The courtyard was empty except for two men—both barefoot, breathing slow, their bodies coiled like steel springs under cloth.
The monks watched silently from the balconies above, their robes fluttering in the mountain breeze.
Mark stood across from **Karl Mordo**, the Master of Staff and Order, the enforcer of discipline within Kamar-Taj.
Mark had issued the challenge.
Not for pride. Not for dominance.
But because *he had something to prove*.
After nearly a year in Kamar-Taj, he had only formally learned one technique: **portal conjuration**. Not a single other spell. No shields. No chains. No time tricks.
But what he *did* learn—through thousands of hours of work—was **how to move**, how to **breathe**, and how to *control raw energy with precision*.
And Mordo had noticed.
"Still no spells," Mordo said, circling. "Just spinning circles in the air?"
"No ring either," Mark said, cracking his neck. "I got tired of jewelry."
A flicker of something like amusement crossed Mordo's face. "You've spent a year mastering only one art. Tell me—what happens when that trick fails you?"
Mark settled into a stance. "Then I fight like a man."
---
**The Duel Begins**
Mordo moved first—fluid, powerful. His staff swept in a wide arc, aiming for Mark's ribs.
Mark ducked, pivoted, and slammed his palm into Mordo's wrist, sending the staff clattering to the stone.
He didn't go for a portal.
He didn't need one.
They clashed hand to hand—each strike blocked or redirected. Mark's training in martial arts, started the very day he arrived, was on full display now. He wasn't flashy. He was efficient.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Mordo was stronger, but Mark was *faster*—and, more importantly, centered.
Then Mordo surged forward with a burst of raw magical force—green energy lashing from his palm. A knockback spell.
Mark *didn't block it*. He **absorbed** it.
His body trembled, heels skidding—but the energy fizzled out in his arms like static pulled into a grounded wire.
The monks murmured.
Mordo's eyes narrowed. "How—?"
"I don't know how to cast yet," Mark said, stepping forward. "But I *know how energy flows*."
He raised his hands—no symbols, no rings. Just pure intent.
He didn't summon a weapon. He didn't conjure a shield.
Instead, he directed raw energy—gathered not from a spell, but from **within**—into his limbs. **Enhancing his speed and strikes.** The light barely shimmered, but it was *there*.
Mordo attacked again—faster now, pushing with spellwork, footwork, and fury.
Mark met him at every turn.
They exchanged blows under the mountain sky. Stone cracked beneath their feet. The duel spilled from the courtyard to the terrace, where Mark finally caught Mordo's arm mid-strike and *threw* him—not with power, but precision—across the platform.
Mordo rolled and rose, panting, but his face had changed.
No longer frustrated. No longer mocking.
He was *impressed*.
Mark didn't advance. He bowed.
A full, respectful martial bow.
"I'm not your enemy," he said between breaths. "I'm just not doing things your way."
Mordo lowered his stance. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then: "You fight like someone who has nothing left to prove."
Mark shrugged. "I fight like someone who *had* everything to prove. Until today."
---
**Later That Evening – Meditation Hall**
The Ancient One approached Mark as he cleaned his knuckles beside the pool.
"You chose not to use portals," she said.
"I didn't need them," he replied. "That was the point."
She gave a rare smile. "You learned control through limitation. Now that you can see the thread of energy clearly…"
Her fingers waved gently. Runes shimmered in the air above them.
"…you may begin weaving it."
Mark looked up at the symbols, and for the first time since arriving, felt ready.