and strain in his muscles with patient, practiced ease.
His eyes remained closed, his expression calm, as he focused not on the chaos of battle or the fear of what tomorrow might bring, but on maintaining perfect control over his body and mind—ensuring that when the ti ca, he would be rested, composed, and at his full hundred percent.
He believed there was nothing more foolish than trying to cram power at the last minute, nothing more reckless than chasing desperation on the eve of a war.
He had trained. He had prepared. Now, all that remained was to arrive sharp and ready.
’The Fourth Elder might be a fool, but he knows how to live life in style, this massage is godly–’ Veyr thought, as he made a ntal note to experience this joy every week after he beca Dragon.
’I wonder what the reaction to my win will be like?’ he wondered, as once the massage deepened, he let his thoughts drift toward the applause he was going to receive after being crowned Dragon.
He thought about how the crowd would chant his na.
The way the lights would hit him from all angles as he stood in the center of the stage, one hand raised in triumph, basking in the roar of adoration.
He pictured the poses he would strike, the slow turn of his body as he let the broadcast caras drink him in from every angle, the exact smile he would offer the masses, calculated and effortless.
Because more than strength, more than title, what Veyr had always craved ever since he was a child was recognition.
Having grown up as an orphan, he had always been unnoticed and unloved, living in the cracks of a universe that never paused to look his way.
Attention had been a luxury. Praise, an impossible dream.
As it wasn’t until he was 18 and was tested to possess the blood of the Tiless Assassin running through his veins that his fortunes finally turned.
’The Dragon is the most loved individual in the Cult.... The one adored by everyone...’ Veyr thought, as he let out a soft satisfied sigh.
With the Dragon’s title now within his reach, he wanted to experience that attention, that love that he never received growing up, as although he didn’t care much for the commoners of the Cult, what he did care about was living the grandest life possible.... one steeped in praise, lit by admiration, and crowned by public worship
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