Across the platform, Vyrrak rolled his shoulders again, eyes locked on his opponent. A hush spread through the gathered warriors. Anticipation thickened the air. The other thralgar mirrored the movement, sizing each other up, weight shifting, testing balance.

  Drask, looking supremely disinterested, crossed his arms. "Fight."

  The instant the word left his mouth, Vyrrak exploded forward. His opponent was fast—faster than expected—but Vyrrak was faster. He moved with a practiced ease, a blur of muscle and momentum, weaving around the first strike before slamming a fist into the other thralgar’s ribs. A crack echoed, swallowed by the crowd’s sharp inhale.

  Elysian’s eyes narrowed. He had seen skilled fighters before, but Vyrrak was something else. There was precision in his movements, an efficiency that spoke of natural talent honed to a razor’s edge.

  Kaerthlyn grinned beside him, watching with satisfaction. "Told you."

  Elysian hummed, eyes never leaving the fight. "Yeah. You did."

  A second strike. A third. Vyrrak wasn’t just winning—he was dismantling his opponent, breaking him down with precision and ease. Each movement was measured, each strike landing exactly where it needed to. The fight seemed to be over before it had even begun.

  Elysian exhaled, barely above a whisper. “He’s good.” His eyes widened as he studied the young warrior’s footwork, the sharp angles of his attacks, the way he controlled space with an almost surgical precision. “Extremely talented.”

  Sybil, seated beside him, barely nodded, eyes locked on the fight. “His opponent is better—much better—than the one I fought.” He swallowed, watching Vyrrak dominate like a predator toying with prey. “And yet, he’s being completely overwhelmed. That one… is terrifying.”

  Kaerthlyn chuckled, catching their reactions with quiet amusement. “I told you,” she murmured. “Vyrrak is one of the best of our generation.”

  As expected, after only a few more exchanges, Vyrrak landed a controlled kick to the back of his opponent’s leg, forcing the Gulthram warrior to drop to one knee. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken finality.

  “Give up,” Vyrrak muttered, his tone calm—assured. “You can’t win. This is pointless.”

  The Gulthram warrior snarled, defiance burning in his eyes. “Never.” He surged forward, reckless and furious.

  Vyrrak sidestepped effortlessly, delivering a sharp kick to his opponent’s ribs. The warrior tumbled, rolling across the ground before springing back up. He lunged again. Vyrrak sighed, exasperated. “You’re wasting everyone’s time.”

  Yet the cycle continued—Vyrrak knocking him down, the Gulthram warrior rising, over and over. The fight, once a thrilling display of skill, was losing its edge, grinding into something repetitive. Vyrrak’s movements remained sharp, decisive, but his irritation grew clear. He glanced toward Drask, silently urging him to call the fight.

  Drask merely smirked, arms folded, making no move to interfere. He was content to let it play out.

  Elysian’s brows furrowed. Something was off.

  “What the hell is happening?” Sybil muttered, glancing at Elysian. “That thralgar is done. Why aren’t they stopping the fight?”

  Elysian didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the two warriors, scanning the minute details of their movements, their expressions, the controlled flow of their energy. The Gulthram warrior should have been finished. His body bore the evidence—blood-soaked bruises, shallow gashes that had already begun to heal. And yet, there was no hesitation in his strikes. No sign of exhaustion.

  Elysian observed something of interest. “They’ve learned,” he murmured.

  Sybil frowned. “What?”

  “The previous fight,” Elysian said. “They saw what happened to the ones who let rage control them. This time, they’re managing their aura carefully.” His gaze narrowed. “Not just Vyrrak, even his opponent.”

  Kaerthlyn crossed her arms, watching the fight with renewed interest. “He's dominating him completely, but I don’t understand how he’s still standing.”

  Vyrrak exhaled sharply, irritated now. His strikes turned sharper, heavier, but still the Gulthram warrior refused to fall. Or rather—he refused to stay down. Again, Vyrrak sent him to the dirt. Again, he rose. The crowd shifted, murmuring. What had started as a one-sided display of dominance was turning into something else—something more unbelievable.

  Elysian leaned forward slightly, continually watching the fight with more interest.

  'How is that thralgar still standing? The punishment he's absorbed would have broken lesser beings twice over. If this drags on, it'll become a battle of endurance—and I suspect Vyrrak's reserves will drain first. That thralgar's stamina seems bottomless, like a well with no end. This war of attrition can only end badly for our side.'

  Vyrrak’s frustration bled into every strike, his movements losing the effortless grace they had at the start. He was still winning. Still landing every blow, still knocking his opponent down with ease. And yet, the outcome of the fight felt less certain with every passing second. Because the Gulthram warrior kept getting up. He should have been finished by now. Beaten bloody, bruised to the bone, and yet, there he was, dragging himself upright each time, teeth bared, eyes burning with something unshakable.

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  Elysian narrowed his gaze, watching the pattern unfold. And each time, the crowd’s reaction shifted. The Draekthar—Vyrrak’s kin—had started with jeers and mocking laughter, but now they sat in uneasy silence, their cheers withering. The Gulthram, on the other hand, had found their voices. Their earlier shame burned away, replaced with raucous chants and taunting grins. They saw it now. What Elysian had begun to suspect.

  This was no longer a test of skill. It was a battle of endurance. And Vyrrak—despite his clear superiority—was starting to falter.

  Elysian exhaled, shaking his head with the hint of a smile.

  ‘Now I get it.’

  “Was I mistaken?” Kaerthlyn’s voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. “Is that thralgar actually that good?”

  Elysian turned to her, one brow arched. “Do you have eyes? Or did your judgment suddenly become impaired?”

  She scowled. “Hey!”

  His smirk deepened. “Instead of asking me, why not watch him carefully? And trust your own instincts.”

