They regrouped again at the edge of the arena, breath ragged, bodies aching.
But this time, there was no frustration.
There was focus.
Mira cracked her knuckles, rolling her shoulders. "We were off by a second on that last attempt."
Aric nodded. "I'll delay the second pulse by a breath. Curve the pressure wider to force him inward."
Leo tightened the grip on his spear. "And me?"
"Same place," Mira said. "But wait until he adjusts to us. Let the pattern take shape before you flow in. Don't anticipate. Respond. You're the blade that slips in between."
They stepped into the arena again—and the dance resumed.
This time, Mira and Aric flowed like a single force. Mira's brutal strikes didn't just hammer—they herded. Every motion boxed the swordsman into precise zones. Aric's water orbs and slicing arcs followed those pressures perfectly, cutting off exits before they could even fully form.
Their rhythm was a violent symphony, brutal and beautiful.
And Leo—Leo was just behind it.
He could see it, feel it, but by the time he moved, the path was already closing. Twice he lunged and was half a breath too slow. Once he overcommitted and nearly caught the flat of the warrior's blade again.
He fell back, panting, biting back frustration.
They went again.
And again.
Each cycle, Mira and Aric became sharper. Cleaner. Their coordination transcended words, like a pattern born of muscle and instinct. The warrior began to move more—twisting, adjusting—not reacting, but compensating.
And Leo kept chasing the rhythm.
Until—
Something clicked.
The timing, the tempo, the momentum—it didn't snap into place.
It flowed.
He didn't force his movements to match theirs. He let the rhythm pull him forward.
Mira slammed down from the right. Aric twisted water blades in a crisscross pattern that boxed the warrior's retreat.
And Leo moved.
He didn't see a path this time—he was the path.
His spear struck forward in a silent flash, threading through the gap, aimed clean at the swordsman's shoulder.
It missed.
By millimeters.
The warrior leaned—not a dodge, not a flourish. Just a breath's shift. A subtle pivot.
The spear kissed the robe's edge but drew no blood.
And then Leo was knocked back, the flat of the sword clipping his wrist just hard enough to send the spear flying.
He hit the stone and rolled, heart hammering.
Mira caught him, pulling him to his feet.
"Damn," she said, a grin forming on her lips. "That was close."
Aric exhaled, lips curling into a rare smile. "One more like that, and he bleeds."
Leo didn't answer at first, staring down at his shaking hand.
So close.
But Not perfect.
They stood at the edge of the arena one more time.
Mira's fists were bloodied and wrapped. Aric's breathing was tight, his control taxed. Leo's fingers trembled from hours of gripping the spear like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
They were bruised. Exhausted. But not beaten.
Not yet.
"This time," Mira said, rolling her neck with a dull pop, "we finish it."
Aric nodded. "Everything we've learned—every step, every angle. No room for mistakes."
Leo didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His eyes were focused, steady. His breath even. He could feel it now—not the pressure, not the threat. The flow.
Not forced. Not frantic.
Just present.
They stepped into the ring.
The warrior's eyes opened again, calm and unreadable. His curved blade dropped into a waiting stance, the same it had been every time—but now Leo could see it: the stillness wasn't laziness.
It was readiness.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the dance resumed.
Mira went first, leaping in from the right, her fists hammering in brutal arcs that left cracks in the stone. The swordsman moved to meet her, blade curving to deflect, redirect, never wasting energy.
Aric followed half a breath later, streams of razor-thin water slicing through the space Mira's strikes forced open. He layered them with perfect spacing, bending the trajectory just enough to steal movement from the master's feet.
Leo didn't wait.
He flowed behind them—not faster, but truer.
He didn't think. He didn't plan.
He felt.
The warrior spun, blade flashing to knock Mira back, then twisted to parry a descending wave of water—but in that instant, his position narrowed. His hips turned. His foot placement forced a micro-adjustment to balance.
There.
Leo moved.
No hesitation.
No path to read—only a current to follow.
His spear sang through the air, slicing past the master's guard in a whisper of steel.
A shallow scratch.
Not deep. Not fatal.
But red bloomed across the swordsman's left arm.
Time stopped.
Then, a voice—calm and resonant—echoed from nowhere and everywhere all at once:
"Congratulations. You have passed the trial."
Leo stumbled back, lowering his spear as Mira and Aric flanked him, grinning through exhaustion.
But then they all paused.
The arena didn't fade.
There was no pulse of light. No teleportation.
The swordsman hadn't moved.
He just stood there, bleeding slightly, eyes calm.
Mira's brow furrowed. "Uh… where's the flashy exit?"
Aric took a cautious step back, glancing around. "Something's not right."
Leo then looks around and says "Maybe this is a gift for finishing early. I mean when else would you get the chance to fight a captive master like this?"
Mira's eyes lit up with the idea grinning as she said "I like that idea. And instead of this group stuff I want to see if I can land a blow on my own. Surely five days will be enough"