Chapter 19: First fight

After signing the document, we made our way to the center of the Colosseum, where all the combat took place. The air was thick with tension, filled with the sounds of clashing weapons and the roar of the audience. Dust swirled around the combatants, their movements sharp and precise. The sheer intensity of the battles made my pulse quicken. Eight different rings sprawled before us, each hosting its own battle. What struck me as odd was that, despite their evident skill, the participants didn't seem as overwhelmingly strong as I'd expected. With the aura they possessed, their power should have felt far more intimidating.

As I observed the fights, I noticed distinct differences in each competitor's style. Some relied heavily on brute force, their aura manifesting in raw bursts of power, while others displayed a refined, almost artistic control over their energy, moving with the precision of seasoned warriors. The crowd responded to every significant exchange, their cheers and gasps forming a steady rhythm that echoed throughout the arena.

Nargomedov broke through my train of thought. "Twenty minutes should be enough to get picked by another combatant."

"That quickly?" Ivaar exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"I hope I get chosen fast," I said, scanning the fighters. "And by someone strong."

Ivaar frowned. "Strong? Aren't you afraid of getting stomped in your first match?"

Nargomedov chuckled, crossing his arms. "It's good to be young. You have the luxury to make mistakes. Each failure is a lesson. The more you stumble, the stronger you'll become."

And then came Mickael's first combat.

It seemed like my wish had been granted—my opponent had already fought a match and was 18 years old. If he had passed the standard test at 16 like most fighters, that meant he had been training for two years. His stance was solid, his breathing controlled, and there was a confidence in his eyes that suggested experience.

Normally, such an experience gap would be insurmountable after only a few weeks of preparation. But that was exactly the kind of challenge I was looking for. What I didn't fully realize, however, was how unconventional Nargomedov's training methods truly were. His approach was dangerous if mishandled, yet incredibly effective. He had used a technique known as aura bequeathal—a process that, if poorly executed, could permanently damage the recipient's ability to manipulate aura. But if done correctly, it drastically increased the recipient's aura reserves in a fraction of the usual time. It was akin to inflating a balloon to its limit all at once rather than gradually over time. The body adapted more aggressively, stretching beyond what conventional training allowed. Nargomedov's vision optimized this principle, surpassing mainstream methods.

Returning to Mickael's fight, his opponent displayed a clear talent for naturalism, manifesting a thin layer of wood over his arms. As he moved, the wooden armor shifted fluidly, adapting to his attacks and defenses. He was a close-range fighter, using the reinforced forearms as both shields and striking weapons.

In terms of martial arts, however, Mickael had the advantage—there was no doubt about that. His family's rigorous training had given him a technical superiority few could match. He kept his movements tight, conserving energy, whereas his opponent exerted himself with every attack. Mickael analyzed his breathing patterns and footwork, looking for the right opening.

If this fight continues at this pace, I will gain the upper hand, Mickael thought. We seem to have roughly the same amount of aura, and his wooden layer, while impressive, is not enough to turn the tide. It's too weak for offense and provides little defense. Ultimately, the deciding factor will be our secondary abilities—and at this rate, victory will be mine.

The moment the fight ended, exhaustion crashed over Mickael like a tidal wave. His muscles burned, and each breath felt heavier than the last. The audience's cheers faded into background noise as he struggled to remain standing. Even in victory, the toll of the battle was undeniable. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay upright.

Nargomedov approached, his expression unreadable. "You fought well, but your endurance needs work," he said, his voice cutting through the haze of fatigue. "Aura manipulation isn't just about power. If your body gives out before your opponent's, all that strength means nothing."

Mickael nodded, barely able to process the words. He had won, but he knew—this was just the beginning. A new weight settled on his shoulders. One battle down, but there would be many more to come. The Colosseum was not a place for the weak, and he had only taken his first step toward proving himself.

Mickael had underestimated the toll the fight had taken on him. He had pushed himself harder than he realized, and if the battle had lasted any longer, exhaustion would have sealed his defeat. Though he possessed the same amount of aura as his opponent, his inexperience in harnessing it efficiently had drained his energy far more rapidly. Mastering aura wasn't just about having it—it was about knowing how to use it without depleting oneself too soon.

As he sat down to recover, he watched the next battle unfold, studying every movement, every mistake, every advantage taken. He needed to grow stronger, to learn faster. This fight had given him a glimpse of what was to come. And he would be ready.