Near the river bank, swords clashed.
Ralph gained the advantage with a sweep of Gillard's legs and pressed him, trying to end the bout quickly.
He came in faster now, confidence rising as he found his rhythm. His movements grew bolder, less restrained—angles shifting constantly, attacks flowing one into the next with barely a pause to breathe.
A slash from the left turned into a sudden feint. Gillard parried instinctively, only for Ralph to step inside his guard and snap a short kick toward his ribs. Gillard twisted, the blow glancing off his side, but Ralph was already moving again—ducking low, then surging up with an upward cut that forced Gillard to retreat two full steps.
Ralph didn't let him reset.
He chased, blade flickering in unpredictable patterns. A high strike became a sudden thrust. A retreat turned into a lunging sweep. Ralph even used the terrain—kicking loose dirt toward Gillard as he advanced, trying to break his balance or vision for just a split second.
Gillard's defense tightened.
He gave ground steadily, his blade working overtime as he absorbed the storm. Each block rang through his arms. His breathing grew heavier, but his eyes never left Ralph's shoulders, hips, and wrists—tracking the tells beneath the chaos.
Ralph was smiling now.
"Come on," he taunted lightly, circling. "Don't just stand there, are you a training dummy?"
He lunged again, faster than before.
A spinning cut aimed for Gillard's neck flowed seamlessly into a low kick toward the knee. Gillard barely avoided the kick, hopping back and bringing his sword up just in time to deflect the follow-up strike.
The pressure was relentless.
Ralph stepped in close, shoulder-checking Gillard again, then snapped his pommel forward in a mock strike meant to rattle him. Gillard took the hit to the chest and staggered back a step, boots digging into the dirt.
From the sidelines, Teclos, Tolk, Kosak, and Talmir observed calmly.
"He's got him," Teclos muttered.
Even Tolk thought so.
But Talmir and Kosak were of a different opinion.
They saw that Gillard didn't rush anything, and his eyes were still focused, looking for an opportunity.
And indeed, the opportunity Gillard was waiting for came.
Ralph attacked again—overcommitting this time. A wide, powerful slash meant to break his guard.
Gillard saw it.
In that brief opening—no more than a heartbeat—Gillard moved in for the first time in this bout.
He stepped inside the arc of the swing instead of away from it, letting the blade pass just behind his back. At the same time, he twisted his torso and brought his sword up in a tight, controlled motion.
The wooden blade cracked against Ralph's temple with a dull, brutal thud.
The sound echoed through the clearing.
Ralph's momentum carried him forward, but his legs gave out mid-step. He stumbled, then collapsed to the ground, dropping his sword as both hands flew to his head.
"Ah—shit…" he groaned, curling slightly and clutching his skull.
Talmir appeared between them the next second.
"That's enough," he said simply. "Match over."
He raised Gillard's hand and announced the winner.
"Winner—Gillard."
Gillard froze, breathing hard, then lowered his sword slowly. He stared at Ralph on the ground, concern flickering across his face.
"Ralph?" he asked, kneeling beside him. "You good?"
Ralph cracked one eye open, wincing.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Just… damn. Nice shot… I guess."
Talmir crouched briefly, checking Ralph's pupils, then gave a satisfied nod. "You'll live. Try not to get hit in the head next time."
Ralph groaned. "Great advice."
A few chuckles broke the tension, and the worry faded.
Gillard stood back up, rolling his shoulders, the adrenaline slowly draining from his limbs. He exhaled deeply, then offered Ralph a hand.
"Good fight," he said sincerely.
Ralph took it and allowed himself to be pulled upright, still rubbing his head. He smirked despite the pain.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Guess being flashy doesn't mean much if you hand someone a clean opening."
From the sidelines, Talmir nodded.
"Hmmm," he said, voice firm, "Well said. Creativity is good in battles—but technique wins wars."
Talmir didn't let the moment linger.
"Both of you—stand before me," he ordered.
Ralph straightened reluctantly, still rubbing his temple. Gillard stepped beside him, back straight, swords lowered. Teclos and the others fell silent when Talmir spoke in that tone; it wasn't a suggestion.
