Chapter 111: Sparring Session (1)
Arista looked out at the assembled group and then down at the list in her hand.
"Alright," she said. "I’m pairing you up now. Listen for your name and remember who you’re matched with."
She moved through the list steadily, calling pairs in a sequence that wasn’t strictly by rank, mixing them with a logic that wasn’t immediately obvious but clearly had one. Students found each other with nods or brief words, sorting themselves into pairs across the hall.
"Azael Ignivar and Elon Suks."
Azael looked up.
A young man a few meters away glanced in his direction at the same time, presumably Elon.
Medium height, stocky build, the kind of frame that suggested he hadn’t gotten his rank through finesse alone. Rank fifty, if the pairing was anything close to proximity. He gave Azael a brief, assessing look, the way people do when they’re trying to form a quick first impression and aren’t bothering to hide that they’re doing it.
Azael nodded at him once.
Elon nodded back.
Simple enough.
Arista finished calling the pairs and then looked up at the hall. All fifteen sparring platforms — raised, marked sections of the reinforced floor, each one sized for a one-on-one exchange — were already occupied by the first round of matched students taking their positions.
"You’ll wait until a platform clears," she said to the remaining pairs. "Watch the active fights while you do. You might learn something."
Then she moved to the front of the full group for the rules.
"First day parameters," she said, her voice carrying clean and clear through the hall. "Today’s sparring is weapons only. No mana channeling into strikes, no mana-enhanced movement, no ability use of any kind. Pure technique and physical skill."
A few students exchanged glances. A few others looked quietly relieved.
"I know some of you are primarily magic-focused," Arista continued, and her eyes moved across the mage students with an expression that was neither dismissive nor gentle, just matter-of-fact.
"Basic weapon handling should still be part of your foundation. If it isn’t, pay close attention today. It’s a gap worth closing. For this session, mages have been matched with other mages so the playing field stays level." She paused.
"If anyone genuinely has no weapons experience at all, speak up now rather than getting hurt later."
No one spoke.
"Good." Her gaze swept the room once more.
"One more thing. This is controlled training. You are not here to seriously injure your opponent. Controlled force, clean technique, stop when I or one of the monitors calls it." Her voice dropped by a fraction.
"If I see anyone attacking with killing intent, there will be consequences. That applies regardless of rank, background, or whatever grudge you walked in here carrying."
The temperature in the room didn’t exactly drop. But something focused.
Most students straightened slightly. A few swallowed.
Azael, standing toward the back of the group, felt the weight of it and didn’t feel particularly moved by it. He had been on the receiving end of actual killing intent before — the kind that came from people who genuinely meant it — and a warning in a training hall didn’t register the same way.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Begin," Arista said.
The hall came alive.
On the fifteen active platforms, weapons were drawn and the first exchanges started — the sounds of it filling the space almost immediately. Blade on blade, the sharp percussive contact of practice weapons, footwork on the reinforced floor, the occasional grunt of exertion.
Azael and Elon were waiting, their platform not yet free. He turned and looked at the nearest active fight for a moment, then let his eyes drift across the hall to find something more interesting.
They found it.
Two platforms over, Liana had already taken her position. She was facing a young woman of similar height, both of them holding single-handed swords, and as Azael watched the match begin he noted with quiet satisfaction that Liana’s opening stance was clean and settled — nothing showy, nothing that would give away more than necessary.
Liana caught his eye briefly from across the platform.
"Watch your own business," she said, with the composed precision of someone who absolutely knew he was evaluating her.
"I’m waiting for a platform," he said reasonably. "You’re in my line of sight."
She turned her attention back to her opponent and didn’t dignify that with a response.
He watched the first two exchanges of her match — clean, controlled, her footwork efficient — and then his attention shifted.
Across the hall, slightly further from his position, two students had drawn more of the ambient attention in the room than anyone else. Even students in the middle of their own matches were finding moments to glance over.
He moved a few steps to get a better angle.
Morgan Spencer and Cedric Crevaris.
Both of them had drawn swords — proper blades rather than the practice weapons most of the other pairs were using, which told him something about both of their preferences and levels of control. They faced each other across the platform with the particular stillness of two people assessing before committing.
Then Cedric moved first.
His form was good. More than good — polished, with the kind of technical foundation that came from years of dedicated instruction. His footwork was precise, his grip relaxed, his opening strike coming from a clean angle with proper weight behind it.
Morgan stepped to the side.
Not dramatically. Just — sideways, by exactly the right amount, so that the blade passed through the space where she had been a fraction of a second ago.
Her counter came from her wrist rather than her shoulder. A short, efficient movement that redirected Cedric’s blade outward and created an opening she didn’t take, choosing instead to reset her distance.
Azael watched.
Cedric adjusted, pushed forward with a short combination. Two strikes flowing into a third, each one technically sound, the sequence designed to limit the options of whoever was receiving it.
Morgan moved through all three of them.
