The second day of the Velmora Academy Tournament began with a heavy tension in the air, a residual echo of the storm Kenneth had stirred the day before. Whispers followed him wherever he walked. Students stepped aside as he passed, some in awe, others in silent fear. Even those who tried to act unbothered couldn't ignore the memory of his savage fight against Xen Karr.
Zarek and Kael sat under a large oak in the courtyard, their uniforms half unbuttoned from the morning heat.
"You think Kenneth's gonna keep it together today?" Zarek asked, his voice low as he watched Kenneth in the distance, quietly stretching.
Kael didn't look up from the device he was tinkering with. "As long as no one turns invisible and punches him in the ribs twenty times again, we should be good."
Zarek gave a dry chuckle. "You know, sometimes I forget you actually have a sense of humor."
"It's in beta."
The arena filled gradually as the matches were announced. Murmurs rippled through the audience as today's next match was confirmed: Jaxon Pyre vs Garrik Voss, otherwise known as Ironhide.
Master Rhelgar's voice boomed across the speakers. "Up next… Class A's number five, Garrik Voss! Facing off against Class S's sword saint, Jaxon Pyre!"
"Finally," Zarek muttered. "The match I've been waiting for."
Kenneth leaned on the rail, arms crossed. "Garrik's durable, but Jaxon's not just another swordsman. That blade of his… it nullifies abilities."
"You mean it's cheating," Kael added, dryly. "Unbreakable, immune to abilities, and guided by a guy who probably came out of the womb swinging it."
The arena floor shimmered as the barriers were raised, locking in the fighters. Garrik stepped forward, his arms folding into a protective stance. His skin shimmered faintly with a metallic tint—Ironhide activated.
Across from him, Jaxon stood calm, his long black coat fluttering in the wind. His eyes, silver like polished steel, watched Garrik without a flicker of emotion. In his hand, he held the infamous blade, Windreaver, glowing faintly with a greenish hue.
"Ready?" Master Rhelgar's voice rang out.
"Let's get this over with," Garrik grunted, cracking his neck.
Jaxon simply nodded once.
"Begin!"
Garrik lunged forward with a speed that belied his bulky frame, aiming a powerful strike toward Jaxon's midsection. The swordmaster shifted his weight, tilting Windreaver upward just enough to catch the punch on the flat of the blade. There was a clang like a bell being struck, but the sword didn't even twitch.
The crowd gasped.
"What the hell…" Mira muttered from the audience. "That should've dented steel."
"But not that sword," Elara replied, brows furrowed. "Windreaver isn't just unbreakable—it nullifies energy transfer. It eats force like it drinks water."
Garrik growled and struck again, this time unleashing a flurry of blows, fists and elbows raining down like hammers. But every strike was blocked, deflected, or dodged with insulting ease. Jaxon's movements were minimal—elegant. He danced between attacks like a ghost, always one step ahead, always impossibly calm.
"He's not just defending," Zarek whispered. "He's studying him."
Kael nodded. "Like a surgeon studying the heart before he cuts it out."
Suddenly, Jaxon twisted to the side, bringing Windreaver down in an arc. Garrik threw up both arms to block—and the sword didn't even scratch his Ironhide. But the wind? The air itself howled, a torrent slamming into Garrik's chest and throwing him across the arena like a ragdoll.
Garrik slammed into the barrier and bounced forward, coughing.
"Don't get cocky…" he growled, charging again.
But this time, Jaxon wasn't waiting. He surged forward, blade flashing in a blur, slashing not at Garrik's body—but around him. Each swing sent waves of compressed wind crashing down like guillotines. Garrik ducked, rolled, and countered, but the pressure was mounting.
"Ironhide or not," Elara said, "he can't keep taking hits like that."
"Yeah," Lira added. "It's like trying to punch a hurricane."
The fight dragged on, but the result was becoming clearer with each passing second. Garrik, for all his power and resilience, couldn't touch Jaxon. Every punch was parried. Every counter was evaded. He looked like a student fighting a teacher.
At last, Jaxon dashed forward with a burst of wind-enhanced speed. He slid low, swept Garrik's legs, and as the larger boy fell backward, he brought Windreaver up, slamming the flat side of the blade into Garrik's chest. The impact sent out a shockwave of wind, cracking the arena floor and launching Garrik into the air before he hit the ground, groaning.
The crowd was dead silent.
Garrik tried to rise, but his arms trembled, legs giving out.
"Enough," Jaxon said coldly, stepping back. "Yield."
Garrik clenched his jaw. He didn't want to. But the truth was obvious. He'd been outclassed from the very first swing.
"I yield…" he muttered.
The arena erupted into murmurs and gasps. Some clapped, others sat stunned. Kael let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he said. "And here I thought Ironhide couldn't lose."
Zarek shrugged. "Hard to win when your fists are useless and the wind hates you."
Kenneth's eyes remained on Jaxon, who sheathed his blade and turned toward the exit. There was something cold, almost regal, in the way he walked. Not arrogance—just certainty.
"That sword," Kenneth murmured. "It's not the only thing dangerous about him."
Aeron Vale, seated nearby, watched Jaxon with equal interest.
"Efficient. Calculated. Cold," he said softly. "He's not just fighting to win. He's fighting like someone who has nothing to prove."
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Garrik was helped out of the arena by medics, his pride bruised far more than his body. Jaxon didn't even look back.
And as day two of the tournament pushed forward, one thing was becoming abundantly clear to every student present—this wasn't just a showcase of power.
This was war.