Caw! Caw!
The crow soared through the air, gliding effortlessly before swooping down to perch on an old, gnarled branch of the Old Oak.
It let out a long, rasping caaaaaw, the sound dragging like claws across glass.
Its beady eyes shifted, fixing on the group gathered below.
They stood around the edge of the training grounds, watching as two figures faced off in the center.
With a sharp flutter, the crow hopped sideways onto a leafy branch, settling in to observe.
A hush fell over the crowd. The wind held its breath.
Among the onlookers, Nyx stood with one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
Nyx's eyes gleamed, and his smirk deepened. "—Well then… let the fun begin."
Nyx straightened his back and yanked the sword from the ground with a sharp shing. His grip tightened on the hilt, jaw set.
Across from him, Ron dropped into a low stance, coiled like a spring.
Nyx mirrored him.
Ron's brow furrowed. He vanished in a blink—no dust, no sound, just sudden speed.
He reappeared in front of Nyx.
A horizontal slash tore through the air, followed by a diagonal meant to carve deep.
Clang! Clang!
Nyx parried both with clean, practiced strikes. Then he stepped in and drove his boot into Ron's gut.
Thud.
Ron flew backward, skidding across the dirt.
He coughed, catching himself on one knee, eyes locked on Nyx.
But Nyx was gone—already there.
His blade came down in a vicious arc.
Clash!
Ron barely blocked it, knees buckling from the force.
"You unfair bastard—" Ron grinned, breathless. "—If you're using sword aura, don't blame me when I bring in magic."
He jumped back—once, twice, a third time—putting distance between them.
The crowd scrambled, a ripple of movement as they rushed for safety.
Then silence.
Tension hung heavy in the air.
Luna watched from the sidelines, eyes wide with awe, following every move like it was etched into her soul.
Ron straightened his back, exhaled, then whispered under his breath—
"Crackstep Waltz."
Blue-white lightning sparked to life around his boots. The ground beneath him crackled like splintering glass, arcs of light dancing between stone and sole.
Nyx's eyes narrowed. He instinctively hopped back—once, twice—drawing his blade up defensively.
"So you wanna be fast now?" he shouted, grinning. "Let's see it!"
Ron leaned forward—and vanished.
He shot across the field like a ghost on ice, feet skimming the surface in a blur of charged motion. In a flash, he was in front of Nyx.
The lightning surged through his blade—FWOOOM—and the moment the tip struck Nyx's sword—
BLANG!
A metallic boom echoed through the training ground like a cannon going off.
Nyx held firm. His parry was clean. Too clean.
Ron's eyes flared. Annoyance twisted into adrenaline.
BLANG! BLANG! BLANG!
Strike after strike. Explosive pressure bearing down on Nyx with every swing.
But Nyx matched him—gritting his teeth, aura flaring like wildfire. With a sharp breath, he leaned back and swung wide, pouring every ounce of strength into a single counterattack.
KRRAAANG!
Ron's blade took the hit dead center.
It cracked.
Ron was launched backward—flipping through the air, crashing down onto the dirt with a thud that shook the ground.
Stunned, he blinked up at the sky. He lifted his sword—
Fractured.
A jagged split right through the middle.
He chuckled despite himself, flipping back to his feet, breath ragged, sweat trailing down his face. His eyes found Nyx—still standing, aura pulsing, sword lowered.
Ron narrowed his eyes—and moved.
BOOM.
The ground shattered beneath his feet as he propelled forward, blue lightning ripping the earth apart.
Halfway to Nyx, he realised.
He knew.
He had lost.
Because Nyx was already standing tall—still, calm, blade raised, unreadable.
And yet—
He was faster.
Even with Crackstep Waltz active, even with every enchantment humming across Ron's limbs—he couldn't keep up.
Nyx's stance tightened. His eyes locked with Ron's. Sweat dripped down Ron's jaw.
And then—Nyx moved.
A blur. A flicker.
Ron barely flinched—
SHWAAANG!
—
Ron barely had time to react.
Nyx's sword came down so fast, so precisely, that he only caught a fleeting glimpse before the blow landed.
It was over.
The strike connected—CRACK!—a devastating hit that sent Ron hurtling across the training ground like a ragdoll.
His body slammed into the Old Oak with a sickening crash. The massive trunk splintered, splintering into jagged pieces as it gave way to the force of Ron's impact.
The great tree groaned and buckled, its once-proud body collapsing across the field, scattering debris in every direction.
Silence fell. Complete, suffocating silence.
The crowd watched in stunned awe as the echoes of the duel died away, leaving only the shattered remnants of the tree in its wake.
Ron lay still, his breath ragged, his sword shattered in his grip.
The duel was over.
And the winner—undeniably, unmistakably—was Nyx Lockheart.