The arena had emptied.
The crowd dispersed, the sun dipping behind the hills, but in one of the stone balconies overlooking the sand, two men remained seated, untouched by time or wind.
One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair tied neatly behind his head and a beard trimmed with almost military precision. His crimson cloak rested lightly over his shoulders, heavy rings on his fingers. Every detail of his appearance screamed order and power.
He was the Domos of House Tyndaridai — father of the twins who had entered the tournament.
The man next to him wore a more modest robe of dark blue and bronze. Slimmer build, darker hair streaked with grey, but his eyes were just as sharp. He was a cousin of Cleon, a mid-tier voice in House Europontidai. A listener.
The Domos drank deeply from his cup, then clicked his tongue in disgust.
"That boy," he muttered. "Therion. Too polished. Too good, he will become a troublesome character to deal with in the future."
The Europontidai noble tilted his head. "MMmm... That may be the case, but, how many geniuses die on the road to become a warrior?"
"HAHA, that's true, but you should know that´s an extremely difficult thing to do now that his value has been shown, if he just wasn´t of house Hyllidai".
"I'm saying," the Domos growled, "that the House of Hyllidai has never hidden their… ideological leanings. They encourage softness. Words. Dreams of elevating pigs to pedestals."
As he said it, a young helot woman stepped forward, holding a clay jug. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured him another cup.
A single drop splashed onto his sleeve.
The Domos stared at it.
The air froze.
He stood up slowly. Then, with a single backhand strike, sent her sprawling.
The other man didn't flinch. He simply turned his eyes away.
The Domos walked over, grabbed the woman by the hair, and delivered three, four, five savage strikes with the back of his hand. She went limp by the fourth and dropped her.
"Filthy animals," he spat. "You give them the chance to stand, and they will crawl into your home like rats."
His breathing was heavy, but he composed himself quickly, straightening his cloak and turning back to his companion.
"I'll not have a Hyllidai bastard winning favour in front of the ephors, especially not when their entire House whispers of coexistence and reform behind closed doors."
The noble of House Europontidai finally spoke again.
"The boy is dangerous, yes. But we can use this. Therion's rise will draw attention."
"Attention we don't need."
"Which is why we must control the pieces around him." He leaned forward slightly. "That boy Darius — the one who stood up to him, even wounded — he's not noble-born. Nor is the son of that smith from the outer villages. The people are watching them. Admiring them."
The Domos narrowed his eyes.
"Then bring them closer. Make them feel chosen. Useful."
The Europontidai smiled faintly.
"We don't need to break the Hyllidai. Not yet. We just need to keep them isolated."
..............................
Darius sat quietly at the edge of the desk, shoulders wrapped in linen, still aching. The tent was dim, filled with the faint scent of wood smoke and parchment. Across from him, Drakos stood with his arms behind his back, watching the boy in silence.
Finally, Darius broke it.
"I've heard people talk about power stages," he said, voice low. "I know I'm somewhere in the second, but I never really understood what comes next. Not… in detail."
Drakos studied him for a moment. Then nodded, walked over, and pulled a chair closer.
"You're asking about Stage Three," he said.
Darius nodded.
Drakos leaned forward slightly.
"Stage Three isn't about growing stronger," he began. "Not like you've done until now. It's not about lifting more or hitting harder. It's about understanding. Owning your body, completely."
He raised a finger.
"There are five systems you need to master. And not with your fists — with your mind."
Darius sat up straighter.
"The first is the muscular system. That's what your opponent showed you. He didn't waste movement. He activated only the exact muscle fibers he needed — no more, no less. His body contracted in perfect sequence. Every strike, every dodge, was clean."
Drakos paused, letting it sink in.
"That's why he moved faster and hit harder with less effort. His body didn't resist itself. It flowed."
Darius clenched his fists slowly. "And mine… doesn't."
"Not yet," Drakos replied. "But you're close."
He lifted a second finger.
"The second system is tendons and joints. You need to understand the natural range of every limb. Most injuries don't come from impact — they come from overextension. You have to learn how to move within your body's true limits, and how to use the elasticity of your tendons to your advantage."
A third finger.