He paced in front of them slowly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and measuring.
"We'll start with your faults," he said flatly. "Because those get you killed out there."
His gaze settled on Ralph first.
"Stamina," Talmir said. "Your poor management of it was one of the deciding factors in your loss."
Ralph opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"You fight like a sprinter who thinks he's a long-distance runner," Talmir continued. "Explosive entries, layered feints, constant pressure. That's good—dangerous, even—but you burn out too fast. By the midpoint of that exchange, your breathing was already ragged."
He tapped Ralph's chest with two fingers.
"You overcommitted because you were chasing a finish. That wide slash at the end? That was fatigue talking. Against a real opponent, that opening would have cost you your life, not just the bout."
Ralph grimaced but nodded.
"Stance," Talmir went on. "You are doing too much. Your feet cross when you get excited. That's fine in a duel—fatal in uneven terrain. Mud, snow, rubble, roots. Hunters don't fight on clean floors."
He glanced at Ralph's legs.
"Your reflexes are good. You have a good feeling for timing. But your guard drops whenever you kick. You assume that initiative will protect you—it won't. If Gillard were more experienced, a few of those kicks would have cost you that leg."
Talmir shifted his attention to Gillard.
"Your faults are different," he said. "Subtle even, but definitely a problem."
Gillard stiffened.
"Your stamina is acceptable. Breathing is controlled. You could fight longer than Ralph—but only if the opponent lets you."
He stepped closer.
"You're reactive, and you wait for the opponent's move. You let the enemy dictate the tempo. That works against reckless and inexperienced fighters. It will fail if the opponent breaks your stance with throwing weapons, uses sweeps, and generally wears you down with no risk to them at all."
Talmir lifted Gillard's sword slightly with two fingers.
"Your stance is textbook. Stable. You plant your feet and trust your guard to hold. That's why you were pushed back and Ralph could toy with you. Remember—ground lost is opportunity lost."
Gillard swallowed.
"Your reflexes are sharp—but you don't trust them. You second-guess. You hesitate before committing to counters. That hesitation is the only reason Ralph pressured you as long as he did."
Talmir stepped back, letting the silence settle.
Then his tone shifted—not softer, but also not as sharp anymore.
"Now," he said, "let's see what you did right."
He turned back to Ralph first.
"Creativity," Talmir said. "Exceptional."
Ralph blinked.
"You don't just attack straight forward—you solve problems. You adapt mid-exchange. Feints, rhythm changes. That kind of mind is rare. Against monsters, your unpredictability will keep you alive."
He nodded once.
"With proper stamina control and tighter footwork, you'll be dangerous. Very dangerous. You're suited for skirmishing, disruption, hunting intelligent prey."
Then he turned toward Gillard.
"Discipline," Talmir said. "Outstanding."
Gillard straightened slightly.
"You didn't panic when pushed. You didn't break. You absorbed pressure and waited for certainty. That final strike wasn't luck—it was patience and correct reading of his sword path."
He met Gillard's eyes.
"You have the temperament of a frontline hunter. Shield wall that holds the line, buys time. With more aggression training, you'll become the kind of fighter others survive behind. A reliable cornerstone of the front line and a trusted ally to those beside you."
Talmir finally looked at both of them together.
"Your potential is high," he said plainly. "Different paths—but both viable. Ralph, you need restraint. Gillard, you need decisiveness. Oddly enough, together you would make a good team."
He gestured toward the clearing.
"Both of you need more training, which we'll provide."
Tolk snorted.
Teclos couldn't help smiling. This meant they had passed Talmir's test, and from now on they would train together.
Talmir turned away, already moving toward the next pairing.
"Drink water and rest now," he added over his shoulder. "You're not done yet, but you've earned that much."
Talmir gestured sharply.
"Teclos. Tolk. Forward."
Both stepped into the clearing.
Teclos rolled his shoulders once, jaw tight, eyes locked on Tolk. "This time I'll beat you."
Tolk's lips curved into an easy grin.
He enjoyed these moments more than he cared to admit.
He was the most talented hunter of his generation—everyone knew it. Most opponents burned bright for a while, then faded. They lost. After that, they made excuses and stopped pushing, stopped trying. That had always been fine with him—disappointing but alright.
But Teclos was different.
The boy never quit.
Even after losing again and again, even after being crushed, humiliated, mocked—he always stood back up. The complaining had stopped after Ragla… mostly. Only hard resolve remained, it seemed.
And worse—Teclos learned quickly.
Tolk had started to feel it lately. That pressure. That quiet sense that one day, if he wasn't careful, Teclos might actually catch up to him.
He laughed lightly. "You can try whenever you want."
Teclos ground his teeth. He hated when Tolk said that. It sounded like pity. Like he didn't take him seriously.
Talmir's voice cut through the tension.
"Enough," he said flatly. "Get ready."
They took their stances.
And when Talmir gave the signal—
They exploded.
Teclos moved first, surging forward with a sharp diagonal slash aimed at Tolk's shoulder. It wasn't meant to hit. It was a probe. The moment Tolk shifted to parry, Teclos twisted his wrist mid-swing, turning the strike into a feint and stepping inside.
A low sweep followed immediately.
Tolk lifted his leg without even looking, his blade snapping down to intercept Teclos's follow-up thrust.
Wood clacked.
Teclos flowed with the rebound, pivoting off his back foot and circling left, keeping constant motion. His attacks came in irregular rhythms—short jabs, half-committed slashes, sudden changes of angle. He mixed what Talmir had taught him with instincts from his past life—spacing, pressure, baiting reactions.
Tolk countered everything.
He was clean, efficient, and looked almost relaxed.
His swordsmanship was fluid but grounded—no wasted motion, no exaggerated swings. Each block transitioned naturally into a counter that forced Teclos to disengage or redirect. Where Teclos danced, Tolk anchored.
They were almost mirroring the fight from Gillard and Ralph, only more advanced.
But the gap was shrinking.
Teclos ducked under a horizontal cut, stepped in close, and rammed his shoulder forward—not to strike, but to break balance. Tolk slid back just enough, boots scraping dirt, and answered with a knee that Teclos barely avoided by twisting sideways.
Teclos grinned despite himself.
Again.
He pressed harder.
A sudden feint high—then a kick aimed at Tolk's thigh. Tolk caught it on his shin, his sword flicking out in a lightning-fast riposte that forced Teclos to abandon the kick and roll away.
The observers were silent now.
Gillard's eyes widened.
Ralph swallowed.
Teclos would wipe the floor with anyone in the village arena that was the same age, they realized. They could maybe hold out—but not for long. It seemed that the coming-of-age ceremony would have an upset, as Gillard and Loric had been the favorites to win it.
Teclos rushed in again, faster now. His breathing was steady, but sweat was starting to flow down his brow now. He tried something new—sliding past Tolk's lead side instead of retreating, rotating around him and attacking from an angle Tolk hadn't been facing yet.
For a split second—
Tolk's smile disappeared, the leisure vanished. But he adapted instantly.
Their blades met in a rapid exchange—clack, clack, clack—each strike faster than the last. Tolk's counters grew heavier, his steps more aggressive. He began pushing forward instead of holding ground, forcing Teclos back.
Teclos adjusted, parrying, retreating, circling—
And then he made a mistake.
Just a small one.
His weight shifted too far onto his front foot during a committed slash.
Tolk saw it.
He swept Teclos's leg clean out from under him.
Teclos stumbled, caught himself with one hand, rolling to his knees—
But the wooden blade was already there.
Resting lightly against his throat.
Teclos froze.
He exhaled, then gave a short, frustrated laugh. "I surrender."
Tolk stepped back and lowered his sword, breathing a little heavier now—but smiling wide.
"Damn," he said honestly. "You're getting scary."
Teclos lay back on the dirt, staring up at the sky, his chest rising and falling.
He hadn't won.
But he had shortened the gap between them again.