The dueling circle seemed to expand and contract simultaneously—vast enough to feel exposed, small enough that there was nowhere to hide. Edric's grip on his sword hilt was white-knuckled, palm slick with sweat despite the cool morning air. Across from him, Ryn Veynar stood with the casual confidence of someone who'd never seriously doubted victory.
The crowd's roar faded to background noise. Edric's world narrowed to steel and breath and the noble boy who'd made his first day at the academy a humiliation.
"Begin!"
Ryn moved first, closing distance with fluid precision that spoke to years of excellent instruction. His opening strike came high—testing, probing, almost lazy in its execution. Edric raised his blade to parry, and the impact jarred his arms harder than expected.
Strong. Ryn was strong.
"Come now," Ryn said, his voice carrying just loud enough for nearby spectators to hear. "Surely the farmer's son can do better than that? Or did you only raise your banner for show?"
The mocking laughter in his tone made Edric's jaw clench.
Ryn pressed forward with a combination—high, low, feint to the left then strike right. Each movement was textbook perfect, executed with the kind of polish that came from private tutors and endless resources. Edric backpedaled, his parries barely keeping pace, his feet scrambling for purchase on stones that suddenly felt treacherous.
"Disappointing," Ryn announced, circling now like a predator evaluating prey. "I'd hoped for at least some challenge. But I suppose breeding tells, doesn't it? A stag on your banner doesn't make you noble. It just makes you a pretender wearing borrowed symbols."
The crowd's reaction was mixed—some laughing at the wit, others murmuring disapproval at the cruelty. Edric heard none of it. His breath came hard, his arms already aching from blocking strikes that seemed designed more to humiliate than finish.
Ryn launched another assault, this time genuinely aggressive. His blade moved like silver lightning—precise, controlled, devastating. Edric's defense crumbled under the onslaught. A strike slipped through, the flat of Ryn's blade slamming into Edric's ribs hard enough to drive air from lungs.
Edric stumbled, nearly fell, caught himself at the last moment.
"Stay down," Ryn suggested, not even breathing hard. "Save yourself the embarrassment. Your family's already ashamed—don't make it worse by dragging this out."
That should have broken him. Should have been the killing blow to whatever confidence Edric had scraped together.
Instead, something else happened.
Edric straightened. His grip on his sword steadied. His eyes—which had been wide with fear moments ago—narrowed with something harder.
Determination.
He remembered training in darkness while others slept. Remembered rising before dawn to drill footwork until his legs screamed. Remembered standing against goblins when fear said run. Remembered facing a demon noble when every instinct screamed to flee.
Remembered Brann charging forward despite impossible odds.
"No," Edric said quietly.
Ryn's smirk widened. "What was that?"
"I said no." Edric raised his blade again, stance settling into something more solid than before. "I'm not staying down. Not for you. Not ever again."
For the first time, something flickered in Ryn's expression. Not quite concern—nobles like him didn't feel threatened by common blood—but... annoyance, perhaps. That his prey wasn't behaving properly.
"Fine. Have it your way."
Ryn attacked again, this time without the casual cruelty. Pure technique, full force, the kind of assault meant to end duels decisively. His blade came in high, forcing Edric's guard up, then redirected low in a move that should have disarmed any opponent.
Should have.
Edric didn't try to match Ryn's technical perfection. He couldn't—didn't have the years of training, the private instruction, the inherited muscle memory. Instead, he did what farmers did when faced with problems they couldn't solve elegantly.
He endured.
His parry was ugly but effective. His counter-strike lacked finesse but carried genuine force. When Ryn's blade came for his legs, Edric jumped backward with more desperation than grace—but he cleared it.
"Lucky," Ryn muttered, his smirk thinning.
They circled again, and this time the crowd's attention had shifted. They'd expected a quick execution. What they were getting was something different—something grittier.
Ryn pressed forward with another combination, but Edric had seen this pattern already. High, low, feint. He read it half a second early—not through skill but through having survived it once before. His block came up faster, his counter caught Ryn's blade at an awkward angle.