  Kaerthlyn huffed, but she did as he suggested, her gaze sharpening as she re-evaluated the fight. The moment stretched. Her frown deepened. “I don’t see it,” she admitted. “He’s still average. Maybe a little better than average, but nothing exceptional.”

  “Precisely.” Elysian let out a quiet breath of amusement. “Then why is Vyrrak struggling while his opponent seems to be an unstoppable juggernaut?”

  Kaerthlyn hesitated, glancing back at the fight. Vyrrak was still landing every strike, still sending his opponent crashing into the dirt again and again. And yet, something had changed. Vyrrak’s control of the fight was slipping. His shoulders lifted and fell with every breath. His footwork, once precise, now held a slight hesitation. The raw edge of his frustration was seeping into his strikes.

  “Stamina and endurance?” Kaerthlyn finally ventured. “Vyrrak’s throwing everything he has, but it’s not enough. The only thing it’s done is deplete him.”

  “That much is obvious,” Elysian said with a nod. “But what interests me isn’t Vyrrak’s fatigue—it’s the Gulthram’s resilience.”

  Kaerthlyn narrowed her eyes at the bloodied thralgar, watching him shake off another strike. “Maybe he’s just built different,” she muttered. “Not a genius in skill, but his body could be blessed by the abyssal gods themselves.”

  Elysian gave her a look, unimpressed. “That’s one possibility.”

  She scowled. “I can hear in your tone you don’t believe that.” Crossing her arms, she huffed. “If it’s not divine blessing, then what? What explains the fact that even when he’s beaten to a pulp, he still stands? Not just stands, but fights. He’s pushing Vyrrak back. And if this keeps up…” She trailed off, eyes flickering to Vyrrak, whose breaths were coming harder now, his stance just slightly less firm.

  “If this keeps up, Vyrrak might lose,” Elysian finished for her, voice calm despite the weight of the statement.

  Kaerthlyn shot him an irritated look. “You’re killing me with the suspense. Stop playing games—you clearly know what’s happening.”

  Elysian chuckled, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping low enough for only her to hear. “Oh, I have a theory. But I want you to see it first.”

  Kaerthlyn’s scowl deepened, but she turned back to the fight, watching intently. She tracked Vyrrak’s movements, the way his strikes connected. His opponent staggered but didn’t break. Again and again. Frowning, she focused. “He’s hitting the arm. The leg. The body.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  Elysian didn’t answer. He only waited, his gaze steady.

  Kaerthlyn clicked her tongue, annoyed, but forced herself to watch closer. Vyrrak’s strikes were as brutal as ever, or at least, they seemed to be. But… were they? Her eyes narrowed.

  The Gulthram warrior should be broken by now, bones fractured, ribs shattered—but he wasn’t. His bruises were deep, his blood loss significant, but the damage wasn’t catastrophic.

  Realization hit like a sudden drop. “What the hell is he doing?” she muttered under her breath, her expression twisting in disbelief.

  Elysian grinned. “Yeah. That’s the same question I want to ask him.” He tilted his head toward Vyrrak, who had just sent his opponent sprawling once again. But now, it was clear—he wasn’t finishing the fight.

  “Look where he’s striking,” Elysian prompted.

  Kaerthlyn didn’t need to. She already knew. “He’s avoiding the vital points,” she murmured, voice edged with something between frustration and fascination. “He has every opportunity, but he won’t take them.”

  Elysian hummed in agreement, his gaze sharp. “And not just that—look at the force.”

  Kaerthlyn’s frown deepened. She focused, watching Vyrrak’s body language. His attacks looked devastating. But now that she was paying attention, she could clearly see what was happening. “He’s pulling back,” she whispered.

  Elysian nodded. “At the last moment. Just enough to make it hurt, but not enough to cripple or end the fight.”

  Kaerthlyn let out a slow breath, her fingers curling into a fist. “Why?” she demanded. “Why the hell would he hold back in a fight like this?”

  “That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Elysian grinned, tilting his head.

  Kaerthlyn turned back to the fight, brow furrowed, thoughts racing. Vyrrak wasn’t just failing to put his opponent down—he was like making sure he didn’t. It felt deliberate. Even calculated. Or was it? Her stomach twisted. “Is he throwing the fight?” Her voice came quiet, hesitant. But as soon as the words left her mouth, her mind jumped to a darker possibility. Her eyes snapped to Elysian. “Is he colluding with them? Betraying us?”

  Elysian chuckled, shaking his head. “Do you really believe he’d do that?” He gestured toward Vrakdur, his presence alone a weight over the gathering. “In front of your clan leader? If so, I’d applaud his bravery—and his idiocy.”

  Kaerthlyn exhaled, tension leaking from her shoulders. “You’re right. He wouldn’t be that stupid.”

  “Exactly.” Elysian’s gaze flicked toward Vrakdur, studying his reaction. “And from what I see, your clan leader knows exactly what’s happening. Hell, even Drask’s probably figured it out by now.”

  Kaerthlyn followed his line of sight, her pulse quickening. Vrakdur sat stone-faced, but there was something taut in his posture—frustration held just beneath the surface. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t interfered.

  “If Vyrrak were betraying your clan,” Elysian murmured, “do you really think Vrakdur would just sit there and let it happen?”

  She swallowed hard. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “Then the real question is—” Elysian leaned forward, watching as Vyrrak threw another strike, heavy but hesitant, a fraction of its true power bleeding away at the last second. “Why is he holding back?”

  Kaerthlyn’s teeth clenched. “I don’t know.”

  Elysian hummed in amusement. “You sure?”

  “I don’t,” she snapped. “If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  Vyrrak’s opponent staggered but didn’t fall. He panted, chest heaving, blood trickling from his temple. But still, he remained standing. And Vyrrak—Vyrrak looked worse.

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