"The circulatory system. Blood flow. You think strength comes from muscle — but without proper blood flow, your power fades in seconds. You need to learn how to redirect blood when it's needed, slow your heartbeat to delay fatigue, and breathe in rhythm with your movement."
Fourth.
"The nervous system. The bridge between thought and action. Master this, and you reduce the delay between decision and motion. You begin to move with intention, not reaction. You don't just respond to danger — you govern it."
Then, the last.
"And finally, perception. What we call the internal map. A real fighter in Stage Three doesn't guess what's happening in his body. He knows. Every knot of tension, every imbalance, every strain — he senses it as clearly as pain."
Darius was silent, eyes wide now. He didn't look overwhelmed. He looked… intrigued.
"So what do I do?" he asked.
Drakos folded his hands on the table.
"You've already built the weapon. Your body is strong, maybe stronger than anyone else your age. What you need now… is awareness."
He tapped the side of his head.
"And for that, you need stillness. Observation. You start by meditating. Every day. Fifteen minutes. Breathe. Listen to your heartbeat. Feel where your tension lives. Track it."
"Is that really enough?" Darius asked.
"It's the beginning," Drakos said. "To master your body, you have to learn its language."
Darius stepped out of Drakos' tent, the heavy linen curtain falling shut behind him. The afternoon sun was low, casting golden light across the camp. The distant clang of steel on wood echoed from the training fields, but Darius didn't turn toward it. He walked slowly, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on nothing.
Meditation.
The word felt foreign in his mind. Not because he hadn't heard it before, but because he'd never needed it. Not really.
In his previous life, he knew of the Shaolin monks — warrior monks, rumored to be the strongest humans alive. They meditated daily, some for hours. They claimed it sharpened the body by calming the mind, honed the spirit by stilling the breath.
Back then, he hadn't dismissed it… but it hadn't been his path. His training was physical, tactical. Focused on measurable output — not stillness. Not silence.
And yet…
He remembered a book. A text he'd read during recovery, written by a neuroscientist turned author — a man who had studied meditation not as a spiritual practice, but as a biological mechanism. The book had broken it down into stages. Practical. Rational.
Breathe.Settle the body.Center your attention.Observe the wandering.Return, again and again, without judgment.
Darius reached a quiet corner of the camp, near a low cluster of rocks and sparse grass. The wind here was softer. The air, cooler.
"Fifteen minutes," Drakos had said.As if it were simple.
But Darius knew better. Mastery came in layers. Precision didn't start with movement — it started with awareness.
And for that… he'd have to sit.Not to rest. But to learn.
Darius found a quiet spot beneath the olive trees, where the camp's noise faded into wind and birdsong. He placed his bow to the side, sat down slowly, and let his legs cross. This time red came along and rested by his side, quietly. The earth was cool beneath him. For a moment, he simply sat — then exhaled.
This is how it begins.
He closed his eyes and let the air fill his lungs, steady and deep. No control. No force. Just breath.
Step one: preparation.He straightened his back slightly, letting his shoulders relax, his arms resting on his knees. The pain from training still echoed through his muscles — a reminder that his body was strong but strained. He let it be.
Step two: awareness of breath.He drew his focus to the sensation of air moving through his nose, his chest, his belly. In and out. Like waves. He didn't count. He didn't analyse. He just watched.
Step three: the scan.He began with his toes — not moving them, just feeling them. A tingling. A subtle weight. Then up, through his feet, ankles, calves. He climbed slowly through each part of his body, like inspecting the armour of a warrior before battle. Knees, thighs, hips… stomach, chest, back… shoulders, arms, hands. Neck. Face. Eyes.
Some places were quiet. Others pulsed with tension. He didn't fight them. He just noted them, like mapping a battlefield.
Step four: acceptance.When he reached the spot where his shoulder had been bruised the week before, pain surfaced. His instinct was to flinch, to resist. But he stopped himself. He let the pain be there. It didn't mean weakness — it meant awareness.
Step five: full-body awareness.Then he pulled back. Not physically — mentally. He tried to feel everything at once: his whole body, as one piece. The quiet rhythm of breath. The heat of the sun. The whisper of the wind across his skin. For a moment, he wasn't Darius the fighter. He was just… here.
Step six: returning.He opened his eyes.
The world hadn't changed — but he had. Just a little.