For just a moment, the noble boy's perfect guard opened.
Edric's strike didn't land clean—Ryn recovered too quickly for that—but the flat of Edric's blade slapped against armored shoulder hard enough to be heard throughout the arena.
First blood. Metaphorically, at least.
The crowd's murmur grew louder. This wasn't going how anyone expected.
Ryn's smirk vanished entirely, replaced by something colder. "You're beginning to annoy me, farmer's son."
"Good," Edric said, and meant it.
The duel's rhythm changed. Ryn fought with genuine focus now, abandoning mockery for efficiency. His strikes came faster, harder, more precise. He was still the better swordsman—that gap hadn't closed. But Edric wasn't trying to be better anymore.
He was just trying to last.
Every block sent shocks up his arms. Every counter left him more exposed than before. His footwork was deteriorating, legs trembling with fatigue. But he kept moving. Kept raising his blade. Kept refusing to fall.
Ryn drove him backward across the dueling circle. The edge approached—step outside and lose by default. Edric could feel the boundary stones beneath his heel.
"Yield," Ryn demanded, blade raised for what should be a finishing blow. "There's no shame in acknowledging superior skill."
Edric's response was to launch himself forward.
It wasn't a proper attack. It was barely controlled desperation—throwing himself at Ryn with blade raised, no technique, no elegance, just raw determination to not go down without taking every shot he had.
It caught Ryn completely off guard.
The noble boy backpedaled, his perfect form breaking as surprise disrupted calculation. Edric's wild swing nearly connected—would have connected if Ryn hadn't twisted aside at the last possible moment.
They separated, both breathing hard now. Ryn's composed facade had cracked. Sweat darkened his hair, his smirk long gone.
"What will it take to keep you down?" he hissed.
Edric's response was to raise his blade again despite arms that felt like lead. Despite ribs that screamed where earlier strikes had landed. Despite everything rational saying he should yield before he got hurt worse.
"More than you've got," Edric said through gritted teeth.
Something shifted in Ryn's expression. Frustration gave way to genuine anger—and then decision. He'd been toying with this farmer's son, using only basic technique. Time to end this properly.
White light erupted along Ryn's blade.
His spirit flame manifested with the clean brilliance of foundation-level power, coating steel in luminous energy that made the weapon sing through air. The crowd's approval was moderate—spirit manifestation was expected at this level of competition, the baseline every squire was taught to achieve.
"Let's see you persist through this," Ryn said, and attacked with renewed vigor.
The difference was immediate and devastating. Each strike carried spirit-enhanced force that sent shockwaves through Edric's parries. His blade rattled in his grip with impacts that would have shattered lesser steel. Ryn's speed increased, his technique sharper, each movement flowing with power that foundation flame provided.
Edric stumbled backward, his defense crumbling. A white-flamed strike got through, catching his shoulder and spinning him half around. Another caught his leg, nearly buckling his knee. He was being overwhelmed, pushed to the very edge of the circle.
But still, he didn't fall.
Through pain and exhaustion and overwhelming force, Edric raised his blade again. His hands shook. His breathing came ragged. But his eyes held that same stubborn determination.
"Still not enough," he gasped.
Ryn's eyes widened slightly. This should have ended it. White flame against no flame was supposed to be insurmountable at their level. Yet this peasant was still standing, still defiant, still refusing to acknowledge reality.
Fine. If foundation flame wasn't enough, time to get serious.
"You want to see what happens when I stop holding back?" Ryn's voice carried across the arena. "I'll show you the difference between us."
The white flame began to shift. Deepen. Transform.
Blue light erupted along Ryn's blade—his true spirit color, the manifestation of his genuine power. The crowd's reaction was appreciative but not shocked—blue flame was one of the most common true colors knights manifested throughout the kingdom, alongside green. It blazed with intensity that made white seem pale by comparison, crackling with force that made the air feel heavier.
"This is the gap between us," Ryn declared, his confidence returning with his true color. "This is why training and breeding matter."
He attacked with the full force of his awakened spirit, and it was like fighting a different person entirely. His blade moved faster than Edric could track, each strike carrying devastating force. Blue flame traced arcs through the air, burning afterimages into vision.
Edric's defense shattered completely. A blue-flamed strike caught his sword arm, nearly disarming him. Another slammed into his chest, driving air from lungs. He fell to one knee, blade barely held in trembling grip.
The crowd was on its feet now, certain this was the end. Ryn stood over him, blue flame blazing, victory assured.
"Yield," Ryn commanded. "You fought well for a farmer's son. But this is where it ends."
Edric's vision swam. Pain radiated from a dozen impacts. His body screamed at him to stay down, to accept defeat, to acknowledge the obvious truth that he was outmatched.
But something deeper screamed louder.
He remembered the demon noble's eyes burning red. Remembered watching friends die. Remembered the moment when terror gave way to something else—the realization that some things mattered more than survival.
Like refusing to let anyone ever make him feel small again.
Green light flickered along Edric's blade.
It started as barely visible shimmer, like sunlight through leaves. Then it strengthened, grew, erupted into full manifestation. Green flame—earth and growth and stubborn life that refused to be extinguished—blazed along his sword with power that came from somewhere deeper than technique.
The arena's reaction was mixed. Green flame was one of the most common true colors throughout the kingdom—many knights manifested it alongside blue. But seeing it emerge now, in this moment, from a farmer's son who'd been on the verge of defeat? That was what drew the cheers.
Not because the color was rare, but because the manifestation itself told a story. True colors often emerged under extreme stress, when foundation white could no longer contain a warrior's genuine spirit. Watching Edric awaken his green flame in defiance of defeat—that was what tournaments were meant to showcase.
Adrian watched from the sidelines with quiet satisfaction. Those who knew what Edric had survived—facing blood anima, watching Brann fall, standing against impossible odds—weren't surprised by the color itself. Green and blue were common enough. What mattered was the will behind the manifestation, the refusal to break that green flame represented.
Finn's expression held analytical appreciation and genuine pride. "He earned that," he said quietly to Adrian. "The color doesn't matter. The moment does."
"He did," Adrian agreed.
In the stands, Edric's family was crying and cheering simultaneously, not caring whether green was common or rare, only knowing their son had just proven something important.
Ryn's confident expression flickered with uncertainty. Green flame was common, yes—but this farmer's son wasn't supposed to manifest his true color at all. Common blood rarely pushed past foundation white in their first year. The natural order wasn't quite being violated, but it was being challenged.
"So what?" Ryn tried to maintain bravado. "Green flame doesn't change the skill gap. Blue and green are equal—you're still—"
Edric rose to his feet, green flame burning steady along his blade. His body still hurt. His technique was still inferior. But green flame didn't care about elegance. It cared about endurance.
"Still standing," Edric finished. "That's what I am. Still standing."
The duel resumed, and now it was truly a contest made visible. Blue flame against green, both common colors but representing different approaches—Ryn's refined technique versus Edric's stubborn endurance. The skill gap remained evident in every exchange. But Edric wasn't trying to out-technique him anymore.
He was trying to outlast him.
Green flame reinforced his defense, letting him weather impacts that should have shattered his guard. Each strike Ryn landed was absorbed, endured, survived. Edric's counters were crude but carried genuine force now, backed by spirit power that came from refusing to break.
The crowd watched in engaged silence as two colored flames clashed—both common throughout the kingdom, but representing uncommon determination from both fighters. This was what the tournament was meant to showcase: not just power, but will made manifest.
Ryn pressed harder, blue flame blazing brighter. But for the first time, genuine uncertainty crept into his attacks. This wasn't going how it should. The farmer's son was supposed to be crushed. Instead, he was adapting, enduring, matching blue with green despite clear gaps in training and technique.
"Just go down!" Ryn's frustration finally broke through aristocratic composure.
"No," Edric said simply, and drove forward with attack that carried every ounce of stubborn refusal his green flame represented.
Their blades met in explosion of blue and green light that made the entire arena gasp.