The Announcer’s voice returned—louder this time. As if the air itself had sensed what was coming and chose not to whisper anymore. “Advanced Division, Round Six! Constantine Bourdelle versus Viktor Eymond!”

  The crowd stirred. And then he appeared.

  With a smooth hop, he cleared the rope that marked the ring’s edge—crossing from spectator to showman in one fluid motion.He nded like he meant it—dramatic, effortless, and entirely too pleased with himself.

  Sunlight spilled over him as he rose, catching in his hair and setting it abze like molten gold.He didn’t walk. He stalked toward the ring like a conquering hero with somewhere better to be.

  His greatsword dragged behind him in a zy arc, cutting a trail through the sand. Not out of carelessness—but out of showmanship. Every move was deliberate. Every step was performed with just enough edge to command attention without begging for it.

  He stopped at the edge of the ring, turned toward the crowd, and gave an exaggerated bow. People actually cpped.

  Trevon groaned. “He’s impossible.”

  I didn’t respond. Because it was working.

  Constantine lifted his sword with a single swing and propped it against his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He spared a gnce at his opponent—Viktor, a lean, sharp-eyed swordsman from the academy circuit who looked visibly annoyed.

  Constantine winked. Viktor stiffened.

  “Combatants ready!” And in the same breath—

  Constantine lunged. Not forward in a straight charge—but with a half-step feint, turning the greatsword in a sharp crescent arc that kicked sand into the air. Viktor flinched, reacting too early. That was the first mistake.

  The second came immediately after—when Viktor tried to counter.

  Constantine’s footwork shifted unexpectedly, his weight rolling from heel to toe in a way I recognized—barely. A variation of a pivot Master Ba had demonstrated during spear training, though exaggerated, theatrical.

  It looked wild. But it wasn’t. His bde kept showing up where it mattered—just when it looked like it shouldn’t.

  Viktor struck high. Constantine ducked low. The greatsword swung upward—not as an attack, but as a deterrent. A rhythm break. The sheer force of air it stirred forced Viktor back two steps.

  “He’s maniputing the tempo,” I murmured.

  “Like I said,” Trevon added beside me. “He makes it messy on purpose. You focus on the fsh, and you miss the structure underneath.”

  I watched closely.

  Constantine spun once, deliberately too wide. A showy, sweeping motion that gave Viktor an opening. He took it. And Constantine punished it.

  The moment Viktor committed to the thrust, Constantine’s bde turned—not to block, but to catch. With the hilt, not the edge. A twist. A pull. Viktor’s sword was nearly ripped from his grip.

  Constantine stepped in with a grin that was all teeth. One strike to the side—not enough to hurt, but timed well enough to throw Viktor off bance.

  I could see it now. It wasn’t just swordpy. It felt like misdirection—combat as performance. I didn’t know what to call it, but it worked. Loudly, confidently, and somehow… intentionally.

  Then came the end. Viktor unched one st desperate combination—fast, forceful, too aggressive to be clean. Constantine met it with a low sidestep, bde dragging like an afterthought. He deflected the strike with the ft of his sword, used the momentum to spin, and brought the hilt crashing into Viktor’s side with a controlled burst of strength.

  Viktor hit the sand hard. Before he could rise, Constantine’s bde was already hovering above his colrbone—angled perfectly, held steady.

  The officiator raised a hand. “Match concluded. Victory: Constantine Bourdelle.”

  The crowd—elite or not—responded. Louder than before. Louder than they had for anyone else. Some were cpping. Others ughing. A few muttering beneath their breath, unsure if what they’d witnessed was genius or madness.

  Constantine didn’t bow. He just winked again and rested the greatsword on his shoulder like he’d finished a warm-up.

  “He’s exhausting,” Trevon muttered.

  “But effective,” I replied.

  I kept watching as he left the ring—casual, unbothered.

  It wasn’t how I would fight. Not how Trevon would, either. And definitely not Theoden.But the more I saw it—the more I understood.

  There were many paths to mastery. And Constantine Bourdelle had chosen his own.

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