“What—WHAT AN INCREDIBLE START!” Gabno bellowed, his booming voice cutting through the roar of the arena. He shot up from his seat so quickly that his chair wobbled, one hand gripping the horn that elevated his commentary.

  The stands erupted with a deafening cheer, the crowd’s astonishment vibrating through the stonework beneath their feet. Few had expected this, perhaps no one at all. The Battle Devil himself, Malo, had not only missed his opening strike but had been met with a counterattack. A clean counterattack.

  The spectators were shaken, yes, but they still had full faith in the victory of Malo. Malo was the epitome of physicality, a renowned brawler for his simply overpowering nature, an attribute that made him stand out even in The Zenith Generation.

  The Zenith Generation was a collection of the most talented and blessed children born during a specific time window, a time window that Beric wasn’t even born in.

  How could a no name like him possibly win against the Battle Devil?

  And yet—

  Was there something else now? Something small, barely perceptible, yet unsettling? A quiet, invisible seed settling deep in their thoughts. The seed of a single dangerous question:

  Could Malo lose?

  Gabno leaned forward over the commentary desk, his beaming grin wide. “I hope you all saw the same thing I just did! Beric, displaying flawless technique, not only redirected Malo’s attack but landed a punishing counter to his follow-up strike! And now, the momentum of this match is firmly in his hands!”

  He turned to Jain. “Jain, being Malo’s own brother, I have to ask, what’s going through your mind right now?”

  Jain sat rigid, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on the arena floor. “I admit Beric has surprised me,” he responded. “But I have no doubt Malo will win in the end. Right now, he’s still testing Beric’s limits. Everyone knows Malo is infamous for being a slow starter.”

  He didn’t mention what was truly gnawing at him.

  It wasn’t just Beric’s skill and discipline. It wasn’t even the fact that his attacks had landed.

  It was his weapon.

  Two spear shafts, with their blades removed, being nothing but smooth, sturdy wood. An odd choice in any fight, but here, against Malo, it seemed outright reckless. And yet Beric wielded them with such precision that they became dangerous weapons, deflecting Malo’s crushing blows as if swatting aside reeds in a stream.

  It bugged him, not because of his skill, but because of his weapon, and the fact that he even pulled off such a move with it.

  That redirection move was no ordinary technique.

  In the stands, Volk’s jaw nearly dropped. His eyes were wide with astonishment, his whole body leaning forward over the railing as if he might tumble into the arena. His reaction stood in sharp contrast to Elder Liora, who sat beside him with a calm look.

  “That’s the Waterfall Counter!” Volk blurted out, his voice cracking with excitement. He jabbed a finger toward the arena floor, practically stabbing the air in Beric’s direction. “How in the world did he just pull off an Iron Shell technique with just two sticks?”

  Elder Liora’s lips curled into a faint, mysterious smile.

  Volk’s confusion was justified.

  Among those who followed the path of the sword, there were four main swordsmanship styles to learn from: Crimson Fang, Iron Shell, Silver Gale, and Wild Claw. Each style had its own philosophy, rhythm, and way of moving. Mastery of even one demanded years of discipline and relentless training. Occasionally, a swordsman would also learn the counter-style to their main discipline, shoring up their weaknesses. But to master a style so well to the point of pulling off its techniques with just two sticks?

  It was unheard off.

  And that was the problem gnawing at Volk’s mind.

  “Wait,” Volk said slowly, still staring at the fight. “Did you have him master Iron Shell? I suppose that would be the safest style for him to learn, but-” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as the thought hit him. “If that’s the case, then he’s at a huge disadvantage here. Malo’s overwhelming style is capable of simply crushing the defenses of Iron Shell.”

  “You’re right,” Liora said evenly, finally rising from her seat for a clearer view of the clash below. She had her hands clasped behind her as she stood tall. “If Beric had only mastered Iron Shell, then this battle would already be over.”

  She then glanced at Volk. “But who ever said he mastered just Iron Shell?”

  Nicely done. You have the momentum now.

  I took a quick breath as I readied for my next attack.

  You know what to do next, right?

  “Keep my momentum up.”

