“Advanced Division, Round Four! Theoden Voschell versus Corvin Aldrecht—combatants, ready your weapons!”

  The announcer’s voice wasn’t trying to win the crowd. It wasn’t meant to charm or stir emotions. It was the kind of voice that marked records, not memories—a quiet signal that what followed mattered.

  Corvin entered with the composed ease of someone who had rarely been challenged. His sword, a gleaming estoc reinforced at the hilt, was built for parrying and piercing. His movements were light, almost theatrical, like he wanted the entire audience to track his footwork.

  He gave Theoden a casual nod, one corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. “I hope that thing’s not just for show,” he said, gesturing to the massive broadsword Theoden held.

  Theoden didn’t respond. He simply adjusted his grip, feet grounding into the earth like tree roots settling in.

  Then, the signal came—not loud, but final.

  Corvin’s bde danced—quick, narrow sshes that came in sequence. Left shoulder. Right knee. Midline. Each strike rolled into the next—fluid, practiced. Like he’d drilled this exact pattern a hundred times.

  But Theoden didn’t respond with rhythm. He responded with stillness.

  His broadsword moved slowly at first—barely a twitch of the wrist, a slight adjustment in foot pcement. But every motion met the blow just before it became dangerous.

  I recognized it now.

  “Don’t rush the storm. Let it pass. And when the moment comes… step into its silence.”

  One of Master Ba’s lessons. I’d heard it during training—it had sounded like cryptic nonsense at the time.

  But Theoden was living it.

  “He’s not trying to meet him head-on,” I murmured. “It’s like… he’s waiting for the csh to pass him.”

  Beside me, Trevon’s arms were folded as he watched with a furrowed brow. “That’s Theo’s way,” he said. “He draws you into his rhythm. He reads the pattern… then shifts it under your feet.”

  I nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as I tried to track Theoden’s movements.

  Master Ba had once said that the sword was just an extension of breath.Theoden wielded his like it breathed with him. Not a weapon. A heartbeat.

  Corvin’s attacks grew sloppier as frustration set in. He switched styles mid-combo—more aggressive now, abandoning finesse for brute speed. His strikes whistled through the air, sharp and biting.

  Theoden let one hit graze the edge of his bde. Then—He stepped in.

  One clean horizontal arc. Not wide. Not wild.But the weight of it stopped Corvin cold, forcing him to stumble two paces back, chest heaving.

  The arena didn’t cheer.But the silence hit harder.

  “He’s efficient,” Trevon muttered. “Precise. If it were me, I’d use the pressure to force a mistake—push the tempo, stay on their blind side.”

  He gnced sideways at me, then back at Theoden. “But this? This is good too. Not my style. But it works. And it’s very… him.”

  I said nothing.But I understood.

  Theoden wasn’t here to entertain. He was here to teach.

  Corvin reset with a grunt, shaking the sting from his arm as he circled wide again. The confidence he entered with had begun to crack—there was no rhythm to lean into now. No pattern to exploit.

  Theoden didn’t press.He simply shifted his stance.

  The broadsword lowered, almost zily, its tip brushing faint lines in the sand. A feint? A misstep? Corvin wasn’t sure. But he lunged anyway—desperation in his stride, bde driving straight for the opening he thought he saw.

  And that was when it happened.

  Theoden stepped forward. Just one step. The kind of step that carried weight. Not just from his body, but from his intent.

  He didn’t block the bde. It looked more like… he guided it off-course, like the sword was never meant to nd.

  And in the space left behind—Theoden’s sword moved.

  It wasn’t a strike so much as a pcement.The ft of the broadsword pressed gently against Corvin’s chest—right over the heart.No blood. No blow.

  Just a pause. And everyone understood.

  Corvin froze, eyes wide.Not from fear. From realization.

  He’d lost—before he even registered the move.

  The officiator raised his hand. “Match concluded. Victory: Theoden Voschell.”

  No roaring cheer. Just quiet nods. A few murmurs of approval. Respect—not from the loud, but from the learned.

  Theoden stepped back, offered a shallow bow to his opponent, and turned to leave without a word.

  From beside me, Trevon exhaled slowly. “…He made it look easy.”

  I said nothing. But I watched every step as Theoden left the ring—his shoulders rexed, posture light.

  Maybe that’s what Master Ba meant—when you understand the mountain, it moves with you.

  And for a moment, I hated how effortless it looked.

  Not because I didn’t respect it. But because I did.

  Because I knew I wasn’t there yet.

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