The wooden floor creaked under Charles’s feet as he followed the others, adjusting his bandages to keep them secure.
The warm-up had been grueling, though not as bad as he’d expected.
First, basic stretches: legs, arms, neck, all to wake the body.
Then, deep breaths that Neymar insisted were "key to connecting with your elent."
Charles had rolled his eyes but complied, stunned by the result—he could see his stored power inside his body for the first ti.
’It’s blue...’ he thought, watching the energy pulse through his veins.
Things got serious after that: wide lunges, push-ups that left him sweating, lateral shuffles to dodge imaginary attacks, and torso twists that ward his muscles.
’With this, my stored energy’s gotta be near 100%,’ he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with his black tunic’s sleeve.
Now ca the big part: the Storm Clan’s basic stances.
Neymar had explained they were the foundation of all combat, from defense to channeling elental power.
Charles knew that to survive tonight’s duel against the Masters, he needed to nail at least the basics.
Neymar stood at the front, striking a firm stance with feet apart and knees slightly bent.
"This is the Thunder Stance," he said, serious. "It’s the base for direct attacks. You keep balance and prep your body to channel the elent."
He made a swift motion, extending an arm forward like pushing sothing invisible.
A faint gust of wind, marked by the white stripes on his tunic, followed the gesture.
Joren, Soren, and Rowen mimicked the stance, each with their own flair. Joren was enthusiastic, almost over-the-top, while Soren barely raised his arms.
Rowen looked bored but moved with precision.
Charles watched, trying to copy them.
Feet apart, knees bent, arms positioned.
But sothing was off.
His shoulders were too tense, and his right foot was misplaced, throwing him off balance when he tried the push motion.
’This is harder than it looks,’ he thought, frowning.
He tried again, but his arm flopped awkwardly, unsure where to go.
Joren glanced at him, noticing the mistake, but stayed quiet.
Charles appreciated the silence, but he wasn’t so lucky with the other group.
The sa guys who’d been eyeing him since he arrived at the training floor were now a few ters away, practicing their own stances.
There were four, all in black tunics with colored stripes: two red, one blue, one brown.
The leader, a tall guy with red stripes and a ponytail, let out a loud laugh when Charles tripped over his own foot again.
"Look at that!" the guy said, pointing shalessly. "He’s dancing, not training!"
The other three laughed, and the blue-striped one added, "What’s that? The Clumsy Novice Stance?"
Charles clicked his tongue, irritated.
’Seriously? That’s the best insult they’ve got?’ he thought, straightening up.
Ignoring them would’ve been easiest, but the laughter continued, and now nearby Warriors were starting to look.
Charles didn’t want a scene, but he wasn’t about to let them treat him like a fool.
"What’s your problem with ?" he asked, raising his voice just enough for them to hear.
His tone was calm, but there was a sharp edge of challenge.
The ponytail guy stepped forward, crossing his arms.
"My problem is I don’t know what a lower-rank’s doing here," he said, smirking. "This floor’s for Warriors, not Novices who got lost."
Charles frowned, confused.
"What’re you talking about? Lower-rank?" he asked, tilting his head. "I’m a Warrior, sa as you."
The group burst into laughter, like he’d said sothing ridiculous.
The blue-striped one pointed at Charles’s tunic.
"Look at your clothes, genius!" he said, cackling. "Black, no stripes. That’s what Novices and Aspirants wear. Warriors have colors for their elent. They didn’t teach you that?"
Charles glanced down at his tunic.
It was true.
Completely black, not a single stripe.
He rembered what happened after the fight with the eight Novices: he’d been rushed to the hospital, then everything was chaos—the lightning, Nora, the argunt with Lira—but no one had given him a new tunic.
’Now that I think about it...’ he thought, a mix of amusent and embarrassnt, ’I haven’t even showered properly.’
The lightning ritual’s rain and the river with Nora didn’t count.
He chuckled to himself, picturing how absurd he must look: a supposed Warrior in an old tunic, probably reeking of sweat.
He’d called Nora "filthy" in his head, but now he was just as bad.
His brief laugh was a mistake. The ponytail guy narrowed his eyes, misreading it.
"What’s so funny?" he asked, taking another step closer. "Mocking us?"
"Nah," Charles said, a crooked smile forming. "But you seem real hung up on this stuff. Like I said, I’m a Warrior, just haven’t gotten my new tunic yet."
The red-striped guy laughed, like he’d heard a bad joke.
"That’s impossible!" he said, almost shouting. "When you go from Novice to Warrior, there’s a ceremony. You get the tunic on the spot, with your elent’s stripes. Think we’re stupid?"
Murmurs around them grew.
So nearby Warriors stopped training to watch.
Charles felt their stares like needles.
"Look, I don’t know what happened with the ceremony," he said, crossing his arms. "But I’m this rank."
The ponytail group wasn’t buying it.
The brown-striped one, silent until now, spoke dryly.
"Yeah, right," he said. "A Novice playing Warrior. Why don’t you go back to your floor before we toss you out?"
Before Charles could reply, Joren stepped up beside him.
"Hey, chill out," he said, raising his voice. "This is Rian, the guy from the rumors. The one who beat all those Novices in one fight and ranked up. You didn’t hear?"
The silence that followed was thick.
So Warriors exchanged surprised looks.
A girl with white stripes nearby asked, "Seriously? That Rian?"
Soren, though shy, nodded.
The murmurs returned, but different now.
So sounded curious, others skeptical.
"I heard sothing about that..." said a guy with blue stripes.
"They say he took down 50 Novices alone."
"No way that’s true!" the ponytail guy snapped, clearly pissed. "Nobody ranks up like that! It’s bullshit!"
Charles t their eyes, staying calm.
"Well... if you don’t believe ," he said, a defiant smile creeping in, "wanna find out for yourselves?"
His challenge hung in the air, and for a mont, no one spoke.
The ponytail guy, whose na Charles still didn’t know, stared with a mix of disbelief and anger.
His friends looked just as tense, unsure whether to take him seriously or keep laughing.
"Find out?" the red-striped guy repeated, stepping closer. "You’re real cocky for soone who can’t even stance right."
Charles shrugged, holding his smile.
"Don’t need perfect stances to teach you a lesson," he said, his tone more provocative than intended.
Neymar, who’d been watching quietly, stepped in.
"Guys, no need to fight," he said, raising his hands. "Rian’s new, but he’s one of us. Leave him alone."
The blue-striped guy let out a nasal laugh.
"One of us? He doesn’t even have stripes!" he said. "Far as I’m concerned, let him prove he’s not a fraud."
Charles felt a spark of irritation.
"Fine," he said, stepping into the cleared space where they’d been practicing. "If you’re so eager, let’s spar. How ’bout it, Ponytail?"
The nickna drew laughs, including from one of the watching girls.
The ponytail guy gritted his teeth, visibly annoyed.
"Na’s Varn," he said, voice sharp. "And you’re gonna regret this, Rian."
Charles raised an eyebrow.
"Varn, Ponytail, sa difference," he said, shrugging. "Let’s hit the ring."
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