  I analyzed Malo in the span of a heartbeat, my brain working overtime to keep track of everything.

  His feet were set a little wider than his shoulders, the kind of spread that made him ready to tank any attack. His right foot was slightly ahead, his weight leaning forward, not recklessly, but poised, ready to spring into either a punishing strike or a sudden retreat. His axe hovered forward at chest height, its steel head angled with the intent to make a move. From that position, he could bring it down in a brutal overhead swing or snap it sideways into a sweeping arc without warning.

  It was a strong guard. There weren’t any cracks that I could easily take advantage of.

  In that case, I'll have to make my own.

  I lunged forward, my left stick cutting low toward his front leg, an attempt to break his posture to make a better chance at attacking.

  At least, that’s what you think, right Malo?

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  He reacted exactly as I wanted, lowering the axe to intercept before my strike could land.

  At the last possible instant, I shifted my momentum. My body twisted, as my strike veered upward. The tip of my stick jabbed hard into the fingers gripping his weapon.

  A flash of pain crossed Malo's face. He winced in both pain and irritation, creating a window of opportunity. My body flowed into a low roll, sliding between his legs, the wood of my sticks grazing the dust of the arena floor. I came up behind him, my right stick already in motion.

  Malo spun with an insane recovery speed, already moving for his next attack. Raising his axe with the right, I waited for him to swing.

  That’s what you want me to do.

  My eyes flickered to the sudden and quick flick in his left arm. Seeing it moving towards me, I realized that the axe was a feint, and his real intent was to grab with me his other arm.

  Not a bad move.

  “He saw it coming,” Malo thought. “Then, I’ll go with the axe and-”

  Before he could finalize his next attack, his brain briefly stopped thinking as his body seized.

  The pain hit him like a blade in the ribs, a sharp, invasive, impossible surge of pain that forced him to freeze.

  What is this?

  His mind blurred. His lungs suddenly felt shallow as if the air had thinned. A wave of disorientation made the arena tilt in his vision, the roar of the crowd muffling into a dull hum.

  Still gripping his axe, Malo staggered back and tried to reform his guard, but his stance was loose now, his movements sluggish.

  “Was my axe always this heavy?”

  As for me, things worked out perfectly. I saw more weak spots.

  I started a flurry of strikes on him, sharp, alternating blows that came from high, low, and everywhere in between. My sticks blurred in my hands, snapping toward his head, shoulders, wrists, and fingers in relentless rhythm.

  Each time he raised his guard to protect one point, I struck another. When his axe rose to shield his head, I clipped his ribs. When it dropped to guard his legs, I smacked at his wrists. His weapon was a fortress, but a fortress can’t be everywhere at once.

  All Malo could do now was grit his teeth and endure the attacks, the attacks being a seemingly never ending storm of lightning fast attacks.

  Back in the stands, Elder Alric was practically glowing, his delight written all over his face as he drank in the stunned expressions of Cedric and Merilda.

  “What, what am I even watching?” Cedric finally managed, his voice low but filled with disbelief.

  Elder Alric chuckled, the sound rumbling with pride. “You’re watching my star pupil beat the hell out of Malo Dione.” His grin widened as he folded his arms across his chest, casting a sidelong glance toward Elder Liora in the distance. She met his gaze for the briefest moment, and he offered a small, knowing nod.

  So, it worked.

  “He’s not only holding his own,” Cedric muttered, “he’s winning. Against the Malo Dione. And with just two sticks?”

  Merilda’s eyes narrowed as she tracked Beric’s relentless onslaught. “Those moves. Waterfall Counter. Primal Shift.” Her gaze sharpened. “Hurricane’s Fury, and that other strike earlier, the one Malo didn’t even see coming.”

  Elder Alric tilted his head toward her. “Did you catch it?”

  Slowly, Merilda nodded. “When Malo got blindsided by that Primal Shift, he tried to recover, which allowed him a chance to grab Beric. But-” She paused, a small shiver running up her spine. “No. That wasn’t an accident. Beric wanted him to try. He baited it. And when Malo’s guard broke while reaching out his arm, even for a mere second, Beric drove his stick straight into his solar plexus.”

  “Lightning Pierce,” Elder Alric said with a satisfied tone.

