CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER 20

Both Ethan and Kael stood facing each other in the sparring arena.

The quiet before the storm lingered heavy in the air, wrapping the open grounds like a thick velvet curtain.

Every sound—the distant rustling of leaves, the soft scrape of boots on stone, even breaths held tight—was swallowed by a stillness so profound it felt as though the very earth dared not disturb it.

Ethan shifted subtly on the balls of his feet.

His muscles tensed, coiled like a predator about to spring.

He was built for power—broad-shouldered, swift, and brimming with kinetic energy barely restrained. His blue scythe, the Moonflood Reaper, rested at his side like a living extension of his will, humming faintly with latent power.

Across from him, Kael stood calm and measured. Older and leaner, his frame bore the marks of countless trials—weathered but far from frail.

His battle axe was not gripped in a death grip but cradled in his hands like an old friend, moved effortlessly and comfortably by a man who’d wielded it thousands of times. His eyes, sharp and calculating, studied Ethan’s every move without fear or hesitation.

Only readiness gleamed.

Both men understood the silent code: this was not a battle for dominance, but a careful dance, Kael had said so.

Ethan’s breath hitched just slightly, involuntarily, a subtle tell of his nervous energy.

Kael, ever perceptive, caught it but gave no indication that he noticed.

His expression remained unreadable, as unmoving as stone.

Then, the signal came—not a shout, not a wave, but a single shared breath. The moment snapped.

Ethan launched forward.

Not just fast. Blisteringly fast.

He closed the gap like a thunderclap, his scythe cleaving a ruthless crescent through the air aimed directly at Kael’s legs. The attack was designed to end the encounter swiftly—to overwhelm with deadly speed and crushing force.

But Kael had anticipated such audacity.

Not the exact strike, but the mindset—the assumption that speed alone could decide the fight.

Without retreating, Kael shifted his stance, pivoted smoothly on his heel, and dropped his battle axe in a perfect arc. The scythe sliced through the air—and met the axe in a resonant, ringing clang. Sparks scattered, fleeting bright stars born from the collision of blade and axe.

Kael’s grip absorbed the impact. His stance sank slightly, solid and immovable like the roots of an ancient tree.

Ethan gritted his teeth.

His strike carried power enough to cleave stone, yet Kael stood firm, a tidebreaker stopping crashing waves.

Refusing to relent, Ethan surged again—faster this time. His scythe’s blade flicked upward, a blur directed at Kael’s side. Then, with a devilish twist, it curved at the last moment toward his thigh—a deft feint.

But Kael was unmoved.

His axe shifted with economy, guided only as much as needed to divert the strike. No energy wasted.

"You’re fast," Kael said evenly, voice calm though the battle’s heat thickened the air. "But you’re telegraphing."

Ethan’s eyes flashed with simmering frustration but gave no reply. Instead, he dropped low, sweeping the scythe’s haft toward Kael’s feet—aiming to compromise his balance.

Kael hopped back lightly, just enough to avoid the sweep, then countered with a downward chop—not striking but commanding the space. Ethan’s retreat was reluctant but swift, narrowly escaping the whip-crack edge of the axe.

"Too much muscle in your swings," Kael added, circling now like a predator patient and poised. "You’re trying to break me. You should be trying to read me."

Ethan surged again—scythe spinning, arcing, slashing—relentless as a force of nature. Explosive power met fluid speed, every strike capable of crippling.

Kael met him blow for blow, defending, redirecting, flowing through Ethan’s fury without matching speed. He needed only to understand Ethan’s rhythm.

Rhythm, however, is fragile.

And disruption can break it.

As Ethan overcommitted to a sweeping arc, Kael stepped in swiftly. His axe didn’t strike. Instead, the haft met blade, twisting sharply to unbalance Ethan.

The leverage was precise; Kael slid inside Ethan’s guard and slammed a shoulder brutally into his chest.

Ethan stumbled back, breath ripped from his lungs.

Not pain, but surprise.

Kael did not pursue—he waited.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed, pride stoked not by arrogance but irritation. He wasn’t accustomed to being outmaneuvered. This was his first fight by himself.

"Hit harder if you want," Kael said steadily. "It won’t help if you can’t see."

A low growl escaped Ethan—more animal than man—as he lunged recklessly. The scythe hissed overhead in a powerful, brutal swing. Kael parried—barely. The force pushed him back a step, boots scraping the stone.

Victory flickered in Ethan’s eyes.

Kael extinguished it.

