Everything stilled.

  My nerves were quiet—waiting.

  Then he charged.

  No flourish. No signal. Just movement—explosive, practiced, and sharp. His boots tore into the sand, sending dust spiraling in his wake. The tip of his bde angled low, aiming to catch me off-guard with a sudden, upward cleave.

  The crowd barely had time to inhale.

  I didn’t flinch.

  I stepped sideways. A breath before the strike nded.

  His bde cut through empty air, dragging a hiss behind it.

  My spear moved with me—not a ssh, not a stab. Just a shift. A drawing arc that took his momentum and bent it away from me, like water curling around stone.

  It was Master Ba’s second lesson. "You don’t meet force with force. You let it pass, and make them regret it."

  Kurt recovered quickly, pivoting, bde swinging again—this time overhead, faster, sharper.

  I dipped low, letting the shaft of my spear glide under the blow like wind slipping beneath a closing door.

  Then rose into the next motion.

  A turn. A flick. A cut along the wind.

  My spear spun once in my hand, then darted forward, just enough to tap the edge of his sleeve.

  Not a blow. A warning.

  Kurt’s brows knit. The crowd murmured. He’d expected resistance. Csh. Contest.

  Instead, he was hitting nothing.

  My stance stayed quiet. Unmoving. The storm still waiting.

  He came again. Harder.

  This time, I let the tip of the spear drag through the sand, then swing up in a wide arc—a bded crescent that forced him to leap back.

  He growled under his breath. Anger now.

  But I wasn’t finished.

  The spear turned once more in my hands. Fluid. Calm. Like wind uncoiling from a mountain pass.

  This was no soldier’s thrust. This was Skyridge.

  Mountain-taught. Rhythm over power. Precision shaped by survival.

  And I was done waiting.

  I struck forward—not wild, not fast, but timed. A sharp, narrow jab that clipped the edge of his guard and sent his bde shuddering to the side.

  Then stepped in. Shaft pressed to his chest. Spear halted just short of contact.

  The announcer's voice rang out: "Point! First strike—His Highness, Prince Cassius!"

  The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Others gasped. A few stared in stunned silence.

  Kurt looked down at the spear tip. Then up at me.

  I gave him nothing.

  Just a single, steady breath. And stepped back into stance

  Kurt’s jaw tightened. He stepped back, reset his stance, and exhaled hard through his nose.He was fast. Strong. Trained well.But he didn’t understand the kind of fight this was.

  He charged again—A flurry of strikes this time.Heavy. Rushed. Desperate to regain ground.

  His bde came in low. Then high. Then low again.But none of it reached.

  I moved like water down stone.Master Ba’s third lesson: "Don’t fight the storm. Become its rhythm."

  I turned each step into a pivot. Each breath into motion.My spear became an extension of the wind—sliding, spinning, slicing through pressure.

  Kurt roared as he went for a downward arc meant to finish it.I ducked under—narrowly—and let my spear rise from beneath like a reed on a current.

  The shaft met his wrist. Not with force. With redirection.His grip faltered.

  He tried to recover.Too te.

  I stepped into his blind spot.

  One heartbeat.

  Then—The spear whipped around, the end striking the back of his knee with precise force. Not enough to injure—just enough to stagger.

  The crowd gasped as he dropped one leg down to catch himself—off-bance.

  I remembered what it felt like to lose everything. To stand in blood and silence. But this—this was mine to win.

  I didn't stop.

  A sharp turn of my foot. A shift in weight. I brought the spear around in a final, clean arc— The blunted tip nding square against his chest.

  A single, audible thud. Then silence.

  “Point! Match—goes to His Highness, Prince Cassius!”

  The crowd exploded.

  Kurt froze, breath caught in his throat, sweat beading down his temple. I let the spear drop lightly to the side, spinning once before I set the base against the ground.

  He looked up at me.

  I offered him the faintest nod.

  No smirk. No gloat. Just stillness.

  This wasn’t pride.

  This was what Skyridge had taught me.

  And I had won.

  The moment the announcer’s voice decred the result, the arena roared to life.

  Cheers. Gasps. Appuse that struck like thunder rolling across the stands. Voices shouting a name—some in disbelief, some with awe, some with the kind of rising excitement that only came when a crowd realized they’d underestimated someone.

  "Cassius! Cassius!" The chant started in one corner, then rippled outward—gaining force, gaining weight.

  I stood in the center of the ring, still holding my spear.

  Let it wash over me.

  Not because I needed the validation. But because, for once… I wanted to feel it. To let the noise settle into my skin. To know what it meant—to be seen.

  Their eyes weren’t filled with pity. Or fear. Or expectation. They saw what I wanted them to see: Control. Discipline. Power—without cruelty.

  I caught glimpses of faces in the stands—some stunned, others wide with admiration. A few nobles leaning forward, whispering urgently to their companions.

  And then—

  Amid the scattered competitors still lingering near the rope line, I saw him.

  Lucien.

  Leaning against the pilr. Arms crossed. Gaze locked on me. No cpping. No frown. No visible shift.

  But he was watching.

  Good.

  I met his eyes. Let him look.

  Then turned away first.

  Because this time, I wasn't chasing anyone.

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