  The name fits. Lightning Pierce is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a single, explosive strike delivered so fast it leaves no room for anticipation, with no telegraphed movement to alert the opponent. Pulling it off requires an almost impossible balance of speed and power within the smallest possible space. Few could manage it at all, let alone against someone like Malo.

  Merilda pressed her fingers to her temple, her mind racing. “But how? How is he winning? How is he beating Malo with sticks of all things?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing again as she studied Beric’s movements more closely. “Wait.”

  Her breath caught.

  “His movements. Yes, they look like sword techniques. The principles are there. But they’re different. He’s adjusted them. Every motion, every strike, is tailored to the reach and power of his sticks.”

  Elder Alric said nothing.

  Merilda slumped back into her seat. “You’re kidding.”

  Elder Liora remained composed. Her satisfaction was quiet, and yet, watching Beric press Malo back with each precise strike, she couldn’t help but feel pride swell in her chest.

  Her mind drifted to years ago, back to Beric’s early training.

  Beric had told her then, in the very beginning, that wielding the sword she had given him didn’t feel right. It wasn't that he couldn’t handle one. She saw that his form was excellent even in the beginning, but there was an odd discomfort, a dissonance between his movements and the weapon in his hand.

  At first, she dismissed it as a matter of finding his “true” weapon. That’s why she had given him a sword. When that failed to ease his discomfort, she moved on to more—axes, spears, daggers, maces, even other types of swords like great swords and sabres.

  To her surprise, he performed well with all of them. No, more than well. He handled each as if it were a weapon he had chosen to be his specialty. That was when the truth began to reveal itself.

  His problem wasn’t finding a weapon. It was the opposite.

  Beric had an innate affinity for all weapons.

  If she forced him to devote himself to just one, like the sword, he would lose untapped potential. He could become good at anything. But “good” was not the same as “great.” To be limited to a single choice would be to clip his wings before he learned to fly.

  A “jack of all trades,” some would say. But to Liora, that was not a compliment.

  A jack of all trades was, by nature, a mimic, who was restricted to simply learning others’ techniques without ever forging their own mastery. Such fighters ended up merely adequate with every weapon, but never exceptional with any. And Beric had too much potential to fall into the darkness of mediocrity.

  The real problem was choice. Too many options, and the assumption that he had to choose one, left him stranded in uncertainty. He never felt truly comfortable because he was being asked to settle.

  Her thoughts turned to his True Avatar.

  From his family, she had heard of its form, it being a sword bearing all four elemental sparks. Like the other elders, she had assumed this meant Beric was destined to become a magical swordsman, able to channel all four elements. But that theory was proven wrong when Beric showed that he was incapable of wielding elemental magic at all. That was why Beric ended up forming a Soul Bond with the Sprite, a secret known only to the elders.

  But, if the True Avatar wasn’t about magic, what did it mean?

  The answer came to her slowly. The sword didn’t symbolize a literal blade. It stood for the class of a swordsman itself. And the four elements? They represented the four swordsmanship styles. If that was true, then Beric wasn’t meant to master one style.

  He was meant to master all four.

  Her gamble began there.

  She had him learn all four styles with the sword first, to fully understand every principle, every stance, and every rhythm. Then, she put every other weapon in his hands and made him repeat the process, forcing him to adapt each sword style’s principles to weapons with entirely different weight, reach, and balance.

  A spear taught him distance and timing. A mace taught him momentum and weight. A dagger taught him movement and agility.

  Each switch forced him to abandon comfort and reimagine the style anew.

  It was a dangerous experiment, one that relied entirely on Beric’s own ability to think, adapt, and endure frustration. If she was wrong, she risked ruining him.

  But watching him now, with sticks in hand and still pushing Malo Dione back, she knew she had been right to take that risk.

  Her lips curved into the faintest smile.

  “Beric,” she thought, "you will not remain a jack of all trades. You will grow beyond it. You will master every weapon, and you will understand which to choose for any opponent. You will use the four sword styles with whatever weapon you wield, be it sword, spear, axe, or even two simple sticks.

  You will adapt to anything.

  You will be the Master of all Blades.”