The next morning, the air in the training room felt different. Aris's first victory yesterday had left an invisible mark; a small scratch on Viren's proud ego, and a hesitant glimmer of hope in Aris's heart. When Juro tossed two wooden swords into the center of the room, they picked them up without a word.
The second duel began. Aris, anticipating the same burst of aggression as the day before, took a solid defensive stance, ready to counter Viren's reckless charge. But the charge never came.
Viren stood still, his sword pointed down, his emerald eyes watching Aris with a cold, analytical calm. He had spent the entire night replaying his defeat, dissecting every move, every mistake. The anger still simmered within him, but now it had been forged into a sharp focus. He would not make the same mistake twice.
"Not going to attack, Prince?" Viren taunted, his voice low but sharp. "Can you only wait for your opponent to hand you a victory?"
Aris realized the game. Viren was turning Aris's own strategy against him, forcing him to be the aggressor. With a slight hesitation, Aris stepped forward, starting with a probing thrust. Viren parried it with ease. Aris tried a series of slashes, but his every attack felt stiff, as if he were reading from a manual on how to attack. He was overthinking, too afraid of losing control.
Viren, in contrast, looked completely at home in a defensive-counter stance. He read Aris's every hesitation. After Aris launched a slash that was a little too wide, Viren saw his opening. With lightning speed, he stepped in, deflected Aris's sword with one efficient move, and his wooden sword landed squarely on Aris's shoulder with a satisfying TAP.
Score: 1-1.
Viren didn't gloat. He just gave Aris a cold look. "The same tactic won't work twice," he said, before turning and leaving the room. Aris stood frozen, the sting on his shoulder nothing compared to the sting of the lesson he had just learned.
The days turned into weeks. The training room became their world, an isolated crucible where the only thing that mattered was the score on an old chalkboard Juro had mounted on the wall. Their rivalry became an anticipated spectacle. A few Veritas members would gather at the doorway after their own training sessions, leaning against the wall, placing small bets in hushed whispers. "I've got five silvers on the green-haired one today," or "Don't underestimate the Prince, he's tricky."
Under the pressure of the relentless competition, they both evolved.
Aris, forced out of his shell, began to find a rhythm in aggression. He no longer just reacted. He learned how to press, how to create openings instead of just waiting for them. More importantly, he started to consciously use his Origin Power in the fight. Not as a terrifying flash flood, but as small, controlled ripples. A momentary burst of energy to quicken a dodge, or a thin stream to reinforce his wooden sword when blocking Viren's powerful strikes. He was learning not to fear his power, but to negotiate with it.
Meanwhile, Viren transformed from a raging storm into a focused cyclone. He absorbed the lessons from every duel. He no longer relied solely on his raw speed and strength. He started using feints, changing the tempo of his attacks from fast to slow and back again, making it difficult for Aris to read him. He learned how to bait his opponent, a bitter lesson from his first defeat. He became a more complete, more deadly fighter.
The score on the chalkboard was a silent testament to their war of attrition. 7-6. 10-11. 14-14. Every victory was fought for with blood, sweat, and bruises.
Until finally, the day arrived. The last day of their recovery period. Elara had declared them both fit to return to active duty starting tomorrow. And the score on the chalkboard showed an impossible number: 19-19.
When they stepped into the center of the arena, the atmosphere was different. The Veritas members who usually watched from afar now stood closer, forming an informal circle. Even Juro, who normally sat relaxed, was now standing with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes unblinking. This was the final duel. One wish from Juro was on the line.
"Begin," Juro said, his voice calm.
Silence. For a full ten seconds, neither of them moved. They just stood facing each other, their breathing steady, their eyes locked, replaying the previous thirty-eight duels in their minds.
Then, they moved.
The fight was a masterpiece born from pain and rivalry. Viren, surprisingly, opened with a patient defensive stance—Aris's original style. Aris answered with a barrage of explosive attacks—Viren's original style. They had stolen their opponent's best weapon and made it their own.
Wooden swords clashed, creating a fast, fierce percussive music. Clack! Clack! Clack! They moved so quickly they seemed like blurred shadows. Sweat drenched their faces, their newly recovered muscles screamed in protest, but neither showed any sign of slowing down. This was about more than a wish. This was about honor.
"He's waiting for me to overcommit," Aris thought, as he blocked a powerful counter from Viren.
"He's trying to bait my anger," Viren thought, as he dodged a feinted thrust from Aris.
After what felt like an eternity of fighting, they both saw it at the same instant. An opening. A split-second window created by exhaustion and determination. Aris saw Viren leave his side slightly too open as he spun for his next slash. Viren saw Aris lean a fraction too far forward as he stepped in for a thrust.
There was no hesitation. No thought. Only pure instinct forged by dozens of battles.
They both shot forward in a single, synchronized movement, their bodies becoming a blur. Their wooden swords sliced through the air, aiming for the single weak point they saw in their opponent.
TAP. TAP.
Two distinct yet simultaneous thuds.
A total silence fell over the room. They were frozen in that position—the tip of Aris's wooden sword pressed firmly against Viren's chest, and the tip of Viren's wooden sword pressed just as firmly against Aris's ribs.
They stared at each other, panting, their chests heaving. There was burning frustration, disbelief, and behind it all, an unavoidable glint of respect in their eyes. They had pushed each other to this exact point, a perfect equilibrium.
Juro stepped forward, carefully observing both points of contact. He sighed, and then a rare, genuine smile that neither of them had ever seen before broke across his face.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, his voice filled with sincere admiration. "It's a draw."
He looked at the two young men who had transformed from bitter enemies into equal rivals. "Alright. Rules are rules. Since there's no clear winner... I guess I don't owe either of you a wish." Aris and Viren stared at Juro with a hint of disappointment. "Hey, what's with those long faces? Not a fan of a little joke? Fine, I guess I owe you both one wish."