We watched another match following Theoden’s, though my focus had already begun to drift.

  Not from boredom—but from instinct.

  My gaze shifted around the perimeter, quietly surveying the area. Just enough to gather a sense of who else was competing in the Advanced Division. It was different here. The air itself felt heavier—not from tension, but from experience.

  These weren’t boys learning how to fight.

  They were fighters who had already learned—refined, tested, and weaponized it.

  I caught sight of Constantine near one of the stone pilrs, arms crossed, casually leaning like he had all the time in the world. He was speaking to Theoden, who stood with the same quiet composure he always carried. Neither looked particurly concerned about the match taking pce in front of them.

  They weren’t nervous. They weren’t even watching. Not really.

  It was just another day to them.

  A quiet comment from Trevon pulled me back to the present. Back to the match still unfolding before us.

  “That sidestep gave him the advantage,” he said, eyes never leaving the ring.

  I refocused. Another pair of competitors were trading blows—fast, efficient, but cking the sharpness of the st bout. Still, they moved well. Better than most in the Novice Division.

  And that was what struck me.

  In the Novice matches, there was always something theatrical.Each movement felt designed to be seen—to earn appuse or awe. It was as much about performance as it was technique.

  But here?

  Here, in the Advanced Division, no one was performing.They were calcuting. Controlling. Executing.

  Even the ones who moved with fir did so with intent behind every flourish. It wasn’t showmanship—it was precision wrapped in confidence.

  There was no need to prove themselves. They already knew where they stood.

  And somehow, that quiet certainty was far more intimidating than anything I’d seen in the main arena.

  The match in the ring ended with a clean disarm—a final, swift maneuver that sent one sword cttering to the ground. The victor didn’t gloat. He simply nodded, stepped back, and let the officiator raise his hand.

  No cheers.

  Just another quiet win added to the count.

  I exhaled slowly, gaze trailing once more to where Constantine stood—arms still crossed, that ever-present grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Theoden murmured something beside him, and whatever it was, it made Constantine ugh.

  The sound carried. Bright. Unbothered.

  A few heads turned.

  I had a feeling the next match wouldn't be quiet.

  ? 2025 baobaochong – All rights reserved.