He twisted, stepping into Ethan’s exposed flank. The axe swept low—not to cleave but to disrupt, pressing against the backs of Ethan’s knees. As Ethan struggled to keep balance, the axe’s butt cracked sharply against his ribs—a sting, not a blow.

Ethan gasped and jumped back, scythe raised defensively. His movements slowed—not from fatigue but doubt.

Kael didn’t press the advantage. He simply stood tall and watched.

"This is where most men break," Kael said softly. "They realize power isn’t enough."

Ethan’s chest heaved, sweat gleaming on his brow. His arms trembled—not from exhaustion but from restraint—his mind churning. Thinking during a fight was unfamiliar to him.

Then came the shift.

Ethan steadied his breath and adjusted his grip. No mad charge followed. Instead, he stepped forward with quiet purpose, eyes locked on Kael’s, blade wielded not like a club but like a scalpel.

Kael’s brow lifted ever so slightly.

Now we begin, he thought.

The dance resumed.

This time, it was a dance.

Ethan’s strikes shortened, tightened, less committed. He probed instead of overwhelming, tested rather than smashed. Kael mirrored this shift, defending with minimal moves, leaving no openings, punishing every flaw with surgical precision.

A flash of blue: Ethan feinted high, spun low, aiming for Kael’s ankle. Kael barely evaded, stepping over the strike and dragging his axe along the haft just enough to twist Ethan off balance. Ethan planted his foot, rebounded, and countered with a kick to Kael’s midsection.

Kael took the blow but grunted—a sign of pain. This was new.

A smile cracked Kael’s lips. "Good."

The scythe struck again, not wildly but cleanly—grazing Kael’s shoulder. A thin line of blood welled where the blade whispered against flesh.

Kael responded with a sweeping strike that nearly took Ethan’s legs from under him.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily.

But now, tension was replaced by a simmering respect.

Ethan rolled his shoulder. "You’re not what I expected."

Kael chuckled, "Neither are you."

They circled once more.

And fought on.

Boots whispered against stone as they danced.

Ethan’s shoulder throbbed, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles humming from strain. The Moonflood Reaper lay heavy in his hands—not from fatigue but from the crushing weight of doubt hidden beneath his growing skill.

Across from him, Kael remained cool, breathing steady, every move fluid as water. His cut was slow to pain but ignored nonetheless.

"Again," Ethan muttered, voice tight but fierce.

Kael didn’t reply—he just moved.

Blades collided anew—Ethan’s strikes broad and deliberate, testing, while Kael’s parries flowed like water slipping through a crack.

Yet Ethan was no longer reckless. He was learning, adapting mid-fight. His footwork sharpened, movements tightened—waste cut away like chaff.

Kael took notice.

This one grows, he thought.

But growth was not mastery.

Not yet.

Ethan swept low, baiting Kael with a strike before launching a tight upward slash that nearly caught Kael off guard. Kael twisted, drawn back just enough to avoid, his balance wavering.

Ethan seized the moment—closing fast, scythe spinning, strikes raining in a rapid flurry. One grazed Kael’s thigh; another scraped at his weapon.

But Kael ducked under the final blow and sprang behind Ethan.

Too late—Ethan turned.

Kael’s axe struck the small of his back, blunt and solid. Breath fled Ethan’s lungs as he stumbled forward, grasping for balance.

Pain exploded across his ribs. Teeth clenched, he spun wildly, swinging the scythe horizontally, but Kael was already moving—ducking, stepping in, planting a foot and sweeping.

Ethan crashed to the ground.

The scythe clattered far out of reach.

Kael loomed over him, axe lowered not to kill but to challenge.

Ethan stared back—breathing ragged, muscles screaming—but fueled by fire and unresolved will.

Kael’s eyes said without words: This is the edge.

Ethan reached for his weapon.

Kael’s boot pinned it.

"You’d have killed me three times," Ethan growled.

"No," Kael replied. "You would’ve missed three times and left yourself open four."

Ethan laughed bitterly, gaze lost on the worn ceiling.

"Almost had you," he whispered.

"Almost," Kael said with a knowing smirk. "Is the word of men who lose."

Silence settled.

Not cruel, but honest.

Kael stepped back and lifted his axe, placing it carefully on the rack among other weapons.

Ethan rose slowly, rubbing aching ribs. The sting would linger, but the lesson burned deeper.

"Why didn’t you finish me?" Ethan asked.

Kael turned away, voice casual as he strode off.

"Because if I did, you wouldn’t have learned a damn thing."

Ethan looked down at hands that still held strength, still could strike hard—and realized something crucial: he was not yet ready.

But he would be.

He would return.

Again and again.

Until strength became mastery.