Wesley watched silently, arms folded again, heart no longer racing but still alert.
The battle had taken a sharp turn the mont Instructor Heiron gave the command to attack.
From that instant, the tension in the arena shifted—not because of Gabe’s surge of power, but because... there wasn’t one.
Gabe moved forward, shield lowered just enough to swing his short blade.
The angle was off. His footwork, shaky.
The blade t the Spearopion’s carapace with a dull clang that made even so students flinch—not from awe, but secondhand embarrassnt.
The blade bounced back, doing almost nothing. No dent. No blood. No reaction.
Another strike. Again, the sa.
Wesley narrowed his eyes, watching the pattern. Gabe’s strikes lacked weight. His arms didn’t follow through. His shoulders were tight, his footing unsure. The defensive rhythm he had danced with earlier vanished the mont he stepped into offense.
The Instructor noticed too.
Heiron’s hand lifted again, and thick roots burst from the earth, curling tightly around the Spearopion’s limbs before it could counter. The creature hissed and squird, but the vines were firm, thickened with magic. It was held in place—for now.
Heiron stepped forward, voice firm but not unkind.
"Stop."
Gabe froze, panting lightly, blade raised, eyes unsure.
"That’s enough," Heiron said. "You’re not ready to strike. Not yet."
The crowd above them, which had begun to cheer again, now watched in murmuring confusion.
Heiron turned his back to Gabe for a mont, staring at the wide arena floor as though gathering his thoughts. Then, with one hand behind his back, he began to pace.
Wesley could hear every word from where he stood.
"Defense, as an art, is misunderstood," the instructor began. "It is not the absence of offense. It is not fear. Defense is control. Discipline. You mastered that today, Gabe. You read the enemy. You anticipated. You calculated. That was impressive."
He paused and turned halfway toward Gabe again.
"But your attack... is hollow."
Wesley’s eyes flicked to Gabe. The boy stood like a student chastised for a poorly drawn spell circle. He didn’t argue. He didn’t complain. He just stood there, nodding softly.
Heiron continued pacing.
"An effective attack is not just swinging a blade. It is intention. Purpose. Connection of every movent from your heel to your wrist. If you don’t commit—if you hesitate—it shows. Even a creature like the Spearopion can feel it. That’s why it didn’t flinch. That’s why your blade bounced off like a pebble."
He held out a finger, his tone more lecturing now. "Attacking isn’t simply about power—it’s about knowing when, how, and why. Without that, you’re throwing paper against stone."
Wesley could see it clearly. Gabe’s posture now looked smaller. Not ashad—just absorbing.
The Instructor’s tone softened.
"But that doesn’t erase what you achieved today. Your defense is exceptional. One of the best I’ve seen for soone your age. You adapted. You survived. You learned."
He nodded once, solemn.
"I’ll ask you now—do you want to keep fighting?"
Gabe raised his head.
"Yes," he said quietly, then louder, "Yes. I want to learn."
Instructor Heiron smiled—not mockingly, but with the pride of a ntor seeing a student take their first real step.
"Good. Then follow my lead."
He turned, lifted his wand again, and the vines began to release the Spearopion.
The creature screeched and thrashed, the fury in its segnted tail shaking loose dust from the arena floor.
"Rember," Heiron called out calmly, "defend. But after you deflect, counter—not wildly. Let the enemy’s motion carry it. Use their weight against them."
The battle resud.
Gabe raised his shield just as the Spearopion lunged. The tail ca like a whip, and he blocked it, twisting to the side to redirect the montum, making it slam against the ground instead of his ribs.
"Good!" Heiron barked. "Now! Low slash—knee joint!"
Gabe obeyed. His blade struck lower this ti, grazing the thinner shell of the creature’s joint, and it hissed.
Wesley watched every movent, analyzing them. Gabe was still sloppy—but he was improving mid-fight. That was rare.
Another tail strike—blocked. A claw—dodged.
"Again, Gabe! Shift your weight to the right—now strike from below!"
The Spearopion responded faster this ti, and Gabe was a hair too slow. The tail scraped his shoulder armor, sending a spark flying. He staggered but didn’t fall.
Heiron’s voice bood, calm this ti. "You’re learning. Breathe with your swings. Stop tensing."
It went on.
Minute by minute. Each call from Heiron was sharper than the last. Each dodge, each block, each counter—Wesley could see Gabe improving like a candle catching fire, slow and small but steady.
Until sothing changed.
A low hiss erupted from the Spearopion. Its carapace, previously brown and rugged, began to shimr with a sickly sheen. Then—dark. Purple veins spread across its shell. Its eyes glead with malice.
Heiron’s face darkened. "It’s mutating. Gabe, defense only. Do not attack."
Gabe nodded instantly, raising his shield.
The creature shrieked louder now, its tail vibrating with venomous energy. Wesley could feel the air around them change, grow heavier.
The Spearopion charged.
The attacks ca faster. Less like calculated strikes and more like an avalanche of rage. Claws slashed in pairs, tail jabs ca in threes. Gabe blocked, ducked, rolled, grunted—his shield now battered and dented at the edge.
"Hold steady!" Heiron shouted.
Wesley leaned forward, fists clenched. His own instincts scread to step in, but this was Gabe’s mont.
Another strike—blocked.
Another lunge—dodged.
A triple tail jab—parried and deflected sideways.
Gabe was panting hard now, back pressed against the wall of the arena as the Spearopion advanced in fury.
But then... it slowed.
The purple shimr began to dim. The muscles beneath its shell heaved, tired. Its tail, once high and proud, now twitched sluggishly.
Wesley recognized the mont. This was the end of the frenzy.
And sure enough, the creature sagged.
Its limbs slumped.
Its tail fell limp.
It groaned once, then flopped to the side, defeated not by a killing blow—but by exhaustion.
Gabe stood above it, barely holding himself upright. His shoulders rose and fell, his blade trembling at his side.
Instructor Heiron stepped forward once more. His gaze swept over the battlefield, over the stunned students, over Gabe’s battered clothes—and finally landed on the still figure of the defeated Spearopion.
He nodded to himself, quietly.
Then he looked Gabe in the eyes.
"You’re ready," he said. "You’re now prepared to enter the dungeon."
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