Isadora Sparring Part Two

-Lyria's POV

Every punch, every kick, every dodge stings freshly. It's not just the physical impact but the sheer shock of facing such an opponent. The way Isadora moves, the way she mirrors my moves, it feels... maddening.

I'm launching a swift roundhouse kick aimed at her side, but she bends backward effortlessly, evading the blow by a hair's breadth. Her flexibility is damn infuriating. I'm predicting her moves, seeing the flow of her attacks, and yet my hits don't connect. It's like fighting a ghost. No, worse. Ghosts don't throw punches back.

My frustration builds with every move, every failed attempt to dent her defenses. How is she this fucking strong? The question keeps resonating in my mind, mixing with growing desperation and disbelief.

She's a freshman, just a first-year, and yet she's standing toe-to-toe with me. Not just matching my moves but even replicating them. I'm launching a complex martial arts combination, one I've taken years to perfect. She stumbles momentarily, off-balance. But then, in a blink, she's mimicking it. It's so close to identical, it's teetering on surpassing my move. I get, her father is a strong person, but that's in swordsmanship! Why the hell is she so damn talented in martial arts!? 

Jealousy... That's the emotion flooding me. While the world focuses on her prowess with the sword, her ability in hand-to-hand combat goes dangerously underrated. Perhaps by everyone else, but painfully, by me too. Someone like her can't fall into the hands of Liam, how is Aira so calm despite Isadora possibly being a huge threat? 

A tear is escaping my eye, but I quickly wipe it away. Aira, this is on you. That thought echoes in my head. If not for her insistence, her constant reminders about how "unpredictable" V is, I wouldn't be here, in this mess.

A whirlwind of emotions strikes me. I respect her skill, but envy keeps rearing its head. I want to applaud her dexterity, but anger at my own failures clouds that. Is it wrong to feel this? No, anyone would be jealous of her. She's someone destined to outshine the past generation.

The battlefield is getting tighter, as if the world is zooming in on our fierce dance. What is she thinking of me right now? As I square off with her, sending punches I know she anticipates, I feel utterly exposed. Her emotionless face doesn't help. Is there respect in her gaze? Contempt? Or maybe sheer indifference?

The mix of emotions swirling inside me is intoxicating and overwhelming. Jealousy, admiration, frustration—they're all waging war within me. I click my tongue, feeling disgust, not towards Isadora but towards myself. Since when did I get so... petty? These aren't thoughts I typically entertain. These aren't me.

With a deep inhale, I decide to put a twist in our dance. My affinity has always been Ice. But instead of manifesting it externally, I've learned to utilize it internally. I channel the cold within, feeling it spread throughout my entire being. My bones strengthen and become more resilient as they harden with ice, supported and amplified by my aura. The cold spreads to my skin, providing an added layer of protection, making it almost armor-like. My breath turns frigid, visibly condensing in the air, a testament to the sheer cold I'm channeling.

The noticeable change in my demeanor and the visible paleness of my skin is evident, but it doesn't debilitate me. Instead, it reinforces my resolve, providing me with the boost I've been seeking.

Isadora seems to sense the shift. I see a flash of something in her eyes - uncertainty? Curiosity? Either way, it's a crack in her usual stoic facade. She reaches for her sword, but I'm quicker. I won't let her unsheathe it. This isn't about weapons or tools. It's about skill, power, and perhaps a touch of pride.

"You think you're the only one with tricks up her sleeve?" I say, my voice cold, matching the icy aura that now surrounds me. "Let me show you what it means to be a senior."

Isadora's usual indifferent expression falters momentarily, replaced by a glint of... excitement? I press on, taking advantage of my enhanced strength and speed. My kicks are now accompanied by the sharpness of ice, and my punches pack an even heavier frosty punch.

As we clash, I think that perhaps, this is what I needed. A real challenge. Someone who could push me to my limits and force me to rethink, reevaluate, and ultimately, grow. 

As our clash continues, I begin applying the internal ice into every martial arts move I perform. The frost, while not materializing externally, leaves a distinct trace on every punch, kick, and block I execute. It's almost as though my very limbs are etched with shimmering cold patterns, the pale glint unmistakable against my skin.

I notice Isadora's eyes studying me, that relentless curiosity of hers coming to the fore. She seems to be analyzing my moves, perhaps even attempting to replicate them. But my technique isn't something that can be mimicked without the exact same affinity.

To my surprise, she tries anyway. It's clear almost immediately that she's struggling, the unfamiliar chill disrupting her internal flow. Within moments, blood trickles from her lips, a vivid contrast against her pale face. For all her skill, for all her talent, she's made a fatal error.

A pang of sympathy, a feeling I didn't expect to feel for my opponent, courses through me. Still, I take advantage of the opening she's inadvertently provided. My hits become more frequent, more forceful, pressing my newfound advantage.

"Isadora," I breathe out, even as I land a particularly forceful punch. "Your talent is undeniable. But you need to understand, you can't—and shouldn't—replicate every technique you come across."

She stumbles back, clutching her chest, her face a grimace of pain. But her eyes, still sharp, never leave mine.

"There are moves that need a specific physique," I continue, landing another kick. "Others can be traps, leading to irreversible damage or complete control by another."

She's trying to recover, trying to reverse the internal turmoil caused by attempting my technique. But it's not easy. With each passing second, her struggle becomes more apparent.

"You're gifted, Isadora. But being a prodigy doesn't mean you're immune to consequences," I state, emphasizing each word with a corresponding strike. My flurry is relentless, but it's not just about the physical fight anymore. This is a lesson, one I hope you learn well.

Isadora attempts to parry, trying to recalibrate and regain her balance. Every ounce of her focus is on rectifying the mess within her, but my barrage isn't letting up. There's a desperation in her eyes now, a mix of frustration and realization.

"Sometimes, Isadora," I whisper, landing a punch that sends her reeling, "our greatest strength can be our greatest weakness. Remember that."

Seizing the moment, I harness my enhanced strength, channeling all the icy power into one, decisive blow. As my fist connects with her face, I send Isadora flying off the platform with a satisfying thud. A fleeting thought crosses my mind, Oh, thank God. It would've been a whole other ballgame if she'd managed to unsheath that damn sword.

Gazing down at where she landed, I half expect to see her displaying some sign of frustration, or at least shock. But no. True to form, Isadora simply blinks, that maddeningly emotionless face of hers betraying nothing. She pushes herself up, dusting off her clothes as though she just took a light fall.

My gaze follows her as she heads straight to V. He looks momentarily taken aback, probably didn't expect her to mirror my moves so closely. Their interaction is, for the lack of a better word, bizarre. Isadora casually takes a coconut from him, piercing it with minimal effort, and starts drinking. Just like that. Like she hadn't just been kicked off a platform moments earlier.

Biana, however, can't contain herself. Her loud, boisterous laughter fills the area as she points a mocking finger at Isadora. "Look at you, acting all high and mighty and then getting knocked on your ass!" she crows, her voice dripping with glee. "Hahaha! What an Idiot! You deserved that you cocky bastard! Hahahaha! Seriously? This is what you get for fucking with me."

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-Ayla's POV

Ugh, when will this session end? I'm so not cut out for these tedious teaching gigs, tsk, to bad I have no choice. It's not that I don't appreciate a student's determination, but hell, why am I stuck teaching this? Damn V. I mentally curse him for this. I should be lounging on my plush couch, sipping wine, and enjoying my alone time. Instead, I'm here in this stuffy office, tutoring. Fucking fabulous.

My gaze shifts to the young girl seated amidst the indoor garden. Flora, aptly named, with her unusual connection to plants, one eerily reminiscent of my own elven kin. Her eyes are shut, her mana pulsating in harmony with the surrounding flora. It's an impressive sight, sure, but I find myself getting impatient. My wine glass, perched on the armrest, is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

"How is it? Did you manage to loosen the connection?" I finally ask, breaking the silence.

Flora opens her eyes, looking uncertain. "Um... I think I did?" she murmurs, her voice filled with doubt.

Without a word, I rise from my chair, walking over to a nearby table. Picking up a bottle, I saunter back to Flora and begin pouring the liquid over the plants around her. Instantly, flames roar to life, consuming the greenery. Flora's reaction is immediate. Although she remains silent, the tiny twitches of her facial muscles, the quiver in her eyes, betray her pain.

Sigh. This girl, so connected, so in tune, but so clueless. "Hmmm, you're still feeling all the pain, aren't you? Why is that?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

She swallows hard, her voice shaky. "I-I don't wish to cut my connection to them."

Settling back into my chair, I let out a resigned breath. "There's nothing wrong with staying connected," I begin, my tone firm, "but you have to understand the meaning behind the pain, their screams."

Standing up, I move towards the burned remnants. "It's sad to see them like this, but it's natural. Empathy is one thing, but letting it dominate you is another."

With a wave of my hand, the plants rejuvenate, returning to their original, flourishing state. It's a simple trick, one I've done countless times, but it never fails to impress.

"Feel bad for them, but don't let it linger," I advise. "Plants have no hatred, no fear, no death. As long as a single strand remains, they'll grow back with a little help."

Looking at Flora's lost expression, I can't help but heave a deep sigh. Her dedication is admirable, but she's struggling to separate her emotions from her abilities.

"You are not an elf, Flora. You are human with a deep connection to nature," I state, attempting to make her understand her unique position.

Standing up, I make my way to a nearby tree, placing my palm against its rough bark. Drawing upon my mana, I channel it into the tree. In mere seconds, the tree rapidly ages, soon bearing ripe, luscious peaches.

"You awakened your connection only a few years ago," I remind her, plucking a peach from its branch. "As an elf, I've felt everything around me since birth. Everything is interconnected for us. But your journey started much later."

I inspect the peach in my hand, its vibrant hue a stark contrast against my pale skin. "You lack emotional control. Look at this peach. What do you feel?" I challenge.

Flora's gaze flits to the peach, her face a canvas of confusion. "I-I don't feel anything..."

I chuckle dryly. "Of course you don't. To truly feel it, the plant needs to be connected to the earth. Your affinity is unique, yes, but remember, many elves possess abilities similar to yours."

Plopping back onto my plush chair, I bite into the peach, its sweet juice trickling down my chin. "Emotions, Flora, they're your biggest challenge right now. And it's not going to get easier unless you tackle it head-on."

I grab a pot from the side table, a delicate flower nestled within. Handing it to her, I order, "I want you to keep growing and burning this little thing until you get over it. Until you learn to separate your feelings from its screams."

Flora hesitates for a moment, then accepts the pot, determination etched on her face. Good. Hopefully, she won't bother me for a month.