Despite their instincts warning them otherwise, the temple’s soldiers and trainees couldn’t stop themselves. The mont Nova insulted them, sothing snapped.
Their pride, carefully molded through years of discipline and worship, burned with fury at the outsider’s audacity.
The bulky man, who had first challenged Nova, picked up his sword again and pointed it at him.
"You’re going to regret that."
He snarled.
Nova didn’t respond. He simply watched, holding the wooden sword lightly in his hand, not even shifting his stance.
He had already evaluated the man’s strength. There wasn’t enough aether in him to make this a challenge.
But he also knew sothing else—these people wouldn’t stop unless they were humiliated.
So, he waited.
The man charged again, roaring louder than before.
This ti, Nova didn’t counter. He ducked, let the man’s sword whistle through empty air, and brought the blunt edge of his weapon up into the trainee’s ribs.
A thud echoed as the man dropped to his knees, clutching his side and coughing.
But even that wasn’t enough.
Another stepped forward—a wiry woman with quick feet. She didn’t shout or charge, but her glare spoke volus. She raised her weapon and swung for Nova’s side in a sharp arc.
Nova parried.
Once.
Twice.
On the third blow, he twisted her wrist and disard her, sending her stumbling back. She caught herself, but her face flushed with a mix of pain and sha.
And then ca another.
Then two more.
In a matter of minutes, Nova was surrounded. It wasn’t formal combat now—it was a desperate attempt to overwhelm him.
A punch ca from behind. A blade tried to slash his leg. A kick aid for his shoulder.
He moved through it all.
Fluid. Calm.
Wood clashed with wood, and every ti it did, soone went down. Nova was careful—no broken bones, no permanent injuries—but the weight of humiliation fell on each of them.
One by one.
Until none were left standing.
The courtyard fell silent.
Nova stood alone, breathing steady, his wooden sword still intact. Around him, the others groaned, held bruises, or refused to et his gaze.
He pointed the sword at the last few trainees who hadn’t jumped in.
"Well? Anyone else want to embarrass themselves?"
He asked, voice low.
No one answered.
The last of the group stepped back, shaking their heads.
So helped the others stand. Others whispered to each other, muttering curses under their breath, but none dared look Nova in the eye anymore.
The fight had drained whatever confidence they had. What remained was resentnt—and sothing colder: fear.
Nova tossed the wooden sword to the side. It clattered against the stone.
"This is what happens when you challenge people without thinking," he said, brushing off his sleeves.
The tension in the air refused to leave, but no one approached him again. They understood now that the outsider wasn’t soone they could intimidate or sha.
Whatever anger they felt—whatever loyalty to their "god"—it ant nothing against raw, undeniable power.
Nova turned his back on them and began to walk toward the exit of the training grounds, calm as ever.
Behind him, soone whispered.
"Who is he...?"
But no one answered.
Because they didn’t know.
And now, they weren’t sure they wanted to.
______
Malrik returned to the training ground carrying a large crate of basic dical supplies in one arm and a bundle of gauze and herbs tucked under the other.
He’d moved quickly, not just out of duty but because of a strange, persistent feeling that sothing had gone wrong.
When he stepped through the archway into the courtyard, the first thing he noticed was how many more people were lying on the ground compared to when he’d left.
Bodies groaned and shifted on the cracked stone floor, while several others were still circling one man—Nova—clearly preparing to engage again.
So held bruised arms, others limped, and all of them looked like they’d taken quite the beating.
Malrik paused.
Nova wasn’t even using a proper weapon—just a wooden practice sword.
And yet, he looked completely unbothered, his breathing steady and his expression unreadable. Malrik exhaled, relieved.
Still, irritation bubbled beneath his skin. He strode forward.
"What in the stars’ na are you all doing?"
He demanded, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The soldiers who hadn’t yet jumped into the fight froze mid-motion. A few looked around, hoping soone else would answer.
No one spoke.
Malrik narrowed his eyes, dropping the supplies by the shaded corner of the yard.
"Well?"
"We were, uh...Just sparring, Captain."
One trainee began awkwardly.
"Practicing."
Another chid in, nodding vigorously.
Malrik stared at them, unimpressed.
"Sparring? With soone who hasn’t even been assigned a division? Using numbers against a guest? That’s your definition of practice?"
He folded his arms and looked around, waiting.
"Funny. Because it looks to like a one-sided beatdown."
A few of the soldiers winced at that. One young man looked like he wanted to say sothing in his defense, but thought better of it and dropped his gaze.
Malrik turned his attention to Nova, as if hoping for an explanation. But Nova rely shrugged, wooden sword still loosely in hand.
"All your soldiers suck. You need to train them more."
Nova said simply.
The statent landed like a slap.
Several of the trainees visibly bristled. One muttered sothing under his breath, and another clenched his jaw, face red with either anger or sha.
But none of them dared respond directly. Not after what had just happened. They’d lost—cleanly, quickly, and thoroughly. Arguing now would only make them look worse.
Malrik pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed.
"Back to your drills. And if I see anyone else jumping soone unprovoked again, you’ll be running laps around the palace till your legs fall off."
He ordered, gesturing toward the open space.
The group scattered like dust in the wind. So limped, so sulked, but all of them retreated with heavy pride and battered egos.
When they were finally gone, Malrik turned to Nova and gave him a sheepish smile.
"Apologies. Again. I’m starting to lose count of how many tis I’ve had to say that."
He said.
Nova lowered the wooden sword and leaned it against a nearby rack.
"You were right. They’re scared. Not just of —of everything. They’ve been training with rituals and fear instead of actual combat. They’re brittle."
He said.
Malrik’s smile faded.
"Yeah. I know."
He bent down and opened the dical kit, beginning to sort the herbs and bandages. "It’s not like it used to be.
Aether is harder to train with now. Resources are scarce. And most of the new blood believes more in blessings than in effort."
Nova didn’t comnt on that. He watched the way Malrik’s hands moved—practiced, precise—and then looked back at the makeshift battlefield around them.
"They won’t survive when the real war starts."
Malrik paused, eyes lifting.
"You think there’s going to be a war?"
"There’s always a war. So people just haven’t realized it yet."
Nova said.
That earned a dry laugh from the captain.
"Spoken like soone who’s already fought one."
Nova didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Malrik tied a bundle of gauze shut and stood.
"Well, if nothing else, you’ve taught them a lesson today. And I owe you for not breaking any bones."
He said, brushing off his hands.
Nova smirked faintly.
"That wasn’t a promise."
"Still appreciated. Co on. You can rest here for a bit before the next chaos begins. If you’re sticking around Callex, you’re going to need all the patience you’ve got."
Malrik gestured to a bench near the wall.
Nova followed without a word.
And above them, in the shadow of the holy temple, the air still held the weight of conflict—not just from the training yard, but sothing far older, and far deeper.
Sothing waiting.
Reviews
All reviews (0)