The field was hushed, every eye locked on the space between Eryndor and Veylan. Dust swirled lazily in the morning air, caught in the thin beams of sunlight.
Veylan tilted his head, the beginnings of a smug retort curling on his lips.
Eryndor didn't let him finish.
His body blurred. One instant he was standing steady, the next he was already gone, lightning flickering faintly in the dirt where he had been. Students gasped as he closed the gap in a heartbeat, fist cocked back, the strike aimed straight at Veylan's chest.
But Veylan wasn't just bark. His arm snapped up, forearm bracing like iron. The impact cracked the air, a dull thunder that echoed across the grounds.
Veylan's grin widened. "Quick, but not enough."
Eryndor's eyes narrowed. His fist was already sliding off the block, pivoting his hips into a follow-up elbow. Veylan twisted, deflecting, but not cleanly. The sharp edge of Eryndor's movement brushed against his ribs—just enough to sting, just enough to warn.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Veylan's smirk faltered for half a breath before returning sharper, more dangerous. "So the pup has teeth after all."
The two upperclassmen at his flanks surged forward, unable to stomach their leader trading blows with a "newblood." One swung heavy—a downward hammer fist that would have shattered bone if it landed.
Eryndor dropped low, legs coiled, aura flaring. He twisted into a sweeping kick, lightning bursting at his heel. The man was lifted clean off his feet, crashing backward into the dirt.
The second came in from behind, arm snaking around Eryndor's throat. A choke. A restraint. A mistake.
Eryndor's body bent with the pull, and in the same motion, he let lightning race across his shoulders. Sparks tore through the grip, the crackle forcing the man to recoil with a hiss.
Eryndor spun free, stance settling back into the Eightfold Flow his grandfather drilled into him—measured, balanced, unshaken.
Veylan's eyes glinted now, no longer lazy with arrogance. His grin was that of a predator finally finding prey worth hunting.
"Not bad," he said, voice low. "But I'm done playing."
He shot forward, footwork sharp, fists a blur. Each strike carried weight—disciplined, powerful, meant to break through guard and bone alike.
Eryndor met him blow for blow, palms redirecting, forearms clashing, feet darting in bursts of crackling speed. Their exchanges became a storm of fists and flashes, the dirt beneath them scattering with every impact.
For the first time, students saw it clearly: Eryndor wasn't just holding on—he was pushing back.
Veylan's grin sharpened, but his jaw tightened too. This fight wasn't going to end as easily as he thought.
"Enough," one of the other upperclassmen growled, rushing in again.
Two against one. Then three.
Eryndor's chest rose, steady. He knew he couldn't hold back. Not now.
Lightning flickered at his fingertips. His aura deepened, heavier, sharper. His movements blurred, weaving martial instinct with elemental force. Even outnumbered, he didn't falter—he adapted, each strike meeting theirs with an edge that made it clear: if he got serious, none of them would leave unscathed.
The yard had erupted into chaos, but all eyes were fixed on the center—on the clash where a single boy, shoulders squared, refused to yield against